Pee in a cup. Height. Weight. Paper gown. Touch your toes. Walk across the room. Breathe in. Breathe out. Say "ah". Everything looks good. Be back in a minute...
The doctor walked back into the room and all of a sudden everything was different- the way she looked at me and the way she was speaking. She sat down on her stool, looked at me and said something along the lines of "wah wah wah wah" (think Charlie Brown's teacher)... Well, that's not exactly it-- more like "There is way too much sugar in your pee. wah wah wah. You have diabetes. wah wah wah. You need to get your blood drawn just to be sure. wah wah wah. You'll probably need to go to the hospital. wah wah wah wah wah." All I heard were scary words. All I saw was an overly calm doctor and a blank-faced mom (probably because she was paying attention and didn't go all Charlie Brown on the conversation). All I felt was empty, clueless, blank... and I was starting to feel sick.
Per the doctor's orders, we went to the local hospital next door for me to get my blood drawn. [I assume they were checking my blood sugar, blood ketones, and HbA1c]. I didn't feel sick, or at least I didn't notice, until our drive home. Headache, nausea, and a funny taste in my mouth-- things that I can now easily peg as high blood sugar symptoms. We got home and mom did most of the packing. I remember sitting around waiting for my blood test results--without those we couldn't be sure I had diabetes. The doctor could have been wrong, right? I was pretty pissed that my parents were acting like I had to go to the hospital even though we hadn't gotten the final word. Sure enough, though, the phone rang and someone on the other end waved their magic wand and my pancreas was broken forever. Ok, ok. That's totally not how it works, but that's what it felt like at the moment. I was fine that morning and all of a sudden my parents are rushing me to the hospital?! Seriously, what gives?!
So--in we went to the emergency room at Children's Hospital Boston. I got a room pretty quickly. A nurse or two or three tried to give me IVs busting a couple veins in the process. My infuriated mother demanded a doctor come in and perform said IV. Eventually they decided I didn't need an IV, after all. I didn't even care at that point. I was confused and scared, and terrified of the impending first insulin shot. dun dun dunnn. The nurse came into the room to give me the shot, my first reaction was to the needle: That's it?! That little thing?! Then it was time for the shot. She pinched the back of my right arm, and before I knew it, it was over. I was still scrunching my face and asking if she could just get it over with already when she said it was over. Didn't even feel it. *sigh of relief*. For at least a little while we could breathe-- I had insulin on board and a teeny bit of time to let my mind stop spinning.
I was admitted to a room on the endocrinology floor. I had an endocrinologist and a ton of nurses always in and out. I think there was a team of medical students, too. I answered the same questions for all of them. Every hour or two there was someone in to take my vitals-- heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, whatever. They checked my blood sugar a ton, too: the meter was huge, the lancet was huger (ouch!), and it pretty much drained my finger of blood each time.
To add to the adventure of my hospital stay-- I had the roommate from...you know where. Though, I'll be honest-- she would probably melt there, because she kept our room at a brisk 50-something degrees. She treated the hospital like her playground (as did her mother). I think the worst part was when they ordered take-out, when all I could eat was carb-counted hospital meals.
Basically, for the first couple of days in the hospital I was absent all but physically. I felt like crap from getting acclimated to an insulin regimen, lower blood sugars, and life under observation in the starkness of a hospital room. I did what the nurses told me to, ate what the nutritionist told me to eat, and stared at the television screen in the small windows of time where there wasn't a medical professional hovering over me.
Once they figured out my insulin levels and started teaching my family and I, I gained some of my spirit back. I picked out what foods I wanted to eat. I distinctly remember the moment I realized I could have a rice crispy treat for my afternoon snack :) I explored the kitchen down the hall from me and helped myself to diet jello and crystal light. My nurse told me about crushed ice in the freezer, and if I put crystal light on it, it was kinda like a slushie (the best treat second only to my rice krispy). Three of my friends and my aunt came to visit me. People in my church family sent me cards and notes of encouragement. These little things made me smile in the midst of a pretty crappy week.
I was still stressed with all the information headed my way, though. Counting carbohydrate exchanges, calculating insulin doses, testing my blood sugar, and getting shots. My parents had to learn and practice giving me injections. That was the worst-- shots from my parents. I'm sure it was the worst for them, too. I think that's all I'll say about that...
Mom and Dad probably learned a lot more than I did during my stay at the hospital. I spaced for most of that week, and relied on my parents to catch me up later. Somehow along the way, between then and now, I learned [they taught me] almost everything about anything diabetes. I learned how to take care of myself, count carbs, check sugar, take insulin, etc. I have come to terms with my "diagnosis", and now diabetes is a part of me.
Moral of the story: I was pretty darn far off when I said I wouldn't be getting a shot in a long time. Though it wasn't said directly, I learned in the hospital that all this information being thrown at us was our new 24/7/365. I need insulin every day or else I will die. I need to check my blood sugar at least 6 times a day to be my healthiest me. I need to count every single thing that I put into my body. Things I do today affect my life tomorrow and years in the future. Bad choices and bad numbers today mean fewer years later. My life will never be "normal".
Some days I feel cursed. Cursed with all the things I need to do just to stay alive; cursed that every plate of food looks like numbers; cursed that I can never catch a break; cursed to be living in an age where the word "diabetes" carries excessive and inaccurate stigma and everyone thinks they can be your doctor; cursed that tomorrow and the future are a constant weight in my mind.
Always I know I am blessed: blessed with people that care; blessed to be living in a time with cutting edge diabetes supplies; Blessed that I have a God that says I don't have to worry about tomorrow; Blessed that I have been called to overcome challenges; blessed that I am not "normal"
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