The Beginning.

Warning: This post is a very detail-heavy description of my going into diabetic ketoacidosis (then unbeknown to me.) I'm just letting you know so that you can read at your own discretion.


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This is the beginning of my new life.

My life with Type 1 Diabetes.
And I hate it.

Last Friday was prom. It was a wonderful night. I'd never felt so beautiful. I had a gorgeous red mermaid dress, my hair was curled, I did my makeup all nice, and I just felt all around lovely. We got there and it was so nice to see everyone. The Seniors went to Macaroni Grill, we took tons of pictures, laughed and smiled and the girls exclaimed how beautiful everyone was. We got to prom at the beautiful Longwood Community Center. But something felt different this year. I'd get up to dance, but... I just... wasn't feeling it. I'd go through the motions, have fun, move around, but my mind and my body seemed like two disconnected entities. And I just felt like I lacked the energy to do much of anything. It was so strange. I hate to go to dances and just sit. But I must have ended up sitting for the better half of the dance. The food looked so great; cookies, cheesecake, ice cream, fruit, punch. I would love to eat it now. But I found I had no appetite. No desire to eat, no desire to dance. And I was so thirsty... I must have downed about 10 bottles of water, and that's not an exaggeration.

I got back to my friend, Kaitlin's house afterwards, and didn't even have the energy to unpin my hair or take off my makeup. I felt ill but figured I'd be fine in the morning, if I just got some sleep. A few glasses of water later I collapsed into bed and was out like a lamp.

The next morning I woke up feeling the same; ill. But even worse so. I got up and nursed some water, then sat on the couch and just... well, sat. Staring out the window, breathing slowly, deeply. Sure I'd feel better later. I had some toast and some orange juice and convinced myself that I felt okay, so I left Kaitlin's for my own house. I had to get ready for work. I got dressed, got in the car. I was late. I felt ill again. Weak. And thirsty. Why was I so thirsty? I tried to drink water but my mouthy felt furry and fruity. Water was gross. I drank some Ginger Ale, but though it wasn't as bad as the water it did little to quench my thirst. My nerves were frazzled. I got to work and spent 2 hours face painting kids, sweating and shaking. At least I had a chair to sit in. Someone brought me water and I tried to drink it again, but that fruity taste wouldn't go away, and it felt rough on my tongue, like the equivalent of liquid sandpaper.

Then I went home, got changed, and went to go see my best friends whom I hadn't seen in years. It was supposed to be a happy day; a wonderful reunion between us. I was still feeling strange, ill, but I had an appetite at least. I was thinking some protein or something nice and solid would be good. Like a chicken sandwich. We had barbecue chicken pizza for dinner instead - not exactly my ideal choice considering the state I felt in. The sweetness made me feel a little more sickly, but I ate it. I felt better for a while, the illness alleviated. Water still felt a bit funny, but I just ignored my body and had a good time with friends. 


Then later we had these giant eclairs; yum! But suddenly, the feeling came back again. The illness. The more I ate, the worse I felt. I drank more water. It wouldn't do. Felt even funnier. I was so thirsty. Cheese. Cheese was good. And juice. That might help. I drank about half a carton of orange juice. I fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up and I just knew I wasn't feeling well. You know what I'm talking about. The feeling you get when you wake up on a morning you're sick, and you're body is telling your mind, "Oh boy, you're really in for it today."


Yeah.


I knew that if I got up, one of two things was going to happen. a.) I was going to feel like I had to puke and most likely end up puking some time that morning. b.) I was going to puke my guts out immediately. I groaned inwardly. This was such an inopportune time to be sick.


My friends got up and made waffles which sounded fantastic. They tried to get me up but I pretended to still be sleepy, while in reality I just felt sick to my stomach. I stalled getting up for as long as possible, but at my friends' urging I did, slowly and painfully, emerge from my sleeping bag. 


I stumbled to the kitchen, poured some more orange juice, and a hot, delicious looking waffle was set in front of me.


I did not want that waffle.

Something wasn't right.

I got up slowly, then quickened my steps.

Right to the bathroom, where I threw up, over and over again.

I sat on Taylor, my friend's, floor. It was all I could do. She brought me club soda (disgusting) and I fell asleep with a pink snuggie over me.


Kelle had to leave to go back to North Carolina. I felt so bad I couldn't give her a better send off except for hugging her weakly and telling her I was so glad to see her, and apologizing for being sick. If apologizing for being sick sounds strange, you should know that I have always apologized a lot, for everything, even if an apology isn't necessarily due.

I woke up after napping on the floor, hoping to find some respite from the sick. Taylor was leaving, which meant I had to go to. I dragged myself to the bathroom for a shower, then got out and laid on the bathroom floor. So weak, so sick. I felt pathetic. Worthless. Helpless. 


When I drove home, I stopped at 7-11 to get drinks because I felt terrible. I stumbled into the store, grabbing a coke and a lemonade, not sure which would help, if either. I took my drinks to the front counter. "How are you?" The cashier asked. "Terrible," I said, handing her the money, grabbing my change, and running outside. I literally ran - and threw up, at least ten times, into the bushes next to my truck in the 7-11 parking lot.


A group of people passed me squatting on the sidewalk and I'm pretty sure they thought I was drunk. 

That experience was one of the most undignified moments of my life.

Through some miracle, I managed to make it home without killing myself.
I don't think I'll ever truly know how I managed to do it, either. God was really watching out for me that day.
I spent the rest of the day sick at home alone.
I lied on my bed, downing the coke, the lemonade was gross so I tossed it.
4 pm. Mom texted me angrily about not doing the dishes.
Euuuggghh. I heaved into the trashcan.
I had no strength to reply and defend my case, as to why the dishes had not been done.

I spent the whole day in bed and just hoped I would be better the next day. I had had the stomach flu two weeks ago and I honestly just thought that this must have been a relapse of it. I never for a second thought that anything else was wrong.
I never even had stopped to consider the two weeks' worth of random bouts of nausea throughout the day, the insane thirst, the having to pee literally 5 times an hour, it seemed. I didn't think about how strange it was that I got random stomach cramps, fell asleep in the middle of the day for no reason at all, that my legs kept collapsing in on me when I tried to go running on the track in the mornings, that I felt completely exhausted at even the slightest bodily exertion. That even carrying my party supplies, my face paint and games, into work was a difficult effort.
That I had lost so much weight that my bones were sticking out in all the wrong places.

It sounds stupid now, but I didn't stop to think of any of that.
Diabetes is not what you expect to grow up and find out that you have

My mother has always done a good job of supporting me and her through a brilliant work ethic and managing of finances. But we've never had a lot of spare money, not anymore, at least. We didn't go to the Doctor's, we didn't see the Dentist, we don't have healthcare. All of those things were luxuries we couldn't really afford and even if we made room for them in the budget, neither of us really felt that we needed to. We were fine, we were healthy. If we got sick we waited it out. We always got better. Hell, the last time I had been to the Doctor was when I was 8 years old. It might have even been longer.
So I figured this was the same. Just wait it out.
Like I had always done.

But the next day, I was still sick.
And not even slightly better, like you often are the second day.
Worse. Much worse.


I crawled to the kitchen in the early morning hours, convinced that the one panacea that I needed, immediately, that very second, was:
1.) Crushed ice
2.) A crushed ice Gatorade Slurpee.


I crawled on my hands and knees to get everything I needed to make it, then lost all strength by the time I got to the freezer. I threw up in the kitchen trash can and started crying. I must have woken mom up because I made it back to my room somehow. 

The whole day I couldn't eat, no fluids seemed to help. I thew it all up. Even the Gatorade. I kept vomiting, even when I was sure that there was no possible way that there was anything else left to puke - I through up over 20 times. So many times that the acid burned my mouth and throat so I could hardly speak without terrible pain. 


I texted my mom for a coke slurpie and then fell into a vomit-induced stupor, trying to sleep, drink, throw up, stumble to the bathroom, throw up, get drinks. I got my coke slurpie, my little piece of heaven, and managed to drink the whole thing. Then I began to get terrible stomach pain. I stumbled to my mother's room with my trash can. I was home alone. I couldn't find any medicine anywhere, I had no strength. I grabbed some Nyquil and took some of that; if I couldn't relieve the pain, at least perhaps I could sleep. I went back to my bed to await peaceful slumber.


But it didn't work. Because by then my stomach hurt so bad I couldn't stand it. I laid on my bed, literally begging God to make the terrible pain stop. I don't know what going through labor feels like, but if it's anything like I felt, I am in no hurry to have children. I actually remember convincing myself that people stopped by my bedside. I told them to go get me medicine that would make me feel better. Part of me knew I was imagining it, but scarily, another part of me had literally convinced myself that my neighbors had stopped by and they would shortly be returning with Maalox. 


I remember stumbling to my mom's room for some reason, but then I couldn't return to my bed. I sat there on the carpet. I remember being picked up and carried to my bed again. My legs started turning blue. I was bruising. Why was I bruising? Was this the flu? i had never had a flu like this. The stomach pain had worsened. The pain of it crushed me. Tears poured down my face. My mom had returned and I cried and cried and begged her and asked her when it would stop.

And then I remember very little.

I remember being picked up and put in the car. The world was spinning. A glimpse of sunlight, of green tree leaves, of a blue and cloud-speckled sky. We pulled out of the driveway and that's all I remember. Everything was black after that, and I must have lost consciousness. I have never lost consciousness before that day. I think I might remember making it to the CentraCare, but I simply don't know. I had strange hallucinations, dreams, memories, whatever you want to call them. I was on stretchers and there were doctors and everything was a mess, oh, everything was so tangled and messed up and nothing would ever be fixed. No one could fix this. It was impossible. What was this? That's what I actually remember thinking during that time. That something with me was so wrong that it could never be fixed.

And then there was black, then lights, and then an ambulance. I remember the dark night and a paramedic talking to me telling me I am at the hospital. I think I talked but I don't know. She asked me questions that I don't remember answering. She put an oxygen mask on my face.

And then I woke up.
Emergency Room, the sound of carts rolling through the hallways, multiple IV's hooked to my arms.
My weight, now only 99lbs, and the words "Diabetic ketoacidosis", then a foreign term to me, written on the whiteboard beside the bed.

Inches from death only hours before, with blood sugars over 900.
I had woken up, and I was alive.

Except that I had woken up into the wrong life.