The damage Type-2 Diabetes can do …..

I read this post by Debie Hive over at DeBie Hive on Friday morning and it stopped me in my tracks.

I will admit ignorance regarding Diabetes 2 – I thought it was something that you could sort out with a walk around the block, and cutting deep fried potatoes out of your diet.

This is an outstanding post featured recently on DeBie Hive’s blog – she is a phenomenal writer, and definitely worth stalking.

The Damage Type-2 Diabetes can do – The story I haven’t written yet.

Two years ago today, I kissed my mother, told her that I loved her, then sat in a waiting room alone and cried.

On that day, so very coincidentally on World Diabetes Awareness Day, her life was changing irreversibly. All of our lives changed that day.

They’d already changed so much in such a short period of time.

I thought I had lost her the month prior, though that time for a different reason.

On November 14, 2011, I told her I loved her, not knowing if it would be the last time.

The afternoon before, I had called a dear friend of mine who is a pastor. She came without asking any questions and sat with us as we bowed our heads, held hands, wished for guidance and peace.

She did just that. She brought us peace. I can never repay her for that kindness.

By then, the choice had been made. It had to be made or a certain ending would rapidly come. The word choice is a bit misleading when the only choice is to choose or die.

It was gangrene. There was no question anymore.  The tips of her toes had blackened, and the telltale signs were spreading upward too fast. We’d waited and hoped, she’d gone through several prior surgeries to try and save the blood vessels. Days when she was sedated in the ICU with gigantic metal wires in her femoral arteries trying to pump medications directly to the blocked arteries. None of it worked. We’d exhausted every other option.

Weeks had gone by like this. Trying to save the leg, her in excruciating pain when she was conscious enough to feel it, knocked out most of the rest of the time. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent sitting in hospital chairs, waiting for her to wake up, hoping to catch the doctor, asking questions that never had the answers we wanted to hear.

Then it was time.

The surgeons were called.

For all the time spent waiting, we knew that time was rapidly speeding up. We had to do it now, or risk needing to go higher. The higher the amputation, the more disabling it would be, the harder the recovery, the more life altering.

It was all going to be hard no matter what.

It had already been hard.

My mother had been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes about two years before that day, though she didn’t want to accept her diagnosis. In reality, she had probably been walking around with it for a long time before then. She lived in denial of it, refused to accept it. She didn’t want to hear doctors say that smoking was especially dangerous with diabetes, that her clotting disorder put her at an exceptionally high risk for circulatory problems, that she could lose her legs, that any number of other things could happen…so she didn’t. She willfully ignored it all, even though she had already had a DVT many years prior. We tried all we could think of to help her come to a place of acceptance. We all tried.

Every so often, she would try. A little. For a little while. Until it got hard.

It always got too hard.

She didn’t want help. She didn’t want anyone going to the doctor with her. She didn’t want anyone helping her figure out what to eat. She didn’t want anyone asking how her numbers were. She worked pretty hard to keep us in the dark about it all. She changed doctors frequently, she refused to let us talk to them. All we ever knew was what she wanted to tell us, except for when she was in the hospital and we’d find out the hard way.

Read the rest of this blog post here — it is long, but every word is perfectly crafted, and worth the extra cup of tea you will have to make to get to the end.

debie blog

Nominate Reluctant Mom for SA’s Best Mommy Blogger 2013