What We Prize
- Elizabeth Ricketson
- May 22
- 6 min read
By Elizabeth Ricketson:
Running has brought me to a lot of incredible places, including to my knees when Boston Marathon temps rose to 97 degrees and Brigham and Women’s Hospital was the finishing line. I had trained so hard, but it was not to be. Was it my most impactful event? Well, maybe for its heartbreaking DNF, but when I reflect on the many running events, one truly stands out: The Cohasset Triathlon. Grit, stamina, and gratitude in each leg of the triathlon. Humbled by the many stories that intertwined with my own experiences. The background information and the reason for my participation was my son, Daniel.
Daniel was diagnosed with T1D at age 16. November 11th. This date will forever be engrained in my mind as one of my most terrifying days as a parent. I had brought Dan to his doctor after noticing a quick and dramatic weight loss. An appointment immediately made the same day and we were at the pediatrician’s office. As soon as his doctor opened the examining room door, I looked at her and asked if she would check his blood sugar, as I just had a gut feeling. She did, and with nearly the same concerned look she confirmed my fear. Yes, his blood sugar was very high. She told me to go home, pack some clothes for us both. Wait for her call as she would contact Children’s Hospital in Boston to plan for Daniel to be seen at the emergency room. Juvenile onset diabetes, she suggested. “Get Dan some lunch. No soda. And I will be in touch soon,” she said to me in a knowing and caring fashion. She was aware of the reluctant journey we were embarking on. The urgency and certainty of the moment would be unmistakably life changing.
The call came soon after we arrived home. My husband, Jon, would leave work and meet us at the hospital. I called my sister as we were driving on Rte. 9 headed into Boston. My car's “check engine” light flashed at me. Disbelief of the circumstances we were thrusted into, and while I am not a particularly religious person, I sure did pray to my mom for some Heavenly interference.
Days at Children’s Hospital with round-the-clock blood-sugar checks, blood draws, and what felt like an insurmountable learning curve surreally blended. All I wanted to do was take this diagnosis away from him.
“New normal” felt anything but normal.
Feeling frightened once we arrived at home with a weighty responsibility of checking, monitoring, carb counting, and insulin injections. The chilling sound of the click of a meter into unsuspecting nerve-filled fingertips. A cringing sound I still close my eyes for. Joslin Diabetic Clinic kept us close. We were tethered to a diabetic nurse educator with 24-hour clinical support. It was easier to wean from my own mother than the nurse educator. The handholding never felt more assuring. Injecting your child with insulin for the first time is an experience I wish on no one. Checking and rechecking the dosage. Checking yet again.
Dan’s diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes brought an understanding of true heroics. A 24/7 disease with unrelenting and fragile health moments that are nothing less than frightening as a parent. An autoimmune disease that provides not a single moment off from monitoring. No day off, ever. There is no cure currently.
I researched and looked for as much information as possible. A PHD in caring for a newly diagnosed child was underway. Joslin recommended contacting JDRF for support and information—a highly regarded nonprofit dedicated to T1D. Juvenile Diabetes Foundation, which now is called Breakthrough T1D. What a resource!!!! In my desperate need and want to help, I began volunteering at both Joslin and JDRF. The Boston Chapter was remarkable. A small group of women ran this chapter as if each one of them had a child diagnosed with T1D. I had never worked with such a group of women dedicated with an energy and determination to help make a difference. The hours were long and the many stories hard, but they championed each day and every fundraising event. I volunteered and even worked at JDRF to cover for a maternity leave. I believed in this organization as I did this group of women. Hope was all I had.
Knowing I was a dedicated and a somewhat competitive runner, I was asked if I wanted to participate in the Cohasset Triathlon. The race event director had a strong connection to JDRF, and each year a JDRF team participated. I would run, another parent would cycle, and Olympian Gary Hall Jr. would swim. Without hesitation, I accepted, thrilled to be part of the team.
On the Cohasset village green the day before the event, Gary spoke to an audience of young Type 1 diabetics and their families. Riveted we all were as his drive to be an Olympian was nothing short of Herculean. The small group gathered closer and closer as he unpacked his story that led to 10 Olympic medals. The light in the eyes of each listener as they learned of ambitious possibilities despite the diagnosis.
Gary’s quest to be an Olympian was strongly discouraged after he was diagnosed with T1D. Determined and a bit defiant, he found an endocrinologist that understood his want and would assist him in his goals. Gary was now in charge of his dreams. He needed to hear a “yes, you can,” and he would take care of the rest.
Gatorade guzzled to keep his carbohydrates and electrolytes sufficient for competition. Necessary to fuel the calories torched and address fluctuating blood sugars. Drinking sports drinks right up until his toe left the block and his fingertips met the water. Regurgitating Gatorade in shades of blue and red as he sliced through the water to Olympic gold. Grit, determination, and guts despite and in spite of T1D.
Early race day morning, I stood on the foggy beach dotted with swimmers wearing black bathing caps flipped up over their ears. Goggles on top of their head and wet suits to streamline their swim and insulate their bodies from New England's dark, cold waters. The Atlantic Ocean. An open swim exemplifying all the competitive possibilities, yet the reality of ocean swells certain to be humbling.
Off to the right of the competitors were a father and son. Dick and Rick Hoyt. Rick, due to circumstances of birth, had cerebral palsy. I had interviewed “The Hoyts” for a community newspaper I once wrote for in Massachusetts. I had also met them at the New Bedford Half Marathon in my training for Boston Marathon 2012. I was very familiar with their remarkable story. Their legend preceded them, always. Boston Marathon. Ironman competitions. The devotion of a father to his son was visually obvious as he carried Rick into the water while towing the boat that would support Rick during the swim. By the time the swim was done, tears fell down my face as I watched Dick trotting up the beach while cradling his adult son in his arms on the way to the next leg of the tri.
Gary made the swim look easy; I ran my heart out with Dan mentally pushing me on. The other parent and father of a T1D cycled hard. So much was on the line that the work involved seemed inconsequential. Our discomfort was short lived, but a T1D’s is forever.
Gary Hall Jr. has been in the news lately. His 10 Olympic medals were destroyed in the LA fires. I remember reading about Gary’s loss of his prize medals, his home, and all his worldly possessions. Like many residents who lost their properties that succumbed to the brutal fires, he was not alone. In true Gary Hall Jr. style, he took the loss stoically and without complaint. Yesterday Gary Hall Jr. received his replacement medals.
“On this moving occasion, IOC President Thomas Bach said: 'We really appreciate your presence here. I cannot tell you how much we admire you, not only because of the medals, but because when we were reading your tragic story of losing your house, your possessions and all your worldly properties, this went straight to our heart. But even more so, when we learned how you overcame this tragedy in the style of a true Olympic champion, showing all the resilience, courage and confidence that you were known for as an athlete at the time, but you displayed under very different circumstances once more.” — olympics.com
“A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.” — Christopher Reeve, Still Me, 1998
A graduate of Providence College with a BA in English, Elizabeth Ricketson has always had a love of literature and the fine arts. In the 1990s, she studied figure drawing at the Rhode Island School of Design, spending years dedicated to understanding human form, movement, and anatomy. Elizabeth’s essays focus on life experiences and life in Vermont. Essays available for consideration.
Website: elizabethricketson.net
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