Monday, May 3 2010
It was the first week of May 2010. A warm May, from memory. My head was buried in uni assignments and a part time job, with my 18th birthday looming just a few weeks away.
In an attempt to make some kind of headway with those assignments, I decided to skip uni for a few days. I was never the kind of person who could smash out a 2,000 word paper the night before it was due. There were at least three or four separate papers I had to write, each in need of ten credible journal references. This meant hours and hours of reading through painfully long and boring PDF documents. I needed all the time I could give myself, because I knew I would be working later in the week.
Being left to my own devices in an empty house was a recipe for procrastination. Over the course of three days there were many Facebook sessions, browsing breaks, and heading to the kitchen for a drink. In fact, the latter seemed to be happening more often than I was normally inclined. A glass of soft drink was over no sooner than I had poured the glass. Even plain water, which I found unpalatable, was tempting.
Try as I might, I just couldn’t seem to find the energy to focus on those papers I had to write. I felt rather tired and lousy. Rightfully so, given I had just wasted away three whole days doing next to nothing.
Thursday, May 6 2010
I really didn’t want to get out of bed. My mouth was ever so dry, and I felt really lethargic. Feeling the shame of a very unproductive three days, I forced myself up out of bed. Thinking I had to snap out of my rut, I prepared a super healthy lunch to take to work. A salad sandwich, Ski yoghurt and carrot sticks.
The energy to remain standing on my own two feet at work that day was lacking. I might have lasted half an hour, at best, before I gave in and went home.
I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to drive myself home. Although tempted to call Mum and Dad, I knew they were out and didn’t want to interrupt their errand. It took every last ounce of my energy to drive myself back home. No sooner than I had walked through the door, I collapsed onto the couch and buried myself under the comfort of a blanket.
When my parents arrived home, I told them that I wanted to go see a doctor. Mum relayed to me that the earliest available appointment to see our family doctor was Saturday, and I knew I simply couldn’t wait until then.
We visited a medical centre later that morning. After explaining my symptoms of exhaustion and excessive thirst, the doctor sent me home requesting bed rest and hot fluids for three days.
I spent the next three days in bed, which speaks volumes for me. Never in my life had I stayed in bed when I was unwell. Sick days were often spent eating Mum’s chicken noodle soup, reading a book or watching the midday movie surrounded by tissues.
My mouth was now stripped of all of it’s saliva. I was struggling to find any food even remotely appealing, much to Mum’s distress (eat something!). I questioned my diet and lack of interest in physical activity, truly under the belief that these symptoms were of my own doing.
Sunday, May 9 2010
It was very early on a Sunday morning. Mothers Day, to be exact. I was restless, and had gravitated from my now uncomfortable bed to the living room couch. Ice cold, refreshing drinks were now a craving. These cravings were becoming insatiable, and more frequent. I was struggling to pass the mere minutes in between refreshing glasses of ice cold Orange Juice on the rocks.
In the kitchen, I was frantically trying to get ice cubes out of the tray and into the Snow Cone machine. I was onto my third or fourth orange juice granita when my rumblings in the kitchen got Mum out of bed.
“What are you doing? The doctor told you to have hot drinks!”
My heart rate was becoming more rapid by the minute, and I was going to the toilet at least once every hour. A bout of nausea finally made me feel slightly better, and got me settled that night.
When I woke up a few hours later, I was panting. My heart rate was extremely rapid and I felt breathless. I was still extremely thirsty and exhausted, and going to the toilet every hour. I told Mum and Dad how I felt, just waiting for them to suggest what I was thinking.
No sooner than Dad had started talking about going to a doctor, I shot it down. I knew that it would be pointless, and that I couldn’t hold out for that long. My mind was made up. I had to go to hospital.
The car ride was a blur. I was panting the whole time, eagerly staring out the window the way Scruffy does on the way to the park. I had no idea what was wrong with me, or if I would ever have my salivary glands restored. Honestly, then and there, I wasn’t even sure that I would survive this.
Soon enough, I would learn that my pancreas had stopped producing insulin, the hormone that regulates blood sugar levels, through no fault of my own. I would become dependent on insulin injections and frequent blood glucose monitoring with finger sticks for the rest of my life.
I was diagnosed with a condition called type 1 diabetes, the minute I walked through the emergency room door.
It’s National Diabetes Week here in Australia, and the reality is that many individuals and healthcare professionals aren’t aware of the symptoms of type 1 diabetes. Case in point. Had these symptoms been properly diagnosed when I first visited the doctor, my hospital admission may well have been avoided. I’m sharing this story today, with the hope that it might stop another person from going through the same ordeal as me.