Diagnosis

Memories of Nurse Pina from Hospital

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I woke up in hospital. It was the morning of Monday, the tenth of May 2010. The day after I was diagnosed. The curtains were still drawn, but the room was glowing from the sunshine that was seeping in through the edges. I could hear the sound of morning rumblings coming from the open door to the left of my bed. The rumblings of moving breakfast carts, chatting nurses and ringing phones. Looking to my right, there must have been at least four, maybe six other beds in here.

The past day had been a complete blur. I remembered puffing and panting when I woke up yesterday morning. I remembered going to hospital. I remembered being told I had diabetes, and my heart sinking of guilt and self regret. And I remember Mum and Dad saying goodnight when the day was finally over. Those momentary lapses aside, I had spend the better part of yesterday asleep.

There were a lot of voices and discussions going on in the background yesterday, none of which I really had the energy to pay attention to. There were a lot of doctors and nurses that buzzed around throughout the day, and I think Mum and Dad did a lot of the talking for me. But this morning, I was feeling much better. My exhaustion was gone. My saliva and appetite was back. And I finally had the energy to get up and speak for myself. And Pina was the first person in that hospital that I could actually talk to.

Pina was so friendly as she came over and introduced herself. She thought I looked familiar, and we eventually began talking about where we might know each other from. As it turned out, we were both from Italian families. We both went to the same high school. We even lived in the same suburb. I used to love staring at lightposts, powerpoles and street signs as a kid, and she lived on a street that I could forever remember passing in the car. One of my favourite parks as a child also happened to be right behind Pina’s street.

The morning wore on, and there was some debate between Pina and her colleague over who would go to morning tea first. “You go first.” “No, you go first.” “I really don’t mind waiting, you go first.” You get the gist. By lunchtime, I was ready to be moved out of the high care ward. Pina followed me as I was wheeled to my new room. She kindly updated the nurse in my new ward, before saying goodbye. I thanked her for all her help, and she told me I was welcome to come back if I needed anything else during my stay. And that was the last time I saw her.

Would Pina be like this in front of every patient? I’d like to think so. Was I getting special treatment? Perhaps. I think in my case, it was just a refreshing change for Pina to have a young patient in that ward who made such a quick recovery. And for me, it was nice to meet a health care professional with such enthusiasm and dedication for her job, that I still remember to this very day.

My Dad on the Day of My Diagnosis

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Where would I be without my Dad? He was always my protection growing up. When I was four, he would sit beside my bed every night because I was scared of the dark. When I woke up sick in the middle of the night, I would run across the hallway calling out for him. And when I’m miserable and talking negatively about anything, he’ll be the first to tell me to stop talking rubbish.

Dad was the one who drove me to hospital on the day of my diagnosis five years ago. I was sitting in the car fazed, panting, nauseated and thirsty. My pulse was beating ever so rapidly, and I had no idea what was happening to me. I was sitting there, next to him, with no honest idea whether I would survive the car trip there. But I knew that I could rely on him to get me there, and get me through it.

Dad was there by my side as I was helped onto a bed in the emergency room, and almost certainly diagnosed with diabetes the minute I lay down. My fazed self had heard the word diabetes, and I was devastated. I thought that it was my fault. I was terrified at the thought of needles. And I can even remember asking Dad if they were sure that it was diabetes and not something else. Reassuringly, Dad told me that the doctors had said that I would still be able to live a normal and healthy life.

One thing me and my Dad share in common is that we have both been through life threatening conditions during our lives (admittedly his was bigger than mine). And today, we are both dependent on prescription medication for the rest of our lives because of it (mine being insulin, his being something completely different). We usually go to the Chemist to get our prescriptions filled together. While we are waiting, he usually points to things like jellybeans to remind me if I need any. It’s one of those annoying Dad things that he loves to do, even at home, but I appreciate it anyway.

Being diagnosed at the age of 17, my Dad hasn’t had the diabetes duties that many other d-parents face. But he did perform a big diabetes duty that day in helping to save my life. He got me through that day. And I am still here today, writing this story because of it.

Happy belated Fathers Day, Dad. And Happy Fathers Day to all the other Dads and d-parents in Australia for yesterday.

Hospital Memories

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On what would be my last morning in hospital after being diagnosed with diabetes, part of me couldn’t wait to go home. Even though I’d only been there for 5 days, it felt like an ordeal that had dragged on for weeks and weeks. The problem was, I could barely remember what home actually felt like. I could barely remember my life beyond those long corridors buzzing with doctors, nurses, visitors and patients at all hours of the day. Life beyond the hospital cafeteria, auxiliary shop, vending machines and coffee carts. That a world actually existed beyond that campus filled with traffic, cranes, helicopters and portable fences.

I had forgotten what life was like without having a nurse walking in every hour to check my blood sugar levels. Without having the trolley come past at breakfast, lunch and dinner time to take our orders. Having the doctors come past every morning to do their rounds. Having visitors come to see me every day. Being able to stay in pyjamas all day. Being able to sit in bed at 3pm and read the magazines people had brought me. Sneaking downstairs to explore those long corridors once the nurses disappeared. Being delivered a white-bread ham and cheese sandwich at bedtime, just in case I went hypo through the night. Hearing old Mr. Giglia across from me coughing, groaning and spluttering every 5 minutes. And laughing at some of those difficult patients I could hear from across the hallway!

In the short 5 days that I was there, I had formed a strange attachment to my hospital surroundings that had began to feel somewhat like home. Part of me felt quite comfortable sitting in that hospital bed at 9.30am on that Thursday morning watching Bones. That part of me didn’t quite feel ready to step outside into that cold, cloudy May morning and return to everyday life. Which for me, would be a new life. A life with type 1 diabetes.

When I was told I could go home, I wasn’t excited. I was hesitant. Uncertain. Nervous and scared at the same time. All of those medical ‘elves’ were about to fade into thin air and I would be left to deal with this diabetes thing all on my own. They wouldn’t let me wait for Mum to come, they were ready to force me into a wheelchair and send me to the outpatient lounge. They didn’t even leave me with enough supplies to see the rest of the day out.

As I sat there at the bus stop on that blustery, grey May morning waiting for my ride home, I didn’t know what the future would hold. I only wish I could go and sit next to that innocent, nervous 17 year old boy and tell him that everything was going to be okay.

Happy 5 Years (With Diabetes)

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The first week of May holds a lot of significance for me. It marks five years since the turn of events that led to my diagnosis with type 1 diabetes, and yet I can remember it as though it happened yesterday.

I was 17 and midway through my first semester of uni. I was struggling to find my feet among uni assignments, my new job, and my 18th birthday looming a few weeks away. I had decided to skip uni for a few days to try and make some headway with my assignments. I had about three or four separate papers to write, which meant hours and hours of reading through mindless PDF scholarly journals for references. It was enough to put me to sleep.

And speaking of sleep, I was absolutely exhausted. I could not be bothered in the slightest. After many Facebook sessions, browsing breaks, heading to the kitchen for a drink and then going to the toilet, I had wasted away almost 3 days. And by Wednesday night, I had achieved next to nothing. And for the most part, I just thought I was being a lazy kid procrastinating on his uni assignments.

Enter Thursday morning and I really didn’t want to get out of bed. I felt weak and lethargic, and my mouth felt really dry. I just put it down to my inactivity over the past three days, then forced myself up and prepared a super healthy lunch to take to work. I don’t think I even lasted half an hour at work that day. I didn’t have the energy to stand on my feet that day. I knew something wasn’t right. I told Mum I had to see a doctor ASAP. And I NEVER go to the doctor.

At such short notice, I had to settle for the first doctor I could find. After explaining my symptoms, he told me it was just a virus and ordered bedrest and hot drinks for 3 days. Phew! What a relief it wasn’t anything serious…or so I thought.

I spent the next 3 days in bed, which speaks volumes for me. I NEVER stay in bed when I’m sick, but I had absolutely no energy to do anything else. With a dry mouth stripped of all its saliva, I was struggling to eat anything despite my Mum telling me to “eat something!” (Its an Italian thing!). All I really felt like were cold refreshing drinks. I was constantly craving Orange Juice on the rocks.

By bedtime on Saturday I was restless. My mouth was bone dry. I was on my third or fourth iced orange juice when my rumblings in the kitchen got Mum out of bed. “What are you doing, the doctor told you to have hot drinks!” Mum yelled. My heart rate and pulse were getting more and more rapid, and I was urinating at least once every hour. I spewed and felt slightly better. I don’t know if I would have made it til morning had I not.

By the time I woke on Sunday morning – Mother’s Day no less – I was panting. My heart rate was extremely rapid and I felt breathless. Added to the list of no saliva, extreme thirst, constant urination and lethargy. I told Mum and Dad how I felt. I knew I needed to go to hospital, but was too scared to suggest it. I had so much faith, so much trust in my parents, and I needed to hear them say it first for it to be a real possibility. We talked about going back to the doctor, but I shot it down. There was no point. I knew I couldn’t hold out that long. As soon as the h word was mentioned, I was out the door.

The car ride to the hospital was a blur. I was panting the whole time, counting down the minutes until we got there. What was wrong with me? Was I ever going to get my saliva back? Would I ever be able to eat again? Honestly, then and there, I wasn’t even sure that I would make it to the hospital conscious or even alive.

I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes as soon as I walked through the door. If the hospital emergency staff picked up on my symptoms this quick, why couldn’t Thursday’s doctor? He could have saved me a whole lot of trouble and a whole lot of pain.

But looking back now, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

After the ordeal I had been through, the relief of being able to get back to normal far outweighed coming to terms with diabetes, finger pricks and insulin injections. I don’t know if I would have embraced diabetes as well as I did had I not gone through this.

And I have a story to tell. I have memories that will last me a lifetime. I’m a stronger person because of what I’ve gone through. And, if anything, its made me even more passionate about diabetes awareness.

And the random photo? In July 2012 I climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge with type 1 diabetes. It was one of the best experiences of my life and it goes to show that diabetes hasn’t stopped me from living a normal life.