When this moment in time comes to mind, I never quite know where to begin. Every aspect of it blends together and comes crashing down in massive waves of emotion. Even writing this almost two full years later, each and every feeling is still present in my mind. Unfortunately the bad ones are carved in deep.

October 26, 2015. A bright, fall day, warmed by the sun, chilled by the breeze, somewhere lost in between summer and fall. I’d like to say it all began on that day, but the months leading up to it play the main role in this story.

I had just moved away from my hometown, Sully, Iowa, and was now living in Gretna, Nebraska. After finishing the hectic summer by unpacking and moving into our new house, I had been through about two, completely terrifying, months of school. I was busy trying to find my new normal away from everything I had once known.
Have you ever felt terrible for so long you don’t realize how bad it’s gotten? That’s where I was. There was something very wrong but I’d adapted and ignored the signs that something was off. I was so thirsty; I couldn’t quench my thirst whatsoever. The ache of my stomach was so constant, it was like white noise playing in the background of my everyday life.  My head always throbbed, but after a while it was just how I usually felt.
Occupied by school and drinking gallons of water everyday, I paid next to no attention to the issues as they progressively got worse. Each day I drank enough water that I got up over five times a single night to go to the bathroom. I didn’t realize this until looking back, but my eyes had gotten swollen, which is now especially noticeable in my seventh grade school picture.

You may be asking, what do all of the symptoms mean? That’s exactly what my mom was thinking. While I continued on, telling myself everything was fine, my mom knew something was up. She was watching me more closely than I knew, which is a typical mom move, and she picked up on every little thing.

After realizing that it was serious, her instinct was to make some changes and see what would happen. So, she cut sugar and carbs out of my diet for a week. Almost instantly I felt better. The headaches, thirst, and stomach pain vanished and for a short while, I thought I was the old me. We even went to the doctor after school on that Friday, and my mom had them check my blood sugar. It was in the 90s which is completely normal.

That weekend, we went to the local pumpkin patch to have some fun, all of my problems seemingly behind us. I let loose, enjoying a caramel apple and my favorite pop, Mountain Dew. Suddenly, I was overcome with thirst. Every gland in my mouth was screaming, begging for a drink. I remember running to a nearby drinking fountain and gulping down water until my mom asked me how much longer we had to stand there. Then, moments later, I had to go to the bathroom- bad. I told my mom and we went. Then, the thirst was back. So, I gulped down more water and we continued on.

Moments later, I had to go to the bathroom- again. My mom, convinced I was kidding or something, told me we had just went so I could hold it. We walked longer and then I distinctly remember telling her, “Mom, I’m completely serious, I’m going to pee my pants.” She took me back to the bathroom and it took all I had not to get another drink.

The rest of our pumpkin patch experience didn’t last long considering I was in constant need of either a bathroom or a drink. On the way home, I tried to distract myself from the thirst. It felt like someone had made my swallow a bunch of sand. My throat burned with each grain and every time I swallowed it felt like there was a big pill, wedged in my throat. Once we arrived home, I grabbed a water bottle and went downstairs.

I decided the only way I could cool down was a cold shower. The thirst still remaining, I got in the shower with my water bottle. It was one of the longest, coldest showers I’ve ever taken. I let the spouts of water wash over my aching body and I finally broke. I cried for the simple confusion and unknown of what was wrong with me? Sometimes I feel like I have that question tattooed into my brain and whenever my worst symptoms come back, it plays over and over like a broken record.

At this point, I had lived around twelve years on the earth, that’s over 4,381 days and this day was one out of all those days, that I will never forget. The next day is the one that comes to mind when people say life changing. It seems to go on in infamy for being the worst day of my entire life.

The sun seemed to peek in my window in little bursts of warm, orange light that morning. The dew on the grass outside my window looked like diamonds, sparkling under the light of the morning sun, creating a beautiful mosaic of contrast against the deep green grass. The birds sang songs in the trees and the wind whispered in reply. Everything seemed peaceful on that October morning, just another day.

My heart was beating so loud I could feel the blood rushing through every vein in my body. It sounded like a beating drum, a constant metronome in my ears blaring the message that something is wrong. Falling out of bed and crawling to the bathroom, I felt as though I’ve just run a marathon. The life has been drained from my body, my legs are limp, and I can’t seem to breathe. Each breath is more of a gasp for air than a breath in, and a breath out.

Then, a wave of nausea hits me like a train. I lunge for the toilet, fighting the urge to be sick. I somehow got a hold of myself and then the thirst was worse than it had ever been. With no water bottle or cup of water around, I turned on the faucet. I drank straight from the tap, not concerned with germs or unfiltered water. I drank until I felt the liquid sloshing around in my stomach. I willed myself to crawl upstairs and ask my mom for medicine. I don’t know what she said to me or what she was thinking, but I knew she had figured something out because she called the doctor again.

I passed out on the couch after taking ibuprofen and fell into a restless, sweaty sleep. Suddenly, I awoke to my mom gently shaking me. Trying to pry open my eyes in the brightness, I squinted heavily.

“Dylann, we’re bringing you to the doctor, you can go in your pajamas. Just grab some shoes.” She was talking to me but it felt like she was saying everything in a different language.

I heard myself reply, “What?” But it sounded like I was listening to someone else and not living as myself. She repeated herself and I stumbled downstairs to get ready. Despite how awful I was feeling, I put on some makeup and put my hair in a bun. Still in my pajamas, I headed out the door. Once we got to the doctor, we had the dreaded time spent in the waiting room. Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood played in the background while my head throbbed and my little sister played with random doctor’s office toys on the ground.

Then, the nurse came out and said, “Dylann? We’ll see you now, come on back.” I followed my mom in a trance and we went back with the nurse. She had me slip off my shoes to get my height and weight. Little did I know that I’d lost eight pounds in a weekend. Me, oblivious to everything, went to an examination room not thinking of even the worst possibilities which is very unlike me.

I sat down on the crinkly paper on the patient table and shifted my weight nervously from side to side. Every crinkle and crunch of the stupid paper went along with the thuds of my heartbeat. I sat, not even anxiously, too consumed by my pain to think or analyze. I didn’t know, but this was the dividing line of how I would see my life. Before and after my life would change forever. 

The doctor walked in and said, “So Dylann, we’re still having some trouble I hear.” Absentmindedly I nodded, only by instinct. “Let’s check your blood glucose again, just to make sure everything is squared away.”

My heart sped up as he came closer with the lancet. He grabbed one of my fingers and with a click, the needle pierced the surface of the skin and released a small drop of blood. He collected it and brought it to the lab to test it. Once he came back, it looked like he was going to tell me someone died. The way his shoulders pointed downward, and how he nervously messed with his hands, I could tell I was about to get some bad news whether I was ready or not.

“Well Dylann, I don’t know how to tell you this, but your blood sugar is 437. I’m thinking you’re positive for type one diabetes. We’ll want you to go to the hospital immediately and get checked in for further tests.”

I looked out the window and saw the sun shining through the trees. With the world continuing to go on despite my world crashing down, I couldn’t help but feel jealous of everyone living a normal day. In my mind, I had no idea what to think. For one thing, I knew my life would never be the same. What I wanted to know, was why me? What had I done to deserve this? 

The tears flowed and so did my mascara. The nurse gave me a tissue but what good is that going to do other than smear the tears and makeup around more? With tears and black streaks smeared down my face, I left the doctor’s office looking like something from a horror movie. I would have never stopped crying if knew what my life would become. I’m almost glad I didn’t know anything because right then and there I would have given up and I wouldn’t be writing this today.

We stopped home to get a makeup wipe for my running mascara and for water of course. I drank it all before we’d gotten in the car and then we began the drive to the hospital. My mom googled directions because we’d never been to the hospital since the move. It took a while to figure out where we were going but it worked out that my mom would have time to call my dad. He met us there and we went inside.

I hate hospitals, almost everything about them in fact. Sure, helping people is great but so many terrible things happen too. I began telling myself that this was quite possibly the worst thing that could ever happen to me. Then, after rounding a corner, I saw a little girl, no older than four or five wearing a little pink hat to cover her bare head. She was smiling, and she waved to me. I waved back and my heart sank. Not often did I consider the horrible things people have to live with everyday.

Once we got the endocrinologist wing, they checked me in and ushered me back to a conference room at the end of a hall. There were nurses milling about, all doing their own thing while I sat with my parents and youngest sister in this completely foreign place. Although there was a lot of bad relating to this entire situation, the room had a great view. I could see all of downtown Omaha from way above. I looked out the window and found myself asking in my head, Why did this happen to me? There’s thousands and thousands of people in this city alone, and out of all of them I’m the one to get stuck with this?

My downward spiral of thoughts was interrupted by a short, badly dressed woman with an annoyingly high pitched voice. “You must be Dylann! So nice to meet you, even under these circumstances…” She coughed nervously and glanced from me to my parents and back to me again. “So, I’m Mary and I’m sort of your ‘guide for all of this.’” She gestured to my body and I probably scowled, confused at her comment and why is referred to me.

She placed a large folder, binder, and book on the table in front of me. Then, she sat down and placed both of her hands flat on the table. “Dylann, you have type one diabetes, as do I. Hopefully I can get you through this and tell you about what I know.” Nervously I played with the drawstrings of my sweatpants under the table. Somehow I knew that she wasn’t going to be helpful with getting through the absolute worst day of my life.
“Let’s get started, we’ve got a lot to do. Okay, so this folder contains pretty much all of the medical laws and protocols you’ll want to know. For example, your insulin to carbohydrates ratio and the standard carbohydrates intake at each meal.”

I looked at my mom and she gave me a weak smile, urging me to do my best to push through this. “Now, let’s look at the binder. It has everything you need to know, and I mean everything. Here we go.” As she rambled about the symptoms of low and high blood sugar, I found myself letting my mind wander. It wandered out the room and all the way back to Iowa. Would this have happened if I still lived in Iowa? Would I be dealing with this if we hadn’t moved? I would never get the answer to that question.

Breaking into my thoughts, Mary said, “Now for the fun stuff, time to check your blood sugar.” I don’t know why but I guess I didn’t realize there would be more pokes and pricks involved. She handed me a little bag and inside was a bottle of test strips, a lancet device, and a glucose meter. She instructed me to take out one strip and close the container. They shouldn’t have contact with the air or it could mess with the readings. Then, she told me to put it in the meter, and wait for the blood drop icon to appear on the screen. When that happened, it was time to use the lancet to prick my finger and let the test strip absorb a drop of blood.

While the task seemed simple enough, I was seeing my future, full of this everyday forever. As I looked at the supplies in the little bag, I realized how much I didn’t want any of this. I felt like the room was getting dark. Each corner was being swallowed up in a cloak of black. The window I’d just looked out of wasn’t there anymore. I couldn’t make light of any aspect of the situation.

As I fought back tears and began taking short breaths, I made eye contact with my mom. She looked right through me, and unspokenly I told her I couldn’t do this for the rest of my life. She looked away and I looked down at the little bag again. I started to cry, against every will in my body to get over it so everything would stop hurting so much. If I could accept what my life was becoming, dealing with it wouldn’t feel like dying over and over again.

Mary cleared her throat, and I glanced up. “I’m sorry, I, I don’t think I can do this.” I tried to pull myself together, wiping the tears off my cheeks, tucking loose strands of hair behind my ears, and trying to remember how to breathe.

“I know it seems like a lot, but right now, it’s just one prick.” She grabbed my hand, and selected one finger. I held my breath. I could feel my heart pumping blood through my body. It was hard to think that there was sugar traveling through my veins and somehow, my body had done something wrong.

She clicked the lancet, and my finger was struck with a microscopic needle, but it still hurt like a knife through my heart. I wasn’t feeling the needle, I was feeling every prick I would have to endure in my whole life. I finally started breathing again, drawing in a sharp breath and pulling my hand towards me. I rolled my finger up in the end of my t-shirt and held it tightly until it stopped throbbing.

“Alright Dylann! So your blood sugar is still really high, in the 400s in fact, so we need to give insulin.” Just as soon as I’d gathered my courage, the blood drained from my face. I wasn’t faced with just one prick, I was now faced with giving my first shot which determined if my life continued or ended in this hospital.

Searching for any way out, I asked, “So, I have to give a shot? There’s no other way?” I put both of my hands on my head and smoothed back my hair. I tried so hard to keep from crying, but this wasn’t even a battle to try to fight. The tears started streaming down my face and every last bit of hope was gone. This was my life and I didn’t want to live it anymore if this is what it included.

“This isn’t what is supposed to happen, I can’t do this everyday forever. I can’t live like this.” I sobbed and looked at my mom for the answers. She didn’t have any and neither did my dad. They were as close to having a complete meltdown as I was.

As Mary explained how I would give insulin for every meal I ate, I thought of how much this would change everything. Looking into the future, on my wedding day, I couldn’t just eat my wedding cake, I would have to give insulin first. Never again could I grab a bite of pizza without solving math equations that determined whether I lived or died.

Mary taught us how to use the ratio for giving insulin for carbs and for correcting blood glucose over 150. Then, she began showing us how to draw up insulin in a syringe from a vial. The vials have always interested me. In a little, glass bottle, filled with a small amount of liquid, it contained what would make or break my life. I was now dependent on this liquid called insulin.

After more tears and trying to comprehend that this was life now, Mary showed my parents how to give me a shot of insulin in my arm. I’ll never forget that moment. As she pinched the skin on my left bicep, and pressed the little needle through my skin, the burn of the first shot was the most painful one I’ve felt. It felt like fire going into my veins and burning the insides of my arm.

I stared out that city view window, and realized how far away I was. I was far away from Sully, I was far away from my friends and family, and I was far away from the life of comfort I never knew I had. At this point, I knew things were bad for me, but I didn’t know that while my body had been diagnosed, my mind would need a diagnosis as well.

Fast forward to November 2017, a year later, I was hating my life more than ever. I didn’t feel like my life in Gretna had clicked. I was so sad, I didn’t want to get out of bed. While I tried to play it off as having a bad mood, every day was cloudy. Every day there was crying and asking myself why I was alive. Staying in bed forever seemed like a better alternative than living the life I hated. I missed over fifteen school days of eighth grade, and I couldn’t bare the thought of going to high school in Nebraska. I began trying to consider my options. I could attend high school in Gretna, not enjoy my time, and have a bad high school experience. I could be homeschooled and not have any high school experience whatsoever. Or, I could follow my heart back to Sully, where I needed to be most. 

I told my mom how I felt and she agreed that I wasn’t thriving in Gretna. Maybe if I wasn’t diagnosed, I would have liked it there better, but things didn’t turn out that way. She and my dad talked it over for a month and when December rolled around, we knew it was time to move back.

We looked at a house over Christmas break and we knew it was the one. After making arrangements as the new year began, the beginning of 2017 was full of packing and selling our house. Once that was checked off the list, we moved just as summer began.

I was so happy to be back where I belonged, with my friends and the people I loved. By moving away from Gretna, I felt as though I was leaving behind all of my problems. It didn’t take me long to realize that wasn’t the case. Moving didn’t change the fact that I had fallen into a dark place and was often anxious about talking to people or leaving the house.

My mom told me she wanted me to go to therapy. I was skeptical to say the least. I haven’t told anyone about going, but with everything I’ve been through, I’ve realized hiding the things you struggle with, won’t fix them, it often makes them worse.

I’d like to think this is the end of the story, but I know it isn’t. There will always be more problems I’ll need to overcome. My blood sugar won’t be perfect everyday. There will be days when I ask myself, why me? I will face many obstacles with my health that don’t have rhyme or reason. There will be nights when I cry because I don’t know what to do anymore.

With so many variables I’ve had to make a physical and mental choice. Physically, sugar is not my friend, I would rather cut it out completely than live my life in pain. Mentally, I have to be honest, with myself and others about what I’m going through to get better. This isn’t a happily ever after or ‘the end’ scenario, but if you’re going to take away anything, take away this: Your life is never set in stone. Everything could change in the blink of an eye. Don’t waste your time doing things that cause you pain physically or mentally. Mostly, be honest and don’t sugar coat it.