Monday, July 13, 2015

Dear Kycie.

Dear readers: This past weekend we lost 5 year old Kycie. The doctors misdiagnosed her Type 1 as a virus. As a result she suffered massive brain damage. For the past 6 months she has brought our community together, and opened countless hearts and minds to understanding Type 1 Diabetes. Link to her story HERE.

Dear Kycie:

Thank you.

Thank you for accepting the short, but vital assignment of coming to this earth to change lives. 

Thank you for enduring to the end so nobly. For being a delicate warrior in a world that doesn’t always appreciate such.

Thank you for taking one for the team. Other lives have been saved. Other lives have been changed. Minds and hearts were opened, and that’s on you sweet girl.

Thank you for your smile and your grit. For showing us what fighting like a girl really looks like.

If anyone deserves respite from the storm it is you dear one. If anyone deserves paradise….you.

Thank you to your parents for their optimism and their faith. I have also lost a cherished part of my family, I know that optimism and faith soothes the sting of despair. Trusting in a Heavenly Father and His plan is not easy in the process, but makes things better in the end.

This Earth is a terrible, wonderful, amazing place to be. It is worth the trip, if only for a short time.

Thank you for showing us that over and over again.

Thank you and your family for putting your faces on the Internet, and on posters, and on TV…accepting the position as “poster child” for a misunderstood disease that still is grossly misrepresented by others who are ill-informed.

Your story will prompt physicians to take a second look. Second looks can be a game changer.

If my son’s pediatrician hadn’t have taken that second look, J wouldn’t be here with me either.  He almost returned to heaven as you did. I don’t know why he was spared and you were not, but that is not for us to know I suppose. Maybe from a heavenly perspective, you were the one that was spared.

Kycie, your courage and tenacity are inspirational. You have planted seeds that will only flourish in the fertile soil of advocacy; Advocacy that you have sparked in the hearts of thousands.

One finger prick. One, small, one dollar test can save lives. When before stubborn men and woman would not listen, now…they hear. Families will go home with their newly diagnosed babies tonight because of you.

Rest, dear girl. Rest from your journey. And if you see Ryan, hug his neck for me, will you?

All my love and adoration,

Sunday, May 31, 2015


I’ve been away.

The Diabetic Life has laid dormant inside of me while I’ve been swept up in other things.

I don’t put the hours in worrying anymore, and I certainly don’t work overtime to make sure basals are succinctly dialed in like I used to.

There are only so many minutes in a day, and I have the immediate need to graduate early so I can move across the country, and get married, and start my career. Other things have taken precedence, so I’ve reverted to inevidable "Diabetes autopilot." Even though Diabetes is still a very important part of our lives, it isn’t the most important part of our lives, and it certainly isn’t where it needs to be on the priority list.

Basically, it has been: They are alive at the end of the day. It’s a win. 

We are surviving, not thriving.

Tonight though…


Tonight I attended the JDRF Hope Gala in San Francisco at the generous invitation of special friends. Listening to words like “hope” and “cure” and “breakthrough” and promises for change stirred up the complacent advocacy particles that have settled deep in my soul. The juices began to flow, and the floodgates opened.

I am a D Mom.

My kids need a cure.

I never allowed myself to believe in one fully. Mostly because I believe it's important to be content with the cards we are dealt now.  But tonight the man that is the head of the encapsulation team looked me personally in the eye and said, “It’s coming. For your children. It will happen.” And when he showed me cells on his cell phone bursting with the ability to produce insulin, it was like I was witnessing the impossible…and then…believing in it.

And as the bids came around the room, one in particular for $100,000 (yes I hugged their neck,) the gratitude ran so deep it was hard to contain it all inside my frame. Because even if there never comes a cure, these people were there tonight working for it anyway. Working hard on behalf of MY boys, for a future that I wasn’t brave enough to envision, but they are stubborn enough to fight for in spite of my complacency. They fearlessly move forward raising money to fund research for change, and many of them will until the day they die, or until the cure does come. It was humbling to witness such generosity, some people whom have no familial relation to diabetes.

My heart runneth over.

Tonight, driving home from the gala, I made the decision to allow myself to hope, and not let myself, or my boys, settle for a future of “same ol’ same ol’”

Now here it is, almost 2 am and I find myself coercing fruit snacks into my sleeping 11 year old's mouth. My boys need a cure. If there are people in the world willing to work towards that end, I will be honored to stand next to them and dream with them. Hope with them. Lead with them. Fight with them.

It was an honor just to be in the same room with them tonight.

My name is Meri Schuhmacher.

And I’m all in.

Friday, May 8, 2015

What are D-Moms made of?

We are a complicated concoction.  

D Moms are made of Glue:  We hold the entire family unit together.   Our children's challenges stick resolutely to us as we work to find solutions and wash away the unpleasant sticky residue of diabetes.

D Moms are made of Fire:  The bad blood sugar day our children had yesterday?  We burn it away into ash and begin the day anew.  Every day is the rebirth of new numbers.  The old worries are burned away and in its wake come new saplings of hope.

D Moms are made of Ice:  We can numb the pain...the sadness...with our love, our bear hugs and our empathy.

D Moms are made of owls:  At 2am we can see the smallest speck of blood in the darkness of our child's bedroom.   We are wise enough to make life saving decisions in the dead of night.  We bring food and drink to our child's cozy bedside nest to keep them safe.

D Moms are made of wind:  We are invisible as we check a blood sugar while our child watches their favorite show.  Other than the breeze from our departure, our presence is undetectable. 

D Moms are made of crystal balls:  You ate that plate before I could see it?  70 carbs.

D Moms are made of dark chocolate:  We may have a bit of bitterness buried deep inside us, but the notes of smooth sweetness comes through more than anything else.  We are pretty comforting to have around.

D Moms are made of Cheetah: We are fast.  23 blood sugar?  We are up and to the snack cabinet before you can even blink.

D Moms are made of Diamonds: We shine through the hardest times.  We can stand insurmountable pressure.  That twinkle in our eyes when we look at you?  Nuff said.

D Moms are made of Bologna:  You know when our children are high with large ketones and we say, "No worries!"  We are really good at being calm and making you think that everything is ok, even when our insides look like an active pinball game.

D Moms are made of Bob the Builder:  Can we fix it?  YES WE CAN!

D Moms are made of encyclopedias:  Information?  We have retained it.  We are the go-to information source for our children's health.  We are the experts. can site that.

D Moms are made of butter:  We melt easily.  Give us those eyes and can have that cupcake.

D Moms are made of steel:  We can be bent, dinged and manipulated...but we will not break.  We support the skyscraping circumstances with ease.  The world on our shoulders?  We can hold that.

D Moms are made of tears:  It is our breath of life.  Releasing the tears is the only way to keep the delicate balance within our complicated eco system of ingredients. 

D Moms are made of crock pots:  In the morning we cook up life by throwing together love, kindness, routine, determination and loyalty, and then letting it simmer all day long into a feast for our family by day's end.

D Moms are made of swords:  We live to conquer.  We were built to defeat what stands in our way.  Don't mess with a D Mom on a mission.  We will cut you.

D Moms are made of silver:  We may look frazzled and tarnished sometimes, but give us some TLC and we will shine so bright you'll need sun glasses to take us in.

Sure...we are complicated.  How can one exist by being fire and ice?  Butter and steel?  

It is a delicate not everyone can negotiate.  

That is why we were given this calling.

We are D Moms.

It is our job to make it work.

Happy Mothers Day to my fellow D-Moms-in-arms!

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

I always want to know.

Last week I had the opportunity to volunteer at a community event taking blood pressures of the interested passerbys. There were those that volunteered readily to have their blood pressure taken, those that were bullied into it by their spouses or loved ones, and then those who simply said, “I don’t want to know.”

To them I smiled and said, “Knowledge is power! Don’t be afraid of the numbers, they are exactly what you need to give yourself peace of mind, or design a customized care plan with your doctor.”

(Psst…. Thanks, Diabetes.)

A lot of the time, my pleas worked.

I had a few gentlemen with blood pressures so high I wondered how they weren’t having a heart attack right then and there. They gave various excuses for the high numbers, and tried to wave each number aside as a fluke.

For each, I wrote the number on a piece of paper and said, “This number all by itself isn’t harmful.  It’s the ignoring the number that can be harmful. I don’t think it would hurt to talk to your doctor, or even go into a CVS, and recheck your blood pressure when you feel more relaxed to follow up on this number. High blood pressure is fixable, but only if you act on it.”

(Psst…. Thanks, Diabetes.)

Even though I’ve been taught in class that these men must surely be facing eminent death before they hit the parking garage, my experience with blood sugars has taught me that the alarmist technique is never the best one. A 410 blood sugar to any health professional other than my endocrinologist must seem like a ticking time bomb, but in the real world, I know better.

If I can teach anything to my teenagers, --and trust me, I don’t have high expectations on this front-- but if I could teach them anything, it would be that exact same principle: A high number isn’t harmful. Ignoring the high number is.

Tonight, two of my boys forgot to bolus for their dinners. (I don’t’ know if forgot was the right word, because I asked them to, but regardless,) I have two boys that went to bed an hour ago with 400 blood sugars, which trust me, I know isn’t ideal…


They checked, and they fixed it. That is what’s important. Part of me hates that the numbers don’t faze them, and another part of me revels in the fact that they do test, and they can fix it and forget it, without the guilt and the anger attached to it. There’s a fine line to it all…I don’t know where we land, or how I should really feel, but for now I’ll take into account that they are trying, and that’s satisfying.

I don’t ever want them to be afraid of testing.

When they are going to do something every day/all day, anger and guilt need to be left out of it. I have discussions with them about their body systems, and how high blood sugars aren’t ideal and can cause lasting issues in the future. Just like anything in life, decisions you make now are always more far reaching than we think.  "Consequences to our choices" is always a hot topic in this house. They get it, but they also get that attaching emotion to a number is fruitless.

Because no matter what the number, it is a blessing. Knowing what to do next is a priceless gift that I never take for granted.

Knowledge is power. Saying, “I don’t want to know” usually means there is a problem that one is ignoring.

I always want to know.

Even if it is 400mg/dl.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Full Circle

I had never known more anguish, never known more sadness, and never known more loneliness than the day I lost Ryan.  I remember those early days clearly, although I hesitate to bring myself there fully. It’s an indescribable feeling.  Helplessness and nausea are the only words that come to mind. In the moment all I could do was concentrate on lifting my foot and then positioning it in front of me. One feeble footstep at a time. One minute at a time. Everything baby steps. Everything frightening.

The process of losing a beloved spouse is a horrifying one, and one I only bring up because a dear friend lost her husband last week. Our correspondence brings me back to those helpless, nauseous moments. I continue only to glance at the memories though; I won’t completely succumb to them.

Looking back at myself just a couple years ago, and then seeing me now, I wonder how I got here in one piece. It was a process. Surviving wasn’t achieved by anything special inside of me. It was my ability to endure that was my best quality; getting up in the morning my best talent. I remember vomiting every morning from anxiety and then pulling myself together enough to leave my bedroom to be a mother to the boys. It was their faces that gave me purpose, and ultimately got me through the worst of it.

And now here I am, a few years later, engaged to another man, and embarking on a new adventure that should have me terrified, but instead brings me only waves of peace and joy.

I suppose I just need to publically acknowledge the miracle. How I have been blessed with two men who love me fully, for who I am, warts and all…how?

Miracle. It can only be that.

My fiancĂ© thinks he was sent to care for me, but I feel like I was sent to care for him. We have both been through hell, it’s only by the miracle that we’re able to account for the peace we feel when we are together. He is my rest. When I am with him my worries disappear and I’m able to bask in a happy glow of sureness.

Life throws curveballs. Losing Ryan was a brutal one. Finding Doug was a brilliantly surprising one.

I guess Forrest Gump was right.

But my heart tugs tonight for my dear friend, Tara. The ache. I’ll never forget the ache.

Tara is a fellow D Mama. Dov, her husband, had many super powers, one being a badass D Dad.  His long battle with colon cancer at such a young age seems so tragic, but Dov made it anything but that. He made it magic. It sounds ridiculous, but he did…and I’m forever in his debt for showing me that magic lies within our own selves. No one, and no disease, can take that magic away from us.  It’s a lesson that can change lives. Ponder it for yourself, I beg of you.

If you would like to help Tara and her children, send her some love via this link:

There is so much worry on Tara’s plate right now. If we can take away some of that weight, I’m sure we’ll feel some of that ol’ Dov magic start to stir inside of us. I ask you, which one of us couldn’t use a little more magic in their life?

God Speed, Dov Siporin.

You are loved.

And Tara, I hope through all of this you will find as I did, that same nagging feeling in your heart that says, yes, everything…some day…some way…is going to be ok.


Thursday, March 5, 2015


I’m not sure how the most optimistic person in the world can have nights like this, but it stands to reason that even the strong have their Achilles heal, and mine seems to be fear of failure.

Which is hard for me to wrap my head around when I have a solid belief that everything is going to be ok.

Maybe my problem is I’m fretting about the details and failing to stand back to see the big picture.

Perspective. Haven’t I written about perspective a million times?

“Yes, Meri. You have.” Say every single person reading this right now.

How do I escape the fear? It haunts me, it eats at me, it pokes me like a stubborn child.




Maybe it has always been poking, and it’s just taken one moment of weakness, one step closer to the cliff for the pokes to effect me?  Everything seems more perilous the closer you are to a cliff.

That isn’t insanity, that’s science.

So how is it that crying makes the cliff so much less daunting? I’ve had my good cry and I feel so much better. Scientifically, I’ve heard that crying releases stress hormones and toxins from the body. Unscientifically, maybe taking all that bottled up emotion, turning it into tears and then throwing it outside the body is cathartic.

Whatever the case, I’m here trying to figure it all out. Writing usually helps me get to the heart of the matter, and in this case, my heart is scared.

Of failing.

Of failing school.

Of failing my kids.

Of failing the ones I love.

Right now, I'm trying so hard, I make things a million times harder than they have to be.

Right now, I worry so hard, I make things a million times more complicated than they have to be.

I’ve let things fall to the wayside to put all my energy into school, and what if all this wayside-ing is just my way of failing without actually saying the word “Failing.”

I’m such a hypocrite.

“You are enough”

“Your best is enough”

I’ve blogged that a million times.

I just can’t fathom failing while doing my best. And yet, it seems as though it could be a possibility.

I’m capable, and I need to trust in that. I need to trust in my knowledge that everything WILL be ok. I need to trust in the peace in my heart, even when the vessels around it pulse with insecurity.

I need to trust in a loving Heavenly Father who has taken such good care of me, and isn’t going to stop now.

I’m on the right path. I just want to kick this path’s ass, you know?

I know that experiences like this are for my own good. They will make me stronger.

I’m just ready to be strong enough.

I need to believe in my kick-assery ability.

And I need sleep.

And I need to stop thinking at night.

And I need a hug.

And maybe, I need some ice cream.

Saturday, January 24, 2015

I know it's hard.

I want you to know: I know it’s hard.

I almost forgot.  When you’re on the other side it’s convenient to forget all the heartache.  There is power in the success of just getting through, and we feed on that power.  We feed on the triumphant-cy of surviving the childhood years with diabetes.

Like childbirth, the pain isn’t remembered, but the rewards are.

Last week I took some time to look back.  I started with blog-post one and moved forward to the present day.

I forgot how intense the worry was.

I forgot how hard the nights were.

I forgot how the milestones were amplified a millions times over…because they meant so much more to us as they were worked for with full heart and mind.

There will be people out there who will tell you that you are overreacting to certain situations within your child’s diabetic life, and maybe you are…. but I’m here today to tell you that I get it.

I remember.

When things are new, and you are in the thick of it, and you are MOTHER, or FATHER, you are going to worry--about it all--about every little thing.  And you are going to want to protect, and fight and micromanage.

You are going to lose sleep.

You are going to wonder, “What if.”

You are going to wish, and hope, and you are going to second-guess decisions you make because they affect the person that is the most important person in your life…

A person YOU brought into this world.  A person that you want to protect from the hurt.

And you can’t.  Because Diabetes hurts.

It’s a wicked process to go through, but one that doesn’t last forever.

Hence, the purpose for this post.

If you can see, that I….Meri Schuhmacher, have been through all those same situations, and all the same worry, and have survived/is surviving…maybe it will help get you through.

Maybe it will help you to know that hard times don’t last forever and all the hard work will yield a remarkable child.

No, don’t feel bad for protecting your child.  Never feel bad for asking questions.  Never let someones eye-roll deter you. But know, there is an army of others that are doing it too, and they are doing what they think is right for their child, as you are too. And they are surviving, even thriving.

Know that all is well.

In the end it will all be ok. 

Ketones eventually go away.

Blood sugars always come down, sooner or later.

Smarties fix those lows.

Time heals wounds.

The further you get from diagnosis the better you will feel.  The timeline is sure.

If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change anything that I did.  But I would change how I felt on the inside.  If I approached every problem with the certainty that everything was going to be ok, I’m sure I would have been much calmer about it.

So if you can, take my certainty now, and make it your own.

It’s all going to be ok.

If you have to worry, than worry.  But know that all that worry is doing is raising your blood pressure. Worry is a ride on a merry-go-round, it may keep you busy but it won't get you anywhere. It won’t make the situation go away, only actions will.

I forgot how hard it was, and I’m sorry I did.

As I sit here and write, "don’t worry," I completely understand that it's easier said than done. 

Having a child that doesn’t stop growing for 15 years is ridiculously difficult.  Especially when their body is unique and can’t be compared to another’s.

But even still, don't worry.

Keep on keeping on, D Mom’s and Dads.  You are appreciated, and loved.

You are amazing. 

And one day, you’ll be on the other side of it all like I am, and know…it’s all going to be ok.  Because time and experience will show you that each new episode of life is survivable.

It’s all going to be ok.

You’re doing your best, and that’s enough.

Rock on.  And if you have to, worry on.  Regardless, it's a life worth living.