I remember my legs swinging back and forth over the side of the hospital bed and the smell of rubbing alcohol. I had just been diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes, but I still thought there might be a chance I could go to a New Year’s Eve party that night. My parents didn’t know how to balance their feelings of horror with being strong for me, so neither said much. We watched old VCR tape movies in silence as doctors ushered in and out, checking on me. My diagnosis wasn’t completely unfathomable, but was nowhere in my family history or even on my parents’ radar as a possibility. I had started wetting the bed for the first time when I was 10. A virus had greatly weakened my mother’s eyes, and she was too preoccupied with that to be alarmed. She
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Thirsty, bed-wetting, hungry, skinny Type 1. They told us to drive to the Emergency Room. My pancreas had been shut down by my immune system for some reason, and the only way I’d ever be able to get the insulin I needed would be via shot. I was too little to understand the gravity of the diagnosis, asking for my Nintendo DS to make my time in the waiting room more fun. Thankfully, we were admitted relatively soon after arrival, and we were shown a sort of Diabetes info-mercial. In it, the actors told me it was okay to be scared of all of the needles. That it was normal to cry or panic, because I was, after all, a child. The poorly masked fear on my parents’ faces made me feel like I should be worried, too, but I also wanted to be brave for them. A petite nurse came in with a syringe and a sympathetic smile, giving off eternal “bless your heart” vibes. She asked my mother if she wanted to take the opportunity to practice giving me the shot herself, but I quickly announced that no, I’d do it myself. After doing so, the nurse quickly exited to try and find me some sort of prize for my bravery. I was given some sort of glittery, super-sized chapstick tailored more for a three-year-old. I felt so grown-up, despite it. I was determined to not be a victim, or be defined by my
Thirsty, bed-wetting, hungry, skinny Type 1. They told us to drive to the Emergency Room. My pancreas had been shut down by my immune system for some reason, and the only way I’d ever be able to get the insulin I needed would be via shot. I was too little to understand the gravity of the diagnosis, asking for my Nintendo DS to make my time in the waiting room more fun. Thankfully, we were admitted relatively soon after arrival, and we were shown a sort of Diabetes info-mercial. In it, the actors told me it was okay to be scared of all of the needles. That it was normal to cry or panic, because I was, after all, a child. The poorly masked fear on my parents’ faces made me feel like I should be worried, too, but I also wanted to be brave for them. A petite nurse came in with a syringe and a sympathetic smile, giving off eternal “bless your heart” vibes. She asked my mother if she wanted to take the opportunity to practice giving me the shot herself, but I quickly announced that no, I’d do it myself. After doing so, the nurse quickly exited to try and find me some sort of prize for my bravery. I was given some sort of glittery, super-sized chapstick tailored more for a three-year-old. I felt so grown-up, despite it. I was determined to not be a victim, or be defined by my