Hospitalized

I have been hospitalized many times: for a tonsillectomy, the extraction of impacted wisdom teeth, a hysterectomy, foot surgery, and five jaw surgeries. Each experience focused on a different body part, but each shared a common factor: fear.

Everything about the hospital frightened me. I didn’t like the overwhelming smell of antiseptic or the moans of other patients emanating from the surrounding rooms. I shuddered whenever a nurse approached my bed, convinced they were about to communicate bad news to me. I was afraid to move my left arm, fearful that I’d dislodge the IV and need to once again endure the pain of having it inserted. I shivered with anxiety over every encounter with the phlebotomist’s tubes and needles.

Dear readers,

I was just a few months into my first year of medical school when I got sick–feeling crummy, drinking glass after glass of water or orange juice, and peeing a lot. I ignored these symptoms for as long as I could, but finally had to admit that something was wrong and made my way to our student health service, where, on a Friday afternoon, I was given the diagnosis of diabetes and sent home, unmedicated.

The following Monday I was seen by an internist who quickly realized that, despite my age–thirty–I had juvenile-onset (type 1) diabetes. My pancreas was no longer producing the insulin my body needed. That meant that I would need to inject insulin. Forever.