So, this is my first time trying to blog in a very long time. Like, middle school time. I'm going to do my best to keep things normal around here, but I'm currently a college student and a part-timer, so it may degrade into posting when I get around to it as opposed to a schedule. But isn't that what blogging is all about? Freedom and expression of thoughts and experiences as they happen.
Type 1 diabetes is an autoimmune condition in which the beta insulin cells that the pancreas makes are attacked by the immune system. They're attacked because the immune system makes white blood cells that attack diseases, and they have a certain set of "keys"; they normally match nothing made by your body, but in an autoimmune disease, they have a key matching something your body makes. According to WebMD, 5% of people with diabetes have type 1.
I was diagnosed at the age of 5, during June of 2001. I had been rapidly losing weight, a loss of appetite, drank a lot of fluids and used the bathroom a lot. My grandfather was a type 2 diabetic, so we knew the warning signs, and my parents tried to take my to the doctor, but the doctor had a substitute in as he was on vacation. The receptionist refused to let me be seen as they were only taking "sick children," so we waited. And waited. And sure enough, I got sick, massively sick, vomiting everywhere. My parents rushed me off to the doctor's office again and after some convincing, I was allowed in, and subsequently rushed to a hospital. I remember my mom making a phone call to my dad from the doctor's office, and she was crying, and I didn't really understand what was going on around me, so I cried. I asked for my stuffed animal that I kept in bed to be brought.
When I was at the hospital, I was given a coloring book and an IV. The staff tried to keep me entertained and my mind off the fact that my life was about to change in a very serious manner, and all I was concerned about was a giant indoor playground they had set up in a room they passed while I was being carted in. My parents were nearly given a heart attack. It was almost impossible to draw blood from me, and at several points in my life, my dad's told an anecdote about a nurse who did a urinalysis with the results being in color, the darker the worse. He said that she said "Oh, I'm expecting her to be a dark green or maybe blue." Sure enough, the color came out black. He said her face paled and she rushed off to get a doctor.
I don't really remember a lot of my time in the hospital. My mom says that the first night she thought that I was asleep, so she finally let out everything and started to cry, and that I told her everything would be alright. I remember her sitting in the bed with me, coloring in the farm-themed coloring book, things seemingly normal in my life except for that fact that I was in the hospital. Every day I asked if we could go to the playground, and my parents said that we could when I was discharged. They had a computer lab in which there was an iSpy computer game that I absolutely loved (and consequently couldn't find once I was discharged, leaving me to instead fill in the gap with the books, which I still love).
My dad said that someone from the church we were going to visited, one of the officials, but not really anyone of importance. It left my dad mad because he asked where the pastor was, because, while they were deeply ingrained in their faith and were a part of the church community there, the pastor was visiting one of the older members with deeper pockets who had a cold or a broken wrist or something of that sort. He says that it's one of the reasons we left that church, because we were shunned for being lower middle class when the rest of the members were definitely upper class and donated more, and that this was rewarded in obvious situations like this. "My daughter almost died and what do we get?" he'd fume. I didn't really care. I still don't.
And on the third day, I rose. It was my discharge day. Two of my best friends at the time, a brother and sister of a family we still keep in touch with came by and visited me. They gave me a book on African animals that I enjoyed for years, and a glow-in-the-dark giraffe that I aptly named Jerry. We got to leave my hospital room for good and finally visit the indoor playground, which, looking back was pretty bland. The walls were white, with a flat green leaf sticker running all around the walls. There were bridges and little huts all in dark wood. I remember not feeling like I got to spend enough time there, but my parents were probably just wishing for nothing more than to never have to see a hospital again.
I don't really remember a time when I didn't have diabetes. Being sick in the car is my first memory. My dad says I didn't wanna take my shots when I got home at first because I was obviously all better now that I wasn't at the hospital. I don't remember it, but I was five.
I used to just use syringes with humolog and lantus until about four years ago, when I got my first insulin pump, the Animas Ping, and that just uses humolog. I'm looking to get into CGM possibly, and now the warranty is up on my Ping, I'm planning on getting a new pump.
So, yeah. That's my diagnosis. I'm gonna run this blog in an attempt to collect my thoughts and maybe help someone else out there who's freshly diagnosed, or parents of recent juvenile diabetics looking for some advice.
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