Dear Husband, I wish you knew how strong you are
I wish you knew how strong you are.
I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.
Every day I wake up and watch you defy odds.
The way you live your life is so much more than popping a pill or taking a shot.
I don’t know any other 10-year-old boy who has announced to his mother that he would have his doctor’s job someday.
I don’t know any other 10-year-old boy who refused help and took control of his diabetes from Day 1.
I don’t know any other human who is as fiercely determined and stubborn as you are in all of the right ways.
I didn’t know anything about diabetes when we met.
So many defined you by a diagnosis.
It has never defined you.
Carbs are counted, insulin is delivered, and blood sugars are maintained like a boss.
Supplies are stocked, always ready when necessary.
I watched you lose your father at a young age, strengthening your determination to not let diabetes rule your life.
A disease that is a constant in your life grew into your passion and career.
You debunk every cliché phrase, comment, and misunderstood statement about diabetes with grace and a gentle delivery of knowledge and facts.
I’ve watched you move from injections, to pumps, to sensors, to CGMs.
I’ve watched as you’ve immersed yourself in the diabetes community as a Type 1 and as a diabetes professional.
The stories of patients who have come to you saying, “You don’t understand diabetes!” turning positive because you show them your own pump—those stories never grow old.
When you were diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, I watched you stand up and fight yet again.
You stood up even when you were dizzy.
You kept trying after several multiple sclerosis medications gave you horrendous side effects.
I saw your pain, fatigue, frustration, and irritation.
I saw your uneasiness in watching the nurse show me how to give you yet another MS medication.
It’s not like you to not be in control.
I feel the quietness that shadows you when your brain isn’t cooperating and causing numbness in your limbs.
I feel the unspoken slight fears we have each time you go for another MRI.
I see it all.
You’ve always stood on top of the mountain.
I know you are tired.
You won’t admit it, but I see it.
You sit down for a while, rest, and stand back up again.
Because even when you rest, you are still on top of that mountain.
Resting doesn’t mean slipping or falling.
I’ve seen a new man emerge from all of this.
A man who has slowed down and savored more of life.
A man who opened his heart to adoption again knowing full well these diagnoses on paper were red flags on our case from the beginning.
A man who will do anything to bring his children joy and laughter.A man who shows his wife of fifteen years what the definition of strong really is. Click To Tweet
I wish you knew how strong you really are.
Heidi is an adoptive special needs Mama, advocate, and writer living a life of recalculations and detours. She is the author of The Road Less Traveled: A Memoir of Adoption, Special Needs, Detours, and Love. Visit her at heidirenee.me.