this is going to be published.
When Han Solo tried to outrun the Death Star, he put the Millennium Falcon into light speed. For a few brief minutes, audiences saw the stars collapse toward the screen toward clarity. This scene in "The Empire Strikes Back" parallels the feeling of coming to after a low blood sugar coma. For a few brief minutes, it is as if I am flying in the Millennium Falcon and as the spacecraft slows the world around me becomes clearer.
My freshman year at Michigan State University, I experienced what my parents, doctors and strangers called an "episode." My three roommates did not know I had a disease but an inkling about the odd medical supplies I kept tucked away in our closet. I did not tell them and I try not to tell anyone - I am a diabetic. I am embarrassed to admit my vulnerability and do not want the sympathetic "I'm sorry" or the degrading "But, your not overweight" that seem to coincide when I share my secret.
My roommates found me convulsing in the early morning and immediately called an ambulance. In the emergency room bed with the beige walls, beige sheets, and beige people I had my Star Wars moment. First, you hear the voices of people around you. This would seem comforting however it is the voices of doctors and nurses speaking in medical terms or the occasional sob from a person walking the halls of the ER.
Next, you smell the hospital. This nauseating smell makes you wish you were not waking up - it is a plethora of insulin, sugar tablets and IV medicine. Then, the faces. Seeing the faces of medical professionals is frightening - my entire body shakes at the idea that I cannot recognize a single person in the asinine beige room. At this point, I am cognizant to realize I have had an episode. But when I try to speak the words do not come out right. I feel trapped inside my mind without the ability to communicate my thoughts and feelings.
Once I am able to form sentences, the embarrassment begins. I am ashamed of my disease and humiliated by forcing my roommates to come to the hospital. To cover up my mistakes, I begin my comedy tour in the hospital. I crack jokes about my convulsions, about the male nurses, about anything I can see to alleviate the fact that I am not completely iron proof from mistakes. This comedic talent stems from my mentors: an overprotective mother and laissez-faire father.
Both my mother and father are type-one diabetics. I was diagnosed into the club in seventh grade after months of being sick. I had the common cold, the flu and lost approximately 15 pounds. When I would crawl into my parent's bed complaining of a sore throat and my constant trips to the bathroom, I could see the fear in my machismo father's eyes. During those months, I constantly felt like a leper. My parents could neither look me in the eye nor explain why I had not seen a pediatrician.
Finally, after vomiting on the floor of my seventh-grade volleyball game, my mother rushed me to the urgent care doctor. I asked what was wrong, I asked if it was something I did, I asked what the tests were and I was immediately hushed for my curiosity. To the doctor and my mother, I was a lifeless doll they could poke and prod without explaining the needles in my arm.
The day in the doctor's office changed my life - I no longer had the childhood innocence of sugar rushes but a disease requiring me to monitor every crumb of food that hits my lips. I have spent the past 10 years trying to hide my disease and create a wall from my adolescent needs and diabetes. This barrier I created from the reality of the risks of diabetes and my painful attempts to be accepted brought tumultuous adolescent years. To hide my disease, I began smoking cigarettes to exhibit I could be a normal teenager despite the high risk of blood clots. I faked my blood sugar numbers by changing the time on my monitor to make it appear like I was the perfect diabetic to my parents and a normal teen to my friends and peers. The things I do risk my own life but I do it because my parents and doctors are only concerned about the outward appearance of my disease. The emotional ramifications of growing up different than other teenagers were secondary to my illness. I did not want to be
the high school student going to the nurse's office between classes - instead I lied to my parents claiming I was spending time in the nurse's office not only taking insulin but perfecting the imperfection of my numbers.
I love both of my parents and as we work through our relationships, there is a new honesty. As a naïve teenager, I did not understand the difficulty of balancing support and authority. My parents did not make the best choices but they did their best. I am trying to become less closed-minded. When I wake up in the morning, I focus on the idea that there are bigger problems in this world than my diabetes.
Enough said.
My freshman year at Michigan State University, I experienced what my parents, doctors and strangers called an "episode." My three roommates did not know I had a disease but an inkling about the odd medical supplies I kept tucked away in our closet. I did not tell them and I try not to tell anyone - I am a diabetic. I am embarrassed to admit my vulnerability and do not want the sympathetic "I'm sorry" or the degrading "But, your not overweight" that seem to coincide when I share my secret.
My roommates found me convulsing in the early morning and immediately called an ambulance. In the emergency room bed with the beige walls, beige sheets, and beige people I had my Star Wars moment. First, you hear the voices of people around you. This would seem comforting however it is the voices of doctors and nurses speaking in medical terms or the occasional sob from a person walking the halls of the ER.
Next, you smell the hospital. This nauseating smell makes you wish you were not waking up - it is a plethora of insulin, sugar tablets and IV medicine. Then, the faces. Seeing the faces of medical professionals is frightening - my entire body shakes at the idea that I cannot recognize a single person in the asinine beige room. At this point, I am cognizant to realize I have had an episode. But when I try to speak the words do not come out right. I feel trapped inside my mind without the ability to communicate my thoughts and feelings.
Once I am able to form sentences, the embarrassment begins. I am ashamed of my disease and humiliated by forcing my roommates to come to the hospital. To cover up my mistakes, I begin my comedy tour in the hospital. I crack jokes about my convulsions, about the male nurses, about anything I can see to alleviate the fact that I am not completely iron proof from mistakes. This comedic talent stems from my mentors: an overprotective mother and laissez-faire father.
Both my mother and father are type-one diabetics. I was diagnosed into the club in seventh grade after months of being sick. I had the common cold, the flu and lost approximately 15 pounds. When I would crawl into my parent's bed complaining of a sore throat and my constant trips to the bathroom, I could see the fear in my machismo father's eyes. During those months, I constantly felt like a leper. My parents could neither look me in the eye nor explain why I had not seen a pediatrician.
Finally, after vomiting on the floor of my seventh-grade volleyball game, my mother rushed me to the urgent care doctor. I asked what was wrong, I asked if it was something I did, I asked what the tests were and I was immediately hushed for my curiosity. To the doctor and my mother, I was a lifeless doll they could poke and prod without explaining the needles in my arm.
The day in the doctor's office changed my life - I no longer had the childhood innocence of sugar rushes but a disease requiring me to monitor every crumb of food that hits my lips. I have spent the past 10 years trying to hide my disease and create a wall from my adolescent needs and diabetes. This barrier I created from the reality of the risks of diabetes and my painful attempts to be accepted brought tumultuous adolescent years. To hide my disease, I began smoking cigarettes to exhibit I could be a normal teenager despite the high risk of blood clots. I faked my blood sugar numbers by changing the time on my monitor to make it appear like I was the perfect diabetic to my parents and a normal teen to my friends and peers. The things I do risk my own life but I do it because my parents and doctors are only concerned about the outward appearance of my disease. The emotional ramifications of growing up different than other teenagers were secondary to my illness. I did not want to be
the high school student going to the nurse's office between classes - instead I lied to my parents claiming I was spending time in the nurse's office not only taking insulin but perfecting the imperfection of my numbers.
I love both of my parents and as we work through our relationships, there is a new honesty. As a naïve teenager, I did not understand the difficulty of balancing support and authority. My parents did not make the best choices but they did their best. I am trying to become less closed-minded. When I wake up in the morning, I focus on the idea that there are bigger problems in this world than my diabetes.
Enough said.