The Courage to Speak Out
The Courage to Speak Out
I am a person with diabetes, not a diabetic. I can't let my condition define me.
I am a PWD–a person with diabetes. Please note that the word person comes first. Dealing with being a PWD hasn’t always been easy for me. And I know I’m not alone. That’s why I’m doing all I can these days to dispel myths and misconceptions about diabetes. That’s why I’m telling my story here.
My parents had six children and three of us had Type 1 diabetes. So did my dad. I was diagnosed in 1977 on–of all days–Halloween. My parents had brought me to the hospital because I’d been losing weight and incredibly thirsty for weeks.
Instead of being a normal eight-year-old out trick-or-treating, I spent the evening receiving an insulin IV drip from a nurse dressed up as a clown.
“You don’t know for sure that I even have diabetes,” I challenged her. I mean, she was dressed like a clown! “Just let me go trick-or-treating and I promise I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Oh, honey, you do have diabetes,” she said, “and you’ll be taking shots for the rest of your life.” Right then, I knew two things for sure. This was the worst Halloween ever. And I hated clowns.
I put on a happy face for my parents even as I saw the sadness in their eyes. But alone at night in my hospital bed, I thought of giving up my beloved Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and felt the tears slide down my cheeks.
Soon I was back home and bringing needles to the dinner table so I could inject myself with insulin. Type 1 diabetes is an autoimmune disease. Basically, my immune system attacked my pancreas so that it was no longer able to produce the hormone insulin.
Type 1’s like me had no choice but to inject themselves with insulin to stay alive.
At school, I became the class cutup. I was not going to be known as the Girl With Diabetes. I’d sneak a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, then ride my bike to the other side of Margate, our Jersey shore town, to bring my blood sugar down.
These little escapes didn’t change the truth. I never got a day off from diabetes. Every day was full of challenges, and too many times I felt like I was failing. I had a lot of diabetes guilt.
My sister Debbie understood. She was older than me by 14 years, but we’d both been diagnosed as kids. She’d battled more than diabetes; she was also a recovering alcoholic. Alcoholism and diabetes are a deadly combination. Her health had forced her to stop working and move back home.
Debbie was a beach girl, through and through. We’d swim and bodysurf, letting the powerful waves carry us away–if only for a while– from the cares of life. We’d walk the beach, Debbie picking up shells. “Look how God has made each one unique, so beautiful in its own way,” she’d say. “Isn’t it amazing?”
Sometimes, we’d see a rainbow arching across the sky. In those peaceful moments my heart overflowed with love for her. Debbie kept getting sicker. With the rest of my siblings out of the house, I helped my parents take care of her. Debbie suffered from brittle bones, heart attacks and strokes.
I don’t like to use the word hate, but I hated diabetes for what it was doing to my sister. Scared and angry, Debbie lashed out and I fought right back. I was angry too, angry at how diabetes was affecting my family, angry at what it might do to me.
Sometimes in fits of anger, Debbie put into words my deepest fear: “You’re going to end up just like me, Kelly, if you don’t watch out. You’ll be dead before you’re forty.”
I went to a local college, eager to be anything other than the Girl With Diabetes. I just wanted to be normal! So I’d binge on pizza with my friends or eat cookies while studying. I’d do the bare minimum to keep my diabetes from getting totally out of hand.
She tried to remember that parenting was about communication, in any and every form.
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