And the Home of the Brave

Today, for the first time, I cried when I heard the American anthem. It’s hard to explain why. I only recently started getting a catch in my throat during the playing of my own national anthem, “Oh Canada”, which is so faithful and sweet. I think the “true North strong and free” makes me miss my fellow Canadians who are indeed strong and free.

But the American anthem is strong and powerful. I have always admired it and the way this country’s citizens do, in fact, rise – persevere actually – in the face of the “bombs bursting in air”. I live in the United States now, so I have ample opportunity to study the words to this stirring song, as it is played before every sporting event, political dinner, and school function; even at a recent tourist attraction to which I had dragged the kids.

It’s a stirring and patriotic song. However, until today, I have not been reduced to tears upon hearing it. Today was different though. Today was a cold, clear autumn day. The sky was an incredible blue that artists could only hope to capture on a canvas. Birds flitted about. Dogs strained on leashes and sniffed the air with anticipation. Folks had dragged out hats and scarves from last year to ward off the chill in the morning air.

Right at the stirring moment when the Star Spangled Banner rises to “over the land of the free” and then pauses dramatically before finishing powerfully with, “and the home of the brave”, I lost it. I lost it because I was at the Junior Diabetes Walk for a Cure with my son, who has diabetes, and is one of the bravest people I have ever known. The words just spoke to me today. By “land of the free”, I was already thinking “land of the hope” as I looked around the crowd of more than 25,000 walkers, all hoping for a cure for this crazy auto-immune disease that robs kids of their own insulin production and forever banishes them to a life of blood tests, needles, and increased risk for complications such as blindness and nerve damage.

My son was diagnosed with Type One Diabetes when he was six years old. He had been a big, vibrant, energetic child until an ear-nose-throat infection felled him. He never recovered. He started wetting his bed and drinking all the time to appease an insatiable thirst that confused and preoccupied him. He started losing weight and his school picture from that year shows a wan child with dark circles triple-wrapped around tired little eyes that once danced with energy and delight. If you’re a parent, you’ll understand when I say how hard it was to call the doctor and say that I suspected diabetes because just saying it made it real. Up until a certain moment, you can convince yourself that you can handle it; that you can make your child get better like you always do.

Once you say it, you can never take it back. In the beginning you look for the moment when you cursed your luck, when you gave your child this disease. You think back to your pregnancy and wonder if you drank too much milk or ate a piece of chocolate. Did I crave something? What was it that I craved? Did I give into it? I can’t remember. Over time, as you absorb the shock and do everything in your power to adjust the invisible protective plastic bubble that surrounds your child to include this new life-threatening disease, you begin to understand that you didn’t cause it and neither did he. It is simply an auto-immune disease that attacks the pancreas and kills the insulin-producing cells forever.

What never goes away – what never changes – is my wish to take it from him. How many nights have I stood above him while he slept, after I stuck yet another needle in him to adjust his insulin-to-blood sugar ratios, and prayed that the disease could somehow be transferred to me Just give it to me ... I’ll be strong ... I can handle it. Please, please, please, give him back his life! Give him back his perfect fingers that aren’t pock-marked from blood checks. Give him back his strong, tanned little arms with no bruises from insulin needles. Give him back the freedom to eat the chocolate doughnuts that his classmates bring in for every birthday without having to count the carbohydrates and slip another needle full of insulin under his shirt into his belly.

But praying for me to have this disease instead of him is fruitless. Today, as I wiped away my tears, I realized that I should be praying for a more realistic goal – one that is in sight – a cure for this disease. As we passed under a balloon-filled arch with thousands of other families and friends, I grabbed my son’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Nowadays, he’s a big, strong, independent 10-year old who likes to think he only has diabetes for brief moments during the day when he runs down to the nurse’s office and matches his carbs with an insulin injection. He plays soccer and baseball. He loves performing on stage. He sings beautifully and is obsessed with magic card tricks. He doesn’t want to hold his mom’s hand, but shakes me off gently, so as not to hurt my feelings. Then, he and his sister feint tripping each other and giggling away, just like any other siblings in the world.

I give a nod, in the home of the brave, to my brave young son and let go of his hand. Even without a cure, he can live a full life if he takes exceptional care of himself. With a cure, though, he will truly be free. He will rejoin the land of the free. Now that’s something to hope for.