I cannot begin to tell you how emotional it was when, as an infant, you were diagnosed with diabetes, and then the worst brittle diabetes. Your mom wept for days. She wept sticking you repeatedly to find your blood sugar level.
I was in the hospital last week. They pricked my fingers three times a day. I used all my fingers on one hand. Did you celebrate your 10,000th prick?
Then they told your parents your life expectancy was 12 years … possibly. So we heard story after story in the night, in the morning, in the bathroom, in the bedroom when everyone in the family — including pets — took turns awaking for no particular reason (God must laugh when we say silly things); to walk in, check you, and find you had cratered.
Your family created a “new normal”. Jodie cratered. Jodie’s out cold — and we must calmly, intentionally work our way out of this.
This latest series of debilitating headaches, leading you through a new, bewildering forest of conflicting diagnoses, crashing and ascending hopes — has drained all of you. Draining Jill and me ten hours away is a lot less than your mom and dad. That draining, doesn’t even include the bills. . . .
So, next week you return to Houston, to Ben Taub where your grandfather loved his traning as a physician to remove your outsized pinneal gland. Being twice as old as doctors said was even possible, helps me pray that you lick this thing and flourish.