As a proud contributor for the DuchenneXchange blog, Christi is passionate about advocating for her children, and everyone who is affected by Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy.
To learn more about what Duchenne is, read here.
It’s very near to her heart to write about her journey as a Duchenne mom. If you’re interested in learning more about her families diagnosis story and journey as a Duchenne parent keep reading, and please don’t forget to subscribe.
Christi Cazin is also the author of Living on Coffee and Prayer.
I remember the day I became a mother like it was yesterday. I remember vividly how it felt to hold my precious newborn for the first time. I remember the tiny fingers and tiny toes. I can almost smell that heavenly newborn skin aroma when I think about it. Oh, how I love that smell. I love being a mom. It’s not my only role, but it’s by far my favorite. The day I became a mother...
“Be strong,” people keep telling you, but they don’t know how it feels to hear the doctor confirm the diagnosis you feared most. They don’t know that his words keep haunting you like a song you can’t get out of your head. Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy you keep hearing over and over again. They don’t understand the trauma that takes place inside a mother’s heart when she hears that her child has a degenerative disease. They don’t, but I do.
People are usually caught off guard when they find out that I have two sons with Duchenne muscular dystrophy. They say things like, “I don’t know how you do it?” or “I could never handle that.” They call me brave and strong before they even know me. People compliment me for simply surviving in the world of Duchenne. My faith may be strong, but I assure you, I am weak. The truth is, the ones who are really worthy of these comments are actually behind the curtain. My children are the inspirational characters in our story, not me.
The real gifts are not the presents we buy and wrap anyway. The true gifts are the moments that you’ll never get back. It’s those early morning cuddles that your children will remember. It’s the frosting covered table after baking cookies that will stand out in their minds over the years to come. It’s the night you all stayed up late to watch Christmas movies together that will bring a smile to their faces. It’s the smell of hot cocoa, the sound of laughter, and the simple family traditions that they’ll talk about one day.
My marriage is a fairy tale. Not the kind you read about in children’s storybooks where all the hard stuff only happens before the happily ever after, but the real kind. The kind with ups and downs, joys and sorrows, and is much more realistic than the storybooks describe. My prince charming doesn’t own a white horse, my carriage is a giant mobility van, and the only maid in our castle is me, but our lives are still beautiful.
Duchenne, you have no idea how much you’ve changed our lives since diagnosis day. It started with a simple blood test and ended with a phone call that brought me to my knees. I cried out to God, begging Him to heal my boys. I begged God to take you out of our lives, but sadly you’re still with us. It’s taken me a long time to accept that fact.
I know the threat of this virus is real, and some of us are terrified for the safety of our loved ones. I know this virus is incredibly contagious, but I’ve learned that fear is even more infectious. Fear is what brings panic and mass hysteria. Fear is what drives us apart. Fear is what causes us to honk at each other in the store parking lot. Fear is what makes us try to push ahead of one another in line.
There is a beautiful quote by Mr. Rogers that comforts me in hard times. “When I was a boy, and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” God is all around us, you just need to know where to look. Look for Him in the courage of the doctors and nurses. Look for the helpers, look for the sunshine, look for the kind acts of others. Look up, and you will see so much more than suffering. Where is God during our trials? Simple. He is everywhere.
I don’t just want to say I love you, I want to show it. I want my children to feel like a blessing to us, not a responsibility. It is my honor to care for them, and I always want to make sure my actions echo that sentiment. After all, “love is a verb, and without action, it is merely a word.”
There is no parenting manual for Duchenne parents. There are no perfect words to say that will take away the heavy emotions that come with this disease. All we can do is walk alongside them at their pace.
When my two sons were diagnosed with Duchenne, I was already grieving the loss of my brother. I was drowning in depression and despair. I didn’t feel like I had a choice when it came to my thoughts. My mind would race in circles from one fearful thought to the next. I felt like the walls were caving in around me. I thought I’d never be able to take a deep breath again. I thought I was weak and broken, but since then, I’ve realized that my weakness is what makes me strong. My brokenness is what makes me brave. There is beauty in our broken places.
Without the scars that come with Duchenne, I wouldn’t be who I am today. It’s like Robert Frost once said, “Two roads diverged in a wood and I – I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” I didn’t plan to take such a long, bumpy, and treacherous road. I never expected my life to follow a path like this, but now that it has, I have no choice but to embrace it. I’ve seen trauma, tears, and sorrow on this path, but I’ve also seen beautiful scenery along the way.
We all remember that day. Sometimes the very thought of it can bring us to our knees in agony. Other days it simply acts as the line of demarcation, dividing our old life from our new one. Diagnosis Day is a day we never forget because what follows is a completely different way of life. Among the Duchenne community, this day is referred to as D-Day. Most of us have the date etched in our minds like a scar we cannot erase.
I live in two worlds. One is the world we all live in. Everyone is familiar with how to navigate this world. There are endless maps, books, and guides to help people find their way around. Support is freely available to anyone trying to learn how to thrive here. I still live in this world, but it’s no longer my home. My new home is a far more difficult place to live in...
No parent should ever have to tell their child they have a degenerative disease. There is no parenting book in the world that will prepare a mother to tell her two sons they have Muscular Dystrophy. How do you tell your six and eight-year-old sons that their lives will never be the same again? There is just no possible way to prepare your heart for such a task, but after I got that dreaded call that’s exactly what I had to do...
I witness bravery every single day. I watch my two sons fight a degenerative muscle disease called Duchenne. I watch them struggle to do simple things that most people take for granted. I could go on and on about how courageous my boys are. I could write a novel about how much they inspire me, and someday I will, but this is not about them. This is about the other hero in my home who inspires me, my daughter. This is about all the siblings out there that show the rest of the world how to treat someone with special needs. This is about them. This is about their impact, and the light they bring to this world.
Every day I wake up surrounded by moments. Some moments are ordinary, and some are unforgettable. My favorite moments are the ones full of laughter, joy, and unconditional love. I’m not blessed with these beautiful moments because I have a perfect life, or due to a lack of suffering. Quite the opposite, actually, I have plenty of painful circumstances in my life. When people hear my story, they don’t envy me. The reason I have the profound privilege of waking up surrounded by these precious moments is simple, it’s because I’m a parent.
I thought I was prepared for the results. For months I waited and worried about that call. I tried to prepare myself as best I could. I expected it, and yet the reality of hearing those words hurt much more than I anticipated. Feelings of shame, guilt, and fear came rushing over me like a sudden wave the moment I heard those four words. Spoken so bluntly from the other end of the phone were the results I’d waited to hear for over a year. “You are a carrier,” he said.
I love it when people ask how we are. I love it when they ask about my kids. I like being able to share what’s really going on in my life, it makes me feel loved. I’m an honest person who has always had trouble hiding my emotions. I’m the type of person that doesn’t know how to be anything but genuine. When someone asks me how I’m doing, I won’t say “fine” if I’m not. I don’t always want to talk about my difficulties, but when I do, it’s crucial I have someone in my life that will listen.
This week my two sons got their very first power chairs. It was a day full of smiles as they raced through the house and tested their chairs’ ability to lift up and down, turn corners, and navigate their bedrooms. My sons are only eight and nine years old, and yet this day is already here because they fatigue so quickly. It was such a blessing to receive these fantastic chairs. They will give my boys more independence and more rest for their muscles throughout the day. It is an absolute blessing in every way, but it’s also incredibly bittersweet.
Someone recently asked me what I do to show intentional gratitude in my life. A question that should’ve been simple was somehow difficult for me to answer. I’ve always considered myself a grateful person. I grew up in a happy home with wonderful parents and siblings. God has blessed me with a life that I’m proud of, full of wonderful memories. I’m married to my best friend, and we have three incredible children together. My life is full of things to be grateful for, yet I couldn’t answer the question.
There’s a quote by Orson Welles that I recite to myself sometimes – “If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.” In the middle of a bad day, I remember that this is not the end of our story. When trauma strikes or transitions arise that break my heart, I remind myself of all the chapters we have left to fill with wonderful memories. Our story is already overflowing with love, courage, joy, and beauty – and it’s not over yet.
I see you cry in the quiet of the night as your worst fears haunt you like a bad dream. I see you put on a smile in an attempt to hide your pain from the world. You feel ashamed, afraid, and misunderstood. I hear you politely answer questions with your usual, “I’m fine.” Some days you are fine, but some days you can’t breathe. You’ve convinced yourself that no one cares how you feel. You think they won’t understand, so you hide it like a shameful secret. You think it makes you weak, but you couldn’t be more wrong.
God tells us that His power is made perfect in our weakness. That means that my weakness is not a fault or a deficiency on my part, it’s a human characteristic. It’s an opportunity to allow God’s power to fill in where I fall short. When I finally stop my cycle of worry, I come to the realization that my strength will come as I need it, not before. That allows me to take a deep breath, focus only on the day in front of me, and carry on with faith.
It’s an honor to care for my children, but I often fear others won’t have the same outlook when it comes to interacting with them. I worry about them being mistreated, bullied, or overlooked because of their disability. I fear they’ll become defined by their limitations when, in reality, they should be defined by their courage. I don’t want people to see their disability as who they are; it is simply a small part of who they are. I want people to see past their wheelchairs and into their hearts.
Two weeks ago, on what felt like an ordinary day, my ten-year-old son took his last steps. We had no idea that day would be one of those “lasts.” The day before he walked to the bathroom, he walked into the kitchen, and he was able to stand by himself. I didn’t know that the next day when I’d attempt to lift him to a standing position, he would buckle in my arms, unable to bear weight on his legs. Just like that, he couldn’t walk anymore. Once again, our lives changed in the blink of an eye. The words “non-ambulatory” flashed through my mind like a neon sign I couldn’t turn off. My son can’t walk; I kept thinking to myself, trying to process the news.