A month ago, I was taken by ambulance because I was in DKA, and it was not the first time. I had been on the Mobi pump for about a year and a half, and in that time I had already gone into DKA three times, over the last year and a half. Once in Las Vegas during our move back from Arizona, I managed to pull myself out of it on my own. I don’t say that with pride anymore, because now I understand just how dangerous that really was. Then in mid March, I ended up at St. Michael’s Hospital. I was still incredibly sick and could not keep food or even water down, but my numbers had come back into a normal range. The endocrinologist wanted me to stay and follow up the next day to make sure my pump was working and that I was truly out of DKA, but the doctor discharged me anyway. I did not even make it to Poulsbo before the vomiting started again. I went home, crawled into bed, and tried to fight my way through it alone. I drank fluids, rested, and eventually started to feel a little better, but eight days later everything unraveled again. You see I was never out of DKA fully.
That night the internet disconnected, the Bluetooth dropped, and my pump did not reconnect. The alarms went off and I slept through all of it for five hours. When I woke up, I was already slipping back into DKA. By Sunday morning I was vomiting every hour, and by Tuesday my brain was not working right anymore. What echoed louder than anything else was the shame from that doctor’s voice telling me to do better, so I did not call for help. I convinced myself I could fix it and that I had to fix it, but by Wednesday morning my body was done fighting alone. At 8:30 that morning my mom made the call I could not make. On the way to the hospital my heart stopped, and they restarted it. Then it stopped again at the entrance to the freeway, and they brought me back again. I was slipping into a coma and was almost completely gone. I remember fragments of waking up just enough to vomit, to look around, to try to understand where I was, and then disappearing again. That first night they had to resuscitate me again, and I lost four days of my life.
During those four days my family came to see me. I remember my mom telling me my dad was on a red eye from New York and would be there as soon as he could. My cousin Tony, who is more like a brother, came to be with me, and my cousin Penny was there too. The first day my moms best friend sat with her and when they asked my mom if I wanted to be brought back in the case of death, she didn't know what to say, but Donna was able to help answer. I could not have many visitors, but I was not alone. Through all of it, one thought kept breaking through everything, and that was my boys. I kept wondering if they were okay and who was taking care of them, and they were, thank God they were, but that fear changed something in me forever. Because of this, I made a plan. Two of my closest friends are now ready to step in and co parent if anything happens to me. My boys have bags packed in their closets, and there are notes with their medications and everything they would need. I met with a lawyer and created a will and a healthcare directive so that they will always be protected.
The truth is I know this may happen again. I am a brittle diabetic, and I became diabetic at 30 after years of chemotherapy damaged my pancreas. After four years at the Mayo Clinic, I was diagnosed as Type 1.5, which means I am both Type 1 and Type 2. I am insulin dependent and also insulin resistant, and my body can turn on me without warning. What works one day can completely fail the next. The toll this disease has taken is real. At almost 49 I am about 90 percent blind, I have severe osteoporosis, and my kidneys are in stage 3 failure. I live with gastroparesis, neuropathy, and complications that affect even the most basic parts of my body. I have had multiple strokes and a heart attack. My body is tired, but I am not done. I am fighting for my boys, for my parents, and for every moment I can still be here with them.
This experience taught me something I will never forget. No doctor should ever make you feel ashamed of your disease. You live in your body and you know it better than anyone else, and you deserve care, not judgment. That shame almost cost me my life. My boys their mother. My parents their only child. The many people that love me a life without me. If I had waited even a few more hours, I might not be here, and I might not have made it back to my boys. If there is anything I want people to take from my story, it is this. Ask for help. Call the ambulance. Go to the hospital. Do not try to prove your strength by suffering in silence. Your life is worth more than that. I am still here because someone loved me enough to make the call when I could not, and because this time I was given another chance.
I live everyday thankful that I am still here, I did this before this last hospital stay, but now I have these emotions that I have never felt before. I know I will need to more than likely talk to a therapist about these feelings. I will be talking about this for a while on the blog and I hope that someone finds comfort in this or knows that type one diabetics are constantly dying and everyday we keep ourselves alive. The next time you think that diabetes is because of the way people eat and that it isn't that bad, think of this blog post.
