Why is the apple juice all gone?

Let me preface this with the fact that I am not looking for sympathy, this is not a sob story.  It's my account of growing up and through Type 1 diabetes and some of the adventures along the way.  Should you feel inclined, you can donate to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation or American Diabetes Association.

Sometime in my childhood, I went from this:

to this:

I'm the blonde one feeding my face in the right hand corner.

In the summer of 1995, I went from the chubby little thing you see above to dropping 25 lbs with an appetite for apple juice that could fill a kiddie pool. I looked something like this:

Mind you, I'm 22 in this picture and it will get used again in a later blog to explain the lack of weight, but I was, to say the least, a stick.  My mother assumed it was puberty, but something about my discomfort in everyday life and the fact that I'd sneak into her bathroom 2 or 3 times in the middle of the night and drink water from the faucet just didn't seem right.  Once school started, things got worse.  

There was one week in September I will not soon forget, I went to school on a Monday, could not control my emotions to the point that I cried myself into a nurse's pass through homeroom and wound up going home, then staying there the next day.  Same thing happened Wednesday, I stayed home Thursday.  When the scene replayed itself on Friday, the nurse suggested I see my doctor.

I don't remember what made Dr. Gross (yes, my pediatrician's name was Dr. Gross) think "this sounds like diabetes!", but most of my behaviors over the past month or so must've been mentioned, because he took a blood test, mind you, without me having to drink the disgusting liquid and came back with positive results.  I vividly remember asking the doctor if I could have "one last donut", knowing there was a Dunkin Donuts on the way home and thinking this was the death sentence of my childhood and affinity for sugar, he obliged, but requested I go easy on the toppings.  My mother, the kind hearted woman she is, allowed the white frosted with sprinkles donut that had always been my favorite.

At 11, I didn't really understand the gravity of the situation, I don't think most children of Type 1 do until you're thrown into it all with the swarm of doctor's and medical supplies you are put in charge of.

I don't remember my Endocrinologist's name, I just remember I couldn't really understand a word he said, except for one sentence.  At my first appointment with him, he tested my blood sugar, when the reading came back as 565, his response was "She have to go to hospital, right away!"

St Therese Medical Center is where my education began.  I spent a week there and I remember most of the images shown to me so I'd understand just what happened to my body and how important it was for me to take care of everything meticulously.

My favorite was how insulin acted as a doorman to the cells.  It opened the door to the cell to allow glucose in to give you energy.  This isn't the same picture they used for me, but you get the idea:

I don't recall much of the other educational materials, except for one, the pink panther.  I was given a thick book thinking this was to be my diabetes bible and reference guide.  Nothing says serious autoimmune disease like a pink cat.

Next up...what would've kept me from leaving the hospital, diabetic scare tactics and my long, tumultuous relationship with Sweet N Low.