The nurse gave me a Dixie cup for my urine, and I trudged to the tiny bathroom, entered and flipped the light switch. I was irritable, and my head felt thick and cloudy. The doctor said that I probably had a bladder infection, but I knew it was more serious. The night before, I had paged through a medical handbook. I found these words: "Diabetes mellitus ranks among the leading causes of death . . . Diabetes hits some people so suddenly that the lack of insulin causes an emergency condition. If the victim does not receive immediate treatment, he or she may go into a state of diabetic coma, which can lead to death." The entry went on to describe the way I'd been feeling for about a month.
It struck while I was writing the final essay for my application to Stanford. The topic was simple: how I liked working on my high school yearbook and how I had learned teamwork from playing water polo. But I was having trouble finishing it: I was intensely thirsty and kept getting up for a drink. Then, I'd have to go to the bathroom. Drink more, and urinate again. The only essay left was the "optional," and I wasn't sure what I would say. I couldn't concentrate; I was exhausted.
The doctor's prediction was wrong. I did have diabetes, the disease where your pancreas stops making the hormone insulin. Without insulin, the sugar from food cannot be digested but is absorbed into the blood stream and then just sits there, unable to be converted into energy.
The doctor told me I would have to give myself three to four injections of insulin a day and prick my finger to test my blood every few hours.
But first, I had to spend a week in the hospital. As I lay on the bed, all I could think about was how incredible it was that, at 18, I had developed a chronic, incurable illness. Me, a child who had always been healthy and successful, always the one helping other people with their problems.
But I vowed to face my disease and try to live with it. The doctor instructed me not to eat sugary food and to test my blood often. I imagined doing without ice cream and juice, having to bring out a weird-looking machine when I was shaky from low blood sugar. Suddenly, I was a victim, and I feared that people would see me only as Carolyn, the diabetic girl.
I went home from the hospital and wrote the last essay for Stanford about my initial experience with diabetes and my fear confronting my own mortality. I sent off the application, knowing I had written more honestly than ever before about what life meant to me.
So when I arrived here that fall, I thought I knew what to expect. People staring, categorizing me. I thought I would limit myself as well, not participating in opportunities if I thought they might endanger me.
I was wrong. Yes, there are inconveniences: I carry my backpack with me everywhere, stocked with insulin, blood-testing supplies and sugar in case my blood sugar level sinks too low. I don't spend a lot of time at the new Jamba Juice in Tresidder Union; drinking a smoothie without taking huge amounts of insulin sends my blood sugar through the roof. I have to explain to my roommate each year how to give me a shot of the hormone glucagon, which helps raise my sugar level quickly if I faint.
But, perhaps in reaction to my diabetes, I have challenged myself to do more than I ever thought I could. I spent a fall quarter in Russia, where shoddy health care could have dissuaded me from going. I study late into the night and push myself with work at the Daily, sometimes throwing off my sleep schedule. I go river rafting and snow skiing. And as long as I test my blood regularly, I am fine.
My friends do not stereotype me. I inject myself and test my blood without hiding. If I am careful, I don't get sick or feel any worse than a nondiabetic.
The challenge of being a regular student while managing a chronic disease has made me value my life more than ever. Far from closing doors, diabetes has made me try everything.
Carolyn Sleeth, incoming editor of the Stanford Daily, is majoring in history.
