Unsurprisingly, hospital life wasn’t glorious by any means, but it could have been worse.
I had my own room, full of kiddie illustrations that I thought were a bit much, but nonetheless appreciated. It wasn’t a busy wing, so it was more or less silent and peaceful. The nurses were kind and patient. They and my dad tried to teach me how blood sugar and insulin worked, but it didn’t make any sense to me. Somewhere in my head, I was still in denial, and I didn’t want to believe that my life had to change. It didn’t help that I was still recovering from DKA, and I couldn’t bring my fuzzy mind to a point of focus. Every night, the nurses woke me up three or four times to check my sugars or change my IV— I hated that damn IV needle, its painful itchiness remained my nemesis for my whole stay.
Thank goodness my parents were able to find time to always have at least one of them at the hospital with me if I needed anything, I would have been so lost without them. They were always full of comforting words, even though their world was spinning too.
It was wonderful to have their support, but unnerving sometimes. They brought the iPad to my room, a device that was historically treated as a finite resource, a privilege that had to be earned, except now they let me use it all the time. That tablet used to be the Holy Grail, the sweet nectar to comfort me when I was having a bad day. It worried me in the back of my mind; the world was now much more than video games and homework. I didn’t want to think about it yet. So I didn’t. Instead, I refurbished my 5 star Zombie Café with shiny new golden tables to get my mind out of my room.
On the second day, I still felt very sickly, but I decided to actually eat something. Up until that point, I had been nourished through my IV. I ordered something heavy, comforting, and hot from the hospital cafeteria: chicken Alfredo. After about 15 minutes, it came in a bowl smaller than my palm, with a side of still steaming broccoli. At any other time in my life, it would’ve been absolutely subpar, but that day it was the best thing I had eaten in my life. The moment I had my first bite, colors in my room popped. I had energy all of a sudden. I didn’t feel like a sack of bones in a bed anymore. It must have been 6 ounces of food, and when I was done, I felt full and plump. That day, I took a walk, just to the lounge outside my room. I looked out the giant windows into the parking four stories down, dotted with melting snow. The vibrant sun reflecting off the pavement far below welcomed me back to the world away from the dull, regulated lighting of the hospital. I would be okay.
The following days I was briefed by the patient nurses as to what my condition was, how I got it, and what it generally means. It’s not that I wasn’t taking care of my body, Type 1 Diabetes is a genetic condition. I remember at the time, a nurse told me there were only three things I couldn’t do: fly a commercial plane, be in a submarine, and serve in the military. Those words inspired me, and even years later, I’ve never disproved that sentiment.
Growing up T1D 