Newly Diagnosed
There are two types of people in this world when they are given bad news:
1- “Nope, nuh-uh, la la la la la can’t hear you!!!!!!!”
or
2- “Well f*ck”
I am a 1. When the doctor came in and said those words “You have diabetes” I am almost certain I held my hands over my ears and “la la la’d” the whole way home.
I remember they sent in a nurse to show me how to finger stick, then how to inject myself with insulin. They came in and threw numbers at me about insulin to carb ratio, basal rates, pre-bolus, if your glucose is less than or equal to the sum of 18 minus pi that you have to multiply that number by 8 move the decimal three spaces to the left and…shall I continue? They told me how I needed to cut carbs from my life. ME! The closet eater, had to cut carbs out of my life. They told me to start reading the nutrition labels on items. They *didn’t* tell me how many carbs I could have, they just said to cut them out.
I also remember the first time they changed my hospital diet to match my new diagnosis. Hospital food is disgusting anyways, but how many of you have ever tried a diabetic diet? In the hospital? My whole world had just been flipped upside down and shaken like a waste basket, and I felt incredibly alone. Here I was, sitting in the hospital craving my security blanket and they were denying me hardcore. It was worse than cold turkey. No, this felt infinitely more difficult.
I wanted to scream. I definitely cried. My depression deepened.
After a few days, they released me and I felt very unprepared. My mom had bought me this plate that had these sectioned areas for “proteins” a section for “vegetables” and a portion for “carbohydrates”. It was very cute, but it was very small. I looked at that plate and knew it would never fill me up. I’d have to fill that thing at least five times before I’d feel even remotely full. But she was trying, and so, I would try too.
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My mom was excited — she had gone to the grocery store, she had bought all kinds of fruits and vegetables, we, as a family, were going to make changes for a healthier lifestyle. I felt hopeful. I could do this with my family by my side! I wouldn’t be going through this trial alone. Until I was alone.
It certainly didn’t take long for my family to fall back into old habits. Remember when I said “Old dogs, new tricks”? Yeah, I wasn’t lying. I tried to do it by myself, but it was difficult. Being an “adult” out of high school, working, having to pay bills and figure out my own grocery shopping — I felt totally and completely lost.
The first time I went solo grocery shopping was the first time I had a panic attack. Reading every label on every food product, every food product had carbs and I had been told to cut them from my life. Every item I picked up I had to put back. An hour into my shopping experience and my cart had practically nothing in it. Looking into that cart, I felt the walls close in on me. I felt like every single isle was packed with a multitude of customers, shopping carts filled to the brim with potato chips and cookies, crackers and cakes, I could feel my heart begin to race, my body felt drenched in sweat. I needed to leave, and I did. I ran out of that store leaving my cart behind. I jumped right into my car and I sobbed. I cried into my steering wheel. I slammed my fists against the wheel, against my thighs, on the passenger seat. I drove to McDonalds ate six double cheeseburgers in under 10 minutes.
I felt so completely lost. I felt so completely alone.
The first time I had expressed that to my mother, she said to me “You know you’re not the only person in this world who’s diabetic.” It was so, matter of fact, so dismissive. She wasn’t wrong. I knew that, I wasn’t stupid. However, the education I had on diabetes was from my grandparents (on my fathers side — and I think I have established how close I was with them). I didn’t know anyone my age with diabetes. Because I had been diagnosed as “type 2” in the hospital, the most common phrase was “Eat healthier.” That phrase grated on me like no other. Nobody knew what I was going through. My doctor didn’t have any suggestions on support groups. My family didn’t change their lifestyle, but boy-howdy were they quick to point fingers if I ate fast food or junk food, as they took another bite out of their quarter pounders or whopper cheeseburger.
So, I did what I did best. I closet ate.
I would work evenings, sometimes not getting off until 11pm or later, so before going home, even if my mom had made dinner and had left me a plate in the microwave, I would drive through somewhere. I would park my car and sit there, in the dark and eat my Jack-in-the-Box, I would cram burritos and tacos into my mouth like I would never have a meal again. I would sit in that silence, gorging myself with food, and I would think — Please, just let me die. Then I would stuff my trash in the back seat to throw away later, and head into the house to eat whatever meal my mom had left for me.
I remember one particular night, after I had finished two Jumbo Jacks with cheese, a large curly fry, three egg rolls, six tacos, a chocolate cake and a large orange fanta, that I decided I no longer wanted to be here. I didn’t want to live in a world where I had to hide my eating, where I couldn’t be myself. I didn’t want to live in a world where I felt so hopelessly alone. So I filled my syringe with insulin, as much as the tubing could hold, and I injected myself with it. I had read somewhere that people could die from having too low of blood sugar, they simply fell asleep, and that sounded so peaceful to me.
Unfortunately, and fortunately, I hadn’t done enough research to realize all of that insulin more than likely actually saved my life instead of ended it. I went to bed that night and laid there, wondering what heaven would be like. Wondering how it would feel to be in a vast emptiness. I thought, at least I would no longer be a burden on my family any more. They could be free of me, and free to do whatever they wanted. That they wouldn’t have to feel guilty for eating fast food (if they even did), or that my mom wouldn’t have to count how many cookies were in the package before going to bed. That my family wouldn’t have to hide the chips, the Cheez-its, the Chicken-in-a-biscuit…They could just be like “any other modern family”.
You can imagine my surprise when I woke up the next morning, my stomach bloated and in pain, that I hadn’t slipped peacefully away. I decided right then and there that I would ignore this disease. I would live like any normal (now) 18 year old.
Pissed at the world, hating myself, my depression cloaked around me like Harry Potters invisibility cloak, and my anxiety just reaching its peak, I got myself up out of bed, promptly put my hands over my ears and shouted “la la la la la! I can’t hear you!” to my diabetes.
