Empowered

By Marianne Szeto, San Jose, California

I woke, my head spinning. A wave of nausea hit me. I crawled to the bathroom and threw up, then broke out into a cold sweat. I'd been feeling run down for a couple of days, but this was way worse than the flu. I staggered to my parents' room. Never in my life had I felt this weak. And thirsty. What was wrong with me?

Up until then, like a lot of 23-year-olds fresh out of college—UCLA, in my case—I was pretty carefree. The only thing vaguely troubling me was that I wasn't sure of my direction in life. I had a solid job as a customer advocate at an internet company but I wasn't passionate about my work or fulfilled by it the way that I wanted to be.

I thought about going back to school, but I had no idea what I wanted to study. Sometimes I wrote in my journal about feeling unsettled. I didn't tell anyone, though. In Chinese culture, we tend to keep our problems to ourselves because we don't want to worry other people.

But there was no hiding how sick I was that morning. Mom suspected it was my blood sugar. She and Dad both have Type 2 diabetes, which means their bodies don't produce enough insulin or use it properly. Type 2 runs on both sides of my family and it's more common in Asian Americans than the general population. I figured I'd get it one day. Just not so soon! Not while I was young, healthy and active.

Mom took me to the doctor. I called my best friend from the waiting room. "My mom thinks I might be..." I said, but my voice cracked when I got to the word "diabetic."

Given my family history, the doctor thought I had type 2 diabetes. She sent me home with the same medication my  parents used. But the next day I felt even worse. Mom and Dad rushed me to the hospital.

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It didn't take the ER doctor long to make a diagnosis. I listened to the list of medical terms. "Diabetic ketoacidosis...absolute insulin deficicency...hyperglycemia...dehydration...Type 1."

Type 1? My body produces no insulin at all? Because of my parents, I knew a little about diabetes, and what I knew about Type 1 scared me. Insulin injections every day. Constant monitoring of my blood sugar. A long list of dietary restrictions. I broke down and cried. My life would never be the same again!

The next few weeks proved it. The syringe supplies, the injections, the countless blood sugar checks left no room for spontaneity or fun. No more carefree California girl. I might as well have moved to a nursing home.

One day a friend called. "A bunch of us are going to get dinner and see a movie. You in?" I couldn't eat what they ate, I couldn't split a box of candy at the movies, and I'd have to take a shot of long-acting insulin at 9 p.m. How could I do that in a theater? "No, thanks," I said. Same thing I'd been telling everyone else who tried to coax me out.

Mom and Dad did their best to cheer me up. They practically dragged me downtown one day to go shopping. Anything I glanced at, Mom would offer to buy for me. I just  wanted to go home and be alone in my room.

"It's all our fault," Mom said. "We gave you bad genes." Tears welled in her eyes.

For the first time since my diagnosis, it hit me: My negativity was as much a disease as my diabetes. I'd been acting like a different person since I came home from the hospital—withdrawn, depressed, bitter. I'd been too busy feeling sorry for myself to see how much worry I was causing my parents. They brought me up to be better than this, I thought. That's when I decided: I can't change my diagnosis, but I can change my attitude.