by Cecilia Polumbus
My mom raised me as a single mother. I spent the school years with her, and summers with my dad. She knows me better than anyone else. My mom has always been my best friend; my number one.
Writing this, I realize I have never really talked about my diagnosis. I’ve never told my story. My mom has, but not I. One thing I know for sure is I would not be able to write this if it wasn’t for the support that she has given me over the years, and I can never thank her enough.
I guess my diagnosis story begins during the summer of 2013. I don’t know if it was the high blood sugars or just my mind blocking out the memories, but I don’t remember a lot when it comes to that summer. I was twelve and going into the seventh grade. Despite my exhaustion and constant thirst, I pushed through a summer of camping, canoeing, fishing, and many other active things. I grew taller, and skinnier. I lost 40 pounds that summer due to the ketones. My mom says she barely recognized me when I got off that plane that summer. I looked sick.
After I got back, I went straight into this intensive musical program, where I spent entire days learning dance routines for the musical numbers. At first, my mom and I thought it was just the activity and heat that made me so thirsty, but deep down we both knew it was something more serious. A week before it was over, I almost quit because I was so tired, but I pushed through and finished it.
School started the next Monday. I couldn’t eat because everything made me nauseous. Without having eaten the day before, and nothing the next morning, we knew it was time to go to the doctor. My pediatrician had his suspicions of type one. He tested my ketones and my blood sugar, and they were so high that their systems couldn’t even process the exact numbers. We were told to go straight to Children’s Hospital Colorado. After we got to the hospital, we had to wait six hours before we actually got into a room and saw someone. After they checked everything, I was declared DKA, also known as diabetic ketoacidosis, and my blood sugar was 582. If we would have waited another day I would have been comatose. They admitted me as soon as there was a room available. I had two IVs; one for fluids and one for them to take blood. Every half hour there was an alarm and they would come in and check on me and did what they needed to do. I remember asking every time they came in if I could have anything to eat or any water to drink and every time, they would say no.
The hardest part about that night wasn’t the needles, or the even the diagnosis. It was how I saw it affect my mom. I remember, vividly, seeing my mom cry. It was the first time I’ve ever really seen her cry, or at least the first time I could remember seeing her cry. To say I was overwhelmed about everything would be an understatement. I didn’t know what type one diabetes was or even that there is more than one type of diabetes.
The next morning, we were instructed to get something, but not eat it. I was to take it across the street to the Barbara Davis Center. When we got there and told them that I hadn’t eaten anything in over 48 hours they immediately gave me my first shot of insulin (outside of the IV). Those cold scrambled eggs felt like the best food I had ever eaten.
The next three days we spent in training classes and seeing the dietitians, social workers, and nurses that the BDC offered. From the second I was diagnosed I became a member of a new community. A new family. I had to adjust to a new life, but I had time to do so. My school didn’t allow me back for two weeks because they needed to find a school nurse. I was the only type one diabetic at the time. Six years later, it feels like it has always been a part of me.
My diagnosis story is hardly the hardest part of my journey. I have experienced discrimination, bullying, and many high and lows. I continue to persevere through the rough times and I refuse to let type one define me and control me. I am a strong believer that, despite my diabetes, I can do anything.
