Lesson in a Blue Cap

We have supported the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (JDRF) since Oliver’s diagnosis in 2010. Shortly after that first walk, I wrote the piece printed below. I dust off this article every year as it is a potent reminder of the feelings experienced and the insights realized in the weeks after the T1D diagnosis.

~~~

I started to follow, but stopped after two steps.

The nurse carried a 2-year-old whose voice had turned wood rasp rough. His screams, which echoed through the hall as they headed for the treatment room, had degraded to a wounded cry. This young boy fought the treatment — out of fear, I thought —and brought blood into his IV line. The nurse needed to correct it.

Instead of following, I turned to look into the sixth floor room at Children’s Mercy Hospital. The boy’s parents, my daughter and son-in-law, stood looking out the window at the traffic below. The busy-ness of Kansas City spouted in all directions, a fountain of movement.

In that moment, however, we felt alone. We were bewildered by the events of the preceding hours, stunned by the avalanche of diagnoses and information. We were physically exhausted from long days filled with anxiety and long nights empty of sleep. It felt lonely even though an over-the-counter life had given way to one fully dependent on the expertise of pharmacists, doctors, and nurses and the tools developed by medical technologists.

We stood in the third day since Oliver, my grandson, had been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. The healthcare personnel worked diligently to settle his blood sugar in the 80 to 180 range from levels of 500 to 600. The doctor said that Oliver’s pancreas probably started shutting down about three months prior. For weeks he had been malnourished, not by lack of food, but the absence of insulin. His body had been increasingly unable to convert food into energy for three months.

But we didn’t stand alone for long. Nurses who cared for Oliver spoke with authority, both because of their training and their personal experience as diabetics. Acquaintances with diabetes stepped forward with counsel. A friend of a friend provided a backpack from a juvenile diabetes agency and an invitation to participate in a 5k walk to raise support for diabetes research.

Five weeks after that lonely day at the hospital, the seven members of Team Jolly Ollie joined the annual Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation walk. Oliver did not walk alone, but put on his blue JDRF cap and stood in solidarity with hundreds of other diabetic children. And these kids were literally surrounded by thousands of family members and friends.

The strength of community swept over us and filled even the most thirsty person longing for support. Courage flexed its muscles. Hope lifted its gaze, basking in the warmth of a sunny day just begun.

I wept.

We live in a media-deranged period that elevates a few personalities to cult status. The person for whom celebrity is a thin veneer does little to construct a better world. We’ve seen too many examples in recent years where persons have commandeered financial systems for self-enrichment, used political power to form a pseudo dynasty or abandoned spiritual authority for sexual perversion. Too many twisted individuals get too much publicity.

The fabric that knits our society together, however, consists of thousands of ordinary people who care deeply about the well-being of others. They hear of a need and immediately respond with acts of compassion and words of hope. They recognize that linking arms creates strength exponentially greater than standing alone.

The goodness of the United States cannot be summarized in a few biographies of key people in this experiment called democracy. No, it is by the people, for the people, that decency and righteousness prevail. The vigor of the community will overcome obstacles and challenges.

I saw that clearly as I held the hand of a 2-year-old wearing a blue cap when we found our place in the procession.