Barbie dolls with distorted arms, cheap bedazzled jewelry, cherry-flavored chap stick or stolen makeup from Mom: things you can find in a little girl’s drawer. But not mine. My drawer consisted of test strips, alcohol pads, syringes and lancets. At the age of eight, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. Given this news, I felt isolated and my future became a blur.
To make a long story short, my whole lifestyle had to change in order to survive: a new diet plan, constantly needing to prick my finger to check my blood sugar, taking time out of my day to exercise and adjusting my insulin intake. Having obtained this chronic illness came with restrictions and responsibilities. It was like a ball and chain shackled to my ankle. “Okra can cure diabetes,” “Your leg can get amputated,” “You’re not even fat though,” and “Doesn’t it hurt to prick your finger all the time?” is all I ever hear. …show more content…
My Mom accompanied me to everywhere I went, whether it’s school trips, sleepovers, or dinner parties. As if that wasn’t bad enough, on school trips, I have to take pit stops to check my sugar level, at sleepovers I need to go to another room to inject insulin, and at dinner parties, I need to bring my own food to eat. I never left the house without a snack and my blood glucose meter. I can always feel eyes staring, I can hear the murmurs and I can see the confusion on people’s faces. To save myself, I stayed home most of the time, my only friends being my
To make a long story short, my whole lifestyle had to change in order to survive: a new diet plan, constantly needing to prick my finger to check my blood sugar, taking time out of my day to exercise and adjusting my insulin intake. Having obtained this chronic illness came with restrictions and responsibilities. It was like a ball and chain shackled to my ankle. “Okra can cure diabetes,” “Your leg can get amputated,” “You’re not even fat though,” and “Doesn’t it hurt to prick your finger all the time?” is all I ever hear. …show more content…
My Mom accompanied me to everywhere I went, whether it’s school trips, sleepovers, or dinner parties. As if that wasn’t bad enough, on school trips, I have to take pit stops to check my sugar level, at sleepovers I need to go to another room to inject insulin, and at dinner parties, I need to bring my own food to eat. I never left the house without a snack and my blood glucose meter. I can always feel eyes staring, I can hear the murmurs and I can see the confusion on people’s faces. To save myself, I stayed home most of the time, my only friends being my