D-Day Anniversary: A Reflection

Today is March 24. Three years ago, a series of events happened that changed my life forever.

I woke up and headed to my annual gynecologist appointment. For days I had breathing and swallowing issues which my doctor deemed as acid reflux. While in the waiting room, I felt panicky, and I asked if there was a nurse. No one seemed to take me seriously, and I went back to my seat discouraged and confused and really really scared, but I was far too exhausted to pursue tracking down someone to help me.

In the exam room, the PA just looked at my body in shock. I was 97 lbs at nearly 5 feet, 8 inches. As she spoke to me, my brain wandered around in a hopeless fog. I wanted to give up. I had no idea what was wrong with me. I didn't know why I couldn't see straight, why I ate more but continued to lose weight, why my spine dug into the pew at church, why I could barely get out of the driver's seat of my car, why I was so thirsty and that thirst couldn't be quenched no matter how much water I drank. My skin was dry. My hair was falling out. I was depressed and angry with God and all of humanity for the relentless comments about my weight. I had given up on the five medical professionals I had seen in my desperate attempt to solve the mystery of my misery. They thought I had an eating disorder. No one was helping me. I was ready to just give in to whatever was eating me alive. I wanted to drown. I was tired of treading water with no land or boat in sight.

I left the doctor's office and drove to a nearby Steak-N-Shake for none other than a drink---an orange smoothie. I went home, exhausted, and sank into bed. I believe at this time I went in and out of consciousness. Finally my cell phone's constant ringing awoke me. My husband was calling. He knew something was wrong. I told him I was so tired and couldn't breathe. He asked if I wanted an ambulance. I said no. It's probably just asthma or something.

Next thing I remember, Steve is home, shaking me awake. Somehow I had moved to the couch. I beg him to bring me juice, and I gulp down two huge glasses. Steve brings me my shoes. He gets me into the car. We drive to the hospital.

The ER was nearly empty. It was a Friday afternoon. The normal world was out working, picking up kids from school, packing for a camping weekend. I was sitting inside the ER in a wheelchair while my husband talked to the receptionist. I can't remember if I cared that I was sitting in a wheelchair like a sick person, a disabled person.

I was taken back to see the triage nurse who was asking me a series of ridiculous questions. I remember him taking my temperature, and I also remember growing increasingly annoyed and desperate. I can't breathe!!!, I screamed in my mind, so why the heck are you not giving me some oxygen??!!!??

I was taken to a three-walled room with a curtain as the entrance. I was given warm blankets; they weren't enough. I shook. I was so thirsty and begged for a drink. The nurses were puzzled and gazed at me with pity. I wonder what they told their families that night. I wonder if I was a dinner table story.

Blood test, blood gases, a chest x-ray, blood pressure, temperature. One nurse burst into my room and said, "You smell sick." I'll never forget that.

Meanwhile Steve asks if I want him to call the moms. That's serious, you know, to have the moms involved. I said no. He asked again. Eventually I relented. I can't imagine the fear in their hearts as they made the nearly two hour drive.

Finally a doctor came in. He looked at me and said something along these lines: "No wonder you have been so sick. Your blood sugar is 700. You have diabetes."

I was carted off to the ICU in disbelief and in shock.


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The other day I found my medical records from the year and half I was sick (without a diagnosis) to the post-hospital labs. I read about my old self. It's haunting yet such a relief. To see where I was three and four years ago, to where I am now, is nothing short of a miracle in my book.

Part of my hospital entry summary reads:

Neuro: The patient is alert, she is oriented [. . .].

The DNE (diabetes nurse educator) who came to visit me told me that I very well could have died. I was in a condition called DKA (diabetic ketoacidosis) upon arrival. I should have been in a coma.

I didn't feel very lucky at the time, lying in a hospital bed, confined by tubes and cuffs, trying to block out glossy pamphlets featuring smiling people and bullet points about diabetes. I was surrounded by flowers and balloons and cards. I hated all of them. They were just reminders of a life-long prison sentence.

But today, I do feel lucky.

It amazes me that through it all, I somehow stayed ok.

Many days choose this mindset: I have diabetes. It's a part of me, probably forever. It has helped mold me into the person that I am. Without it, I wouldn't have chose adoption; I wouldn't have my beautiful daughter. With it I am stronger, I am more flexible, I am more resilient, I am more determined, and I am more beautiful.

I wouldn't necessarily call today a "happy" anniversary, but I will call today an opportunity to reflect on the ways I have been blessed, the ways God really DID NOT fail me, and the things I have to look forward to.