Well, my new year's resolution, albeit a few weeks early, is to do something everyday that scares and challenges me. Blogging is just that. Furthermore, blogging about an issue that is near and dear to my heart is even scarier.
I have had type 1 diabetes for eighteen years. I was eleven when I was diagnosed. I remember that day entirely. It's sort of like a carved out picture, or video in my mind that no matter how much time elapses, is still crystal clear in its replay.
The night before my doctor's appointment, my mom crawled in bed with me and said "No matter what happens tomorrow Anna, remember, everyone has a dark cloud in their lives. You have no idea what's going on behind closed doors in people's personal lives and so you must know that everyone struggles with something." I didn't grasp what that meant at the time.
The next morning, we stopped at McDonalds before the appointment, and we ate inside instead of in the car which was strange because my family never did that. The daughter of two big time hippies, I never grew up eating junk and so when we did, we knew it was for a special reason. I refilled my regular coke at least four times and used the bathroom at least twice that often. My mouth felt sticky like my tongue was coated in syrup or honey. And I had no energy. I remember telling my mom I felt like a "dishrag".
I don't remember the actual tests in my pediatricians office, but I remember he told me to wait in the waiting room while he talked with my mom. I read through an old edition of "Highlights" magazine. Then, they called me back. We sat in a strange room that I had never been to before. Dr. Shuler had been my pediatrician since I was born and never had I been in this backroom office of his. In the room, Dr. Shuler, my mom and me. My mom looked at me, and gosh I remember this like it was five minutes ago, and she said in her incredibly practical-straight to the point-voice: "Anna, you have diabetes. You're going to be fine. We need to go to Egelston for some more tests and dad and Theo (my sister) will meet us there."
I didn't cry. Or at least I don't remember crying. In fact, I don't know when I first cried. Whether it was after my first injection, or after a finger prick, I don't know. I remember telling my mom that Stacey from the Babysitters Club had diabetes and she was a model with great clothes from NYC and had tons of friends and boyfriends. And I remember that made me feel better for a moment. My dad and sister met us at the hospital and both were abnormally sweet and reassuring. At the time, I don't know what I felt about how they were acting but now, eighteen years later, I can see it for what it was. They were scared and sad and didn't know how to make it better. And thinking about that now sort of breaks my heart. I spent two or three nights in the hospital and my mother stayed there with me the whole time. We watched "Beauty and the Beast" and it was great because I was technically too old for a movie like that but I was also the kind of kid who played with dolls and barbies until after junior highschool. Even then, I remember feeling safe and warm and comforted in that hospital room next to my mother while Belle sang a song about a "Provincial Town".
My sister brought some of my stuff from home. A stuffed animal that I still, at 28, sleep with every night. I had a couple R.L. Stine "Goosebumps" books. And I had a walkman. The day I was supposed to check out, my nurse sat the whole family down to teach us about injections and finger sticks and ketone tests. I had my walkman on the whole time. There was no recognition on my part that I had a disease. A life long disease. Frankly, this was my parents problem and I was annoyed to be bothered while listening to music and reading my book. The nurse had everyone practice giving a shot and my parents and sister took water shots. I thought the whole thing was stupid and when the nurse asked if I could please remove my headset and listen, I rolled my eyes and complied.
Then we went home. And that night it sort of became real. It became true. It became our problem, not the doctor's, not the nurses, not anyone else's but ours. We sat at the dinning room table with the various needles and alcohal swabs and tried our best to emulate what the nurse had done perfectly just hours before. And it was awful. The shot hurt. The supplies were annoying and hard to keep track of. The low blood sugar I had later that night felt terrible. I was sweaty and shaking and disoriented and frightened. And my parents tried so hard to comfort me and to make it ok and tolerable.
And it has completely changed my life. Of course it has right? That seems like a obvious statement. And yet the amount that this disease, that this abnormality of my pancreas has affected my life and who I am as a person is immeasurable. And that was only day one.
