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We’ve Done This Before

We have a new weather girl in town. She’s young, cute, and perky, and obviously not from Louisiana.

When it came time to prepare for the latest Hurricane to come our way, I have to admit y’all, she seemed a little excited. In all her excitement, she kept remembering things to tell us.

Don’t forget to get extra water.

And stock up on your medications.

Buy non-perishable food items for your pantry.

And don’t forget your pets.

Awe, sweet girl. It’s ok. We’ve done this before.

In Louisiana, we collect Hurricanes like Boy Scouts collect badges. We wear them proudly on our sleeves – Rita, Gustav, Betsy, Audrey, Katrina – and now Harvey. We have stories upon stories of how we survived. We listen to our parents talk of Betsy and Audrey like they are old friends.

So like I said, we’ve done this before.

As a child, I remember Hurricanes as days off from school, my mom lighting tall tapered candles that were only burned when the lights went out, picking up limbs from the yard after the towering pine tress lost their branches in the latest storm.

When I went to LSU as a young freshman with wings ready to take off, I was introduced to two new glorious words when a bad storm made its way up from the Gulf. Hurricane Party. This was a wonderful concept that consisted of throwing huge parties before, during, and after a Hurricane. You have to understand two things to grasp the full complexities of a Hurricane Party: 1) We were young. 2) LSU had just been voted the top party school in the nation and we had a reputation to uphold. I specifically remember my mom calling my dorm room during my first Hurricane in Baton Rouge and asking if I should come home. Not on your life, Mom. Not on your life.

As a newly married couple, Scott and I survived a few Hurricanes hunkered down in our tiny little cottage home with no electricity for several days. One of our first fights was over my Hurricane preparedness strategy that consisted of one thing:

No haters, please. Peanut butter and jelly mixed together just screams Hurricane ready. I mean, what else do you need? It has protein, fruit, and carbohydrates all combined into one.

Scott: Did you get water at the store?

Me: No

Scott: What about bread?

Me: No

Scott: Did you get anything we can survive on for the next few days?

Me: Of course! Peanut Butter and Jelly in a Jar!

Scott: (words I cannot publish)

Scott says we are not survivors, instead we are Die-Firsters. But I don’t care. We’ll see who is on top when he’s craving something a little nutty, yet a little sweet, and there is no peanut butter and jelly in a jar to be found anywhere in town.

Besides the fights we had over my obviously superior skills at preparing for Hurricanes, some of my fondest memories come from Hurricane days. I remember sitting on the front steps of our little cottage, my belly swollen and growing with a baby boy inside, and having friends pull into our driveway. Just checking on you. Ya’ll need anything?

I remember sitting at the kitchen table at friends’ homes, the windows up, the slight breeze blowing the sticky hair off my neck, talking, just talking. Because when there is no electricity and nothing to distract us, words flow more freely.

I remember the food. Y’all, this is something that every native Louisianan knows, but we eat the best during a Hurricane. When freezers start to thaw out and food is at risk of spoiling, we start cooking. Gumbo, fish, chicken on the grill. I remember tables full of food that friends and family had brought over one afternoon. We ate and laughed and ate some more. We knew that there was clean-up to do and hard work would soon start, but good food and good friends always come first here.

Of course, now that I have children of my own and one with medical needs, I take Hurricanes a little more seriously. I rehearse an evacuation drill in my mind like I’m preparing for a Broadway play. I repeat over and over in my head, Glucose meter, test strips, lancets, sugar, insulin. Then I whisper – Insulin, Insulin, Insulin. Remember Sally, he can’t live without insulin.

I admit, I have brief moments of panic when I think about where we would go if our home flooded, what we would do if we got separated, who would take care of my children. But then I remember, we’ve done this before.

We have a history with Hurricanes, but we also have a history of helping our neighbors. We take that as seriously as we take our Hurricanes. We get in our boats to rescue those who may be stranded, we show up ready to work at a shelter, we clean a neighbor’s yard, we tear sheetrock from flooded homes. We bring food to those who can’t cook for themselves, we fill sandbags for the neighborhood school, we read books to frightened children, and we take care of those who cannot take care of themselves.

And listen to me very closely here, because this is the most important part of it all – we never say no to someone who is not the same skin color as us. We don’t turn away those who voted for the other party. We don’t refuse to help someone living a different lifestyle from our own. We never have and we never will. We here in Louisiana know this, but I feel like the rest of the country needs to know this too.

When the waters recede and the media leaves town, when schools re-open and shelters close, when the sun shines again and the rains stop, we will still be here – Helping our neighbors.

We’ve done this before.

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The Cure

A Letter to Hugh –

Dear Son,

I am writing this letter to you because, years from now, I want you to remember a very special day. I want you to remember the day you had a lemonade stand to raise money for JDRF.

It was a drizzly summer day – the kind of days that happen often in June in Louisiana. The grass was wet and soft from a morning shower, the air was hot and sticky. Our hair clung to our foreheads and the back of our necks before we even started. The birds were splashing in the rain puddles in the driveway. The air smelled slightly of jasmine and wet grass. And I was secretly afraid that no one would show up because the weather was just not conducive to a lemonade stand kind of day.

But then we had our first customers – neighbors and friends from down the street who couldn’t stay for a cup of lemonade, but wanted to make a donation anyway. Our second customer was a friend from church, who came to buy lemonade but also brought us fresh squash and cucumbers (be very glad you live in the South, where people love to share the bounties of their summer gardens). Our third customer was a three year old, who sat in a chair on our front porch and devoured a tea cookie as big as both his hands. Our fourth customers were friends and neighbors who raised a son with Type 1 Diabetes 40 years ago, and they are all strong and gracious and wonderful people who encourage us constantly.

I lost count after that. But I can tell you that we had more people come to your lemonade stand than I could have possibly dreamed of. We had neighbors who walked and rode their bikes. We had Mommy’s and Daddy’s friends from high school. We had new friends. We had strangers who happened to hear about the lemonade stand and want to donate. We had your school friends and your school nurses. We had co-workers. We had aunts and uncles and cousins. We had Daddy’s family who drove 2 HOURS just to come buy some lemonade! We had teachers. We even had a few dogs. And right when we thought our lemonade stand was winding down, we had a whole mass of people from our church show up after a funeral – Buying lemonade in their suits and high heels, standing in wet grass and 100% humidity.

Some people lingered on our front porch – sipping lemonade and visiting. Some people stopped by quickly and only stayed a few minutes. There were children there who had brought their own money to buy a cup of lemonade. There were adults there who pulled out their wallets and were so generous it made my eyes water. People rocked in our rocking chairs and kids ran in the rain. That day, our front porch became one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen.

And the money didn’t stop there. People pressed it into my palm the next day at church. We received money in the mail the next week. People from other churches donated. Some donated online. One lady who barely makes it month to month while trying to raise her grandchildren gave us $5 – the widow’s mite if I have ever seen one. Our goal of raising $100 was blown out of the water and we raised over $1,500!

That afternoon, as we were putting away the tables and chairs, you and your Daddy counted the money. When we realized it was over $1,000, we all started laughing and jumping up and down and hugging. And then you stopped, looked up at me mid-hug, and almost whispered “Is that enough for a cure?”

I didn’t know what to say to you in that moment. So I just squeezed you tight and told you that it would certainly help. I told you that organizations like JDRF are working so hard to find a cure and any money we can give them is wonderful.

But what I should have told you is this:

Today is the cure.

Because there will be times in your life when diabetes gets really hard. Type 1 Diabetes is not easy, it’s not fair, there are no time-outs, and it is an exhausting burden to carry. But when that burden gets too big, remember the lemonade stand day.

Remember your sister, who stayed by your side the entire day. She was just as excited as you. She baked cookies and made signs. She collected money and never stopped for a break. She is your cure.

Remember both sets of your grandparents, who sat out in the heat and humidity the entire time. They helped make the lemonade, ran last minute errands for us, and stayed late to help us clean up. They are your cure.

Remember the church members, who came to buy lemonade and cookies while wearing funeral clothes. They know that sometimes life is mourning those who have left us while loving and supporting those who are still with us. Church is your cure.

Years from now, when you are on your own and away from me, and diabetes becomes too hard, and you just wish you didn’t have to poke your finger one more time or calculate every food that you have to eat, and all you want is a cure – know that you have already found one.

And when others come to you, and tell you their burdens are too big, and their problems are too hard, I hope you tell them the story of the lemonade stand day. I hope you tell them how our family was healed that day. I hope you tell them that people are good and kind and generous.

And if they ask you for a cure, I hope you tell them the cure is this – we are never alone.

                                                                     Love, Mom

*To find out more about JDRF and what your money goes to support, click here.

 

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In It Together

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Last week our little family loaded up the car early in the morning and headed down to Baton Rouge for Hugh’s endocrinology appointment. Because Hugh has Type 1 Diabetes, he will have to see an endocrinologist every 3 months for the rest of his life. Not just until he reaches adulthood. Not just until he reaches his 40s. For the rest of his life.

That’s a lot to handle, in my opinion, so we always try to make the trip a family event. Scott and I take off work and we bring Amelia, even though I’m sure Hugh would rather his little sister not tag along most of the time. A lot of times my mom will join us as well, since we rely on her so much to help us with Hugh. Occasionally my dad will make the trip, too.

When the doctor enters the patient room, she knows to expect a crowd. She gives Hugh a hug, then turns around and gives the same hug to Amelia. It’s probably a little strange to have so many in one room, but our doctor never complains about it. I think she gets it.

On the way down to Baton Rouge on this trip, Hugh starts asking if Amelia will always have to come with us (she was being rather annoying and making all sorts of noises to irritate her brother). I told him not always – I’m sure we won’t always be able to arrange schedules and lives to be together for his appointments.

He said he hoped his wife would be able to come with us one day.

“With us? You don’t want it to be just you and your wife at your appointment?”

He replied, no – that he wanted it to be with his parents, and his wife could come along if she felt like it.

That’s right. Move over, wifey. Take your place right behind his mama. I’m sure there’s room for you in the trunk.

So why do we make such an effort to ALL go to Baton Rouge for his doctor’s appointments?

The answer is simple – I hope he looks back on these days with us and realizes he was never alone.

Type 1 Diabetes is a lonely disease. None of Hugh’s friends have to check their blood sugar. None of his friends have to wear a pump. None of his friends have to count carbs, drink juice in the middle of the night, worry about ketones, have nightmares of low blood sugars and no one helping him, skip a cupcake because of high blood sugar, or carry emergency glucagon everywhere.

It can be isolating and depressing to be the only one.

So we go. We go to show him we are in this together. He doesn’t have to face this alone. We will fight the fight right along with him. We will be the pillar when he crumbles, we will be the shoulder for the tears. We will prick our own fingers, we will carry the juice boxes. We will not leave him alone.

And friends, is there anything more in life than to know that you are not alone? There is a God who loves us, and family and friends who are by our side. What more do we need?

If I have learned anything from Hugh having Type 1 Diabetes it is that we need to show up for each other. And we need to keep showing up for as long as it takes. We don’t have to judge. We don’t have to criticize. We don’t have to put people in their place or condemn or condone. We usually don’t even have to say anything.

Sometimes, just sitting next to your big brother and reading a book in the doctor’s office is enough.

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