4 years ago today my new endocrinologist told me I have Type
1 Diabetes. He showed me how to check my
blood sugar, gave me my first insulin injection and sent me on my way with a
stack of prescriptions for the test strips, needles and insulin that were about
to become part of my new normal. The
clearest memory I have of that day is that I held back my tears until I’d
walked out of the office into the parking lot.
I was proud that I didn’t explode into hysterics in front of him, that I
delayed the breakdown until my friend and I were outside. All I really knew about T1 at that point was
that it was permanent and that my diagnosis wasn’t good news. I was terrified. I hoped he was wrong and that the blood work
he ordered would prove I had Type 2 instead, which felt much less severe. I didn’t get my wish.
My dad recently asked me to remind him how I was diagnosed,
and I realized I haven’t told the whole story here. The truth is I’m lucky, and that my T1 was found
almost accidentally and well before I got so sick my life could have been in
danger. In the spring of 2014 I knew
something was wrong. I was losing weight
inexplicably, but I ignored it other than a passing mention while joking “I
hope I don’t have cancer.” At some point
I started having heart palpitations and shortness of breath, and after fighting
her for a few days I let my friend take me to the ER. When my labs came back I found out I was so anemic
I was close to needing a transfusion.
That was the cause of me feeling sick, and we soon found out it was due
to uterine fibroids. But the doctor in
the ER also asked me how long I’d been diabetic. What?
I’m not diabetic. My blood sugar
that evening was 300, so they told me to see my doctor to get rechecked.
Like a lot of people, I didn’t have a primary care
doctor. I rarely get sick, so I’d just
go to the clinic at work when I thought I had something like strep throat. I scheduled an appointment to get my blood
drawn again, not really thinking more than “this is odd.” The PA left me a voicemail the next morning
telling me I have diabetes, I should pick up a prescription for Metformin at CVS,
and I need to make an appointment with an endocrinologist. That was it.
She believed I had Type 2, of course, and as unceremoniously as possible
I was diagnosed with diabetes via voicemail.
Over the next month I dutifully took my pills, had a
hysterectomy to take care of my anemia situation, and kept any mention of my
new diagnosis from my parents until I had more details from an endo to share
with them. It turns out the Metformin
did nothing for me – you can only improve your receptiveness to insulin if you’re
making enough of it in the first place, and I wasn’t. When I finally saw the endocrinologist on
June 24 I found out my A1c was 8.4%, which means my glucose was averaging about
222. That’s a big number, but I say I
was lucky to be diagnosed when I was because if I hadn’t gone into the ER for the
anemia my sugar would have kept climbing and could have realistically landed me
in a hospital in bad shape.
My joke is that my uterus tried to kill me. But if you think about it another way, my
uterus may have saved my life by helping me find out that my pancreas was also
trying to kill me. I had an appendectomy
in 2001, so that makes 3 organs that have tried to take me out. I hope there aren’t any others planning to
come after me!
I recently found this picture of me taken 4 days before that
endo appointment. I can see how thin I
was – I’ve since put back on the 15 pounds I lost before my diagnosis, plus a
few bonus pounds. I can only imagine how
much more weight I’d have lost if I didn’t get diagnosed when I did. I’m grateful for my accidental diagnosis, and
to the friend who dragged me to the emergency room that day. I’m lucky to be here.
