More than Numbers

Every three months I drive three hours to see my endocrinologist. This November I will have had type one diabetes for eight years. That is approximately 17,520 finger pricks, 14,600 insulin shots, and four emergency trips to the hospital. Each appointment begins the same: a file the size of a textbook is laid on the table. In it are details of my journey over the last eight years. This file is able to say what I cannot about my health. It holds details that I could never remember, but which highlight the successes and failures my body has seen.

Soon after I turned twelve, my body began to change. However these changes weren’t the normal twelve year old changes— I lost twenty pounds in a month, I would wake up five or six times each night to go to the bathroom, and my energy was at an all time low. My mom scheduled a doctor’s appointment for me a Monday morning, figuring I had caught some kind of virus. The night before my appointment, I became ashen and fell asleep at my parent’s bible study during dinner.

Ignoring the appointment made for the morning, my parents took me to our family friend with medical experience, who happens to be a vet. Because of this, the first time I ever checked my blood sugar, it was using a meter meant for animals.  Our friend helped me poke my un-calloused finger with a needle, causing poppy-red blood to bloom from my hand. The meter sucked it in and spit out a reading that proved failure. Typically, meters measure blood sugars in numbers that range from 20-500, with a blood sugar of 100 being normal. However, my blood sugar far exceeded 500 and overwhelmed the meter and the failure of the meter proved the failure of my body.

After realizing the severity of the situation, we rushed to the hospital. I let my mom speak for me— I was struck dumb by shock and confusion. We met a secretary who, after hearing my symptoms, told me all of the things that I would no longer be able to enjoy: birthday cake, swimming, and unplanned activities. I took her word as truth even though all she spewed were misinformed stereotypes.

That night I was transferred to Riley Hospital for Children in Indianapolis which was better equipped to handle my diabetes education. Each morning we walked down a hallway: my parents leading while I followed, guzzling bright-red Crystal Light. We entered a room with a sign on the door, engraved with the words: “Diabetes Education.” This classroom felt alien-like compared to the lobby, which was jam-packed with stuffed animals, a glass elevator, and a wishing well— all cleverly trying to divert eyes away from the the sick children taking residence in the rooms upstairs. This room was a bleak, whitewashed, cell overflowing with the hum of fluorescent lights flickering above us.

Each day went by in a blur. I remember making games out of guessing how many carbs were in certain foods. I remember ordering pizza to my room but having to go down to the cafeteria to eat it because my roommate was fasting in order to lower her blood sugars. And I remember receiving poster upon poster of Nick Jonas, my personal favorite of the popular boy-band, the Jonas Brothers, who had also been recently diagnosed with diabetes.

However, these are not the details my file contains. My file contains numbers that aim to describe my last eight years as a diabetic: heights, weights, blood pressures, blood sugars, A1C's, thyroid tests... all of which were primarily written by my endocrinologist, Dr. Sanchez. When Dr. Sanchez sits down for an appointment with me, and lays down my file as the ceremonial start, these are not the things he defines me as.

Each appointment Dr. Sanchez helps me feel like a person. He asks me about swimming, my studies, or my family. When I told him I was accepted to Notre Dame his eyes lit up as big as any of my family members and he beamed with excitement. Each appointment starts with the laying down of my file and ends with Dr. Sanchez grabbing it as he says goodbye, but the moments in between are the moments that tell what my file cannot. They tell of a strong relationship with my doctor of eight years which could never be described in numbers.

Maggie Walters is sophomore biology major and poverty studies minor. After graduation she plans to attend medical school and eventually become involved in health care policy.