Four Leaf Clover

St. Patrick's Day

Some of my memories related to the days of my diagnosis are fuzzy, because I was only seven years old at the time. That's right. Seven.
For all of those who make diabetic jokes or go around saying that diabetes is just for fat people... I wish you could've been there that day. I wish you could've looked scrawny little seven-year old me in the eye and said, "Hon, you just eat too much sugar. Now you have to give yourself shots. You could've prevented this."

I'd been at the doctor's office for a regular check-up, and my test results hadn't come back quite right. I remember sitting up on the examination table as my mom and my doctor both stared at me in concern. I was confused. Generally, I felt fine. Sure, I'd been drinking a lot of water lately, and going to the bathroom constantly, and eating huge bowls of cereal at night for a snack. But I was only in second grade, and I just thought all of it was normal, I guess.

I did go to school on St. Patrick's Day. We had a fun little party and our teacher gave all of us lucky green coins with four leaf clovers on them. Then the "leprechauns" visited our school, giving us chocolate and leaving little green footprints in the hallways. I'm not Irish, so my family had never really celebrated St. Patrick's Day. I thought the idea of leprechauns and lucky coins was the coolest thing in the world.

I came home that day, eager to show off my lucky coin to my parents and younger sister. My mom made corn beef and cabbage for dinner, and then broke the news to me that we needed to go to the hospital. They thought that I had diabetes. I was very little, and I had no idea what that word meant. I ate my corn beef and cabbage, barely able to swallow, my throat thick with fear and confusion. That was the last meal that I ever ate without having to inject insulin. My Last Supper, if you will.

The car ride there was quiet. It was late at night, and it was dark. My parents were upset, and I just couldn't understand why. I wondered if it was something I did. I came close to crying a few times, but I never did.
My grandma stayed with my little sister, who was only three at that time and couldn't handle a long night at a hospital. I arrived and was given a blue hospital gown to wear. This was my first real visit to the hospital, besides my birth and one time when I was sick as a baby.
I thought the whole experience was kind of exciting. I even got a special gown to wear, and my own room with a TV! It was fun at first.
Then I had to have an IV put in. I've recently learned that most people have never had an IV injected. I was shocked to hear this, but I'm glad. It's a horrible experience, and I hope you, reader, never have to go through it. Unless you're a fellow diabetic. In which case, I'm sure you've been there and done that.
The IV was horrible. I screamed and cried through the whole process. For those who don't know, they essentially stick a huge needle in your vein, and usually draw blood too. After that experience, I've been scarred. I have a very hard time handling IVs, and still cry whenever I need to have one inserted.
So here I am, seven years old, lying in a hospital bed. Huge needle stuck in the vein of my left arm, and a bag dripping fluid attached to a pole that I would have to wheel around with me everywhere I went.
I brought the lucky green coin to the hospital with me. It sat on the dresser during my whole hospital visit, and I would often reach out and finger it. It was more like an unlucky coin, really. But I think the thought of a magic coin gave me strength.