Different Doesn't Mean Broken

Chapter 1 - Alex

"You'll have fun."

My mom was trying to convince me I would like this stupid camp. My new doctor had told her about it back in April.

God, April sucked. And it never got any better. It still hasn't.

Let me back up. I'll introduce myself and explain why I'm even here.

My name is Alexandra Boynton, but I'd rather be called Alex. I'm fifteen years old, not terribly tall. I'm 5' 4". I like baseball and hockey and am definitely not a "girly girl." I've always been kind of 'rough and tumble' and would play catch or go skating with my dad until he left my mom and me when I was 12. He said he'd fallen out of love with my mom and was now going to move in with his thirty-year-old secretary, Jules.

He said he'd come back and visit. Or that I could visit him over the summer.

But I haven't heard from him in three years. So, so much for that. I don't care. He doesn't. Why should I?

So that's me in a tiny nutshell. As for why I'm in this stupid car, well, last winter, I kept getting sick. Or, instead, I got sick and just never seemed to get any better. I was feeling weak and tired, I was always thirsty, and because I was constantly drinking water, I was also going to the bathroom—a lot.

When it got to the point that I spent more time sleeping and out of school than I did at school and awake, Mom dragged me to the doctor, who examined the heavy luggage under my eyes, how exhausted I looked, and how skinny I was getting, even though Mom said my eating habits hadn't changed much.

The doctor took some blood, made me pee in a cup, did all the usual exams and then told my mom he wanted to try something. He came back into the room with this little device, poked my finger and put a tiny drop of blood on this little strip in the machine.

When it beeped, he looked at the number, went pale and told my mom to take me straight to the hospital. He told her not to go home but to go straight to the emergency room and that he was calling ahead.

At that point, I was just too tired to care and wanted to go home so I could go to sleep. But Mom insisted on going to the hospital despite my protests.

It turned out it was a good thing my mom didn't listen to me. I guess. Because according to the nurses, a couple of days later, I was practically in a coma by the time we got to the hospital. I barely even remember getting there. I just put my head on the window and closed my eyes against the fatigue.

I woke up in a hospital room. I'd lost the entire day. And night.

That day, the doctor came to talk with me. He told me I have diabetes. My blood sugar was so high on admission that I'd already gone unconscious, and had they not been able to get it down quickly, I would have possibly lapsed into a coma, and I could have died.

Would that have been so bad? Because now I have to measure and weigh every bite of food I *might* want to eat. I have to give myself a shot every time I want a snack or a meal. I have to eat when I have to eat. I can't just grab a snack like I used to. I have to check that I have enough insulin so that my sugar isn't too high to eat. It's all so stupid. Stupid pancreas deciding just to give up.

"I thought only fat people get diabetes," I said to the diabetic nurse who was supposed to be helping me learn how to treat the diabetes. "Or people who eat a lot of food with sugar."

"Well, while diet can affect a person's risk factors, that's more for Type 2 patients who can't use the insulin their body produces effectively. And weight is not a determining factor.

As for people like you, you are Type One. Your pancreas no longer produces insulin, which makes your body unable to process carbohydrates and sugars. Carbohydrates break down into sugar during digestion, which your body can no longer handle. This is why you have to take insulin before every meal or snack and why you have to eat on a schedule; you have to keep your blood sugars as stable as possible.