Although I was only in seventh-grade, I enjoyed the break from routine: no more soccer practices, golf lessons, or summer homework. The room was small, and the light was shining in through the window. Pictures of smiling faces, rainbows and families holding hands were positioned over me. The ceiling was made of tiles, colored by kids that had stayed in this room before me. Sitting in that hospital bed, I determined there was no way I was going to paint one of those. That stuff is for kids, I thought to myself.

The doctor came into the room, followed by others with clipboards and notepads.


"Hey there…Patrick." He had to look down at his notes to see what my name was. "These are some interns. Can they stay in here briefly with me?"


"Sure", I said meekly. What the hell did I care? As long as they didn't try to examine any part of my "anatomy,” I was fine with it.


"You're very lucky, Mr. Donahue. This is the earliest case of diabetes I've ever seen. No symptoms whatsoever. You're going to be just fine, okay?"
The doctor and company then left the room with my parents, so I went back to staring at the paintings. Did I really care that I was special? That I had "no symptoms whatsoever"? No. All I wanted was to be normal.
"Mom!" I sobbed.
"We'll get through this Patrick. It’ll be alright."
My parents, (mom), were hugging me and slobbering me with kisses, but they didn’t know, and they never will. I wasn’t crying because I was afraid of getting diabetes, but because I didn’t want our house trashed with test strips. I have a friend who is a type 1 diabetic, and before my diagnosis, he told me there were always loose test strips in his house. I don’t know if I was trying to compensate for something, or if it was just my minor, self-diagnosed OCD problem, but it was one of the worst feelings I have ever had to face.
When it was time for dinner, the nurse gave me a menu. My eyes immediately went to the pizza. I love pizza more than any other food in the world, including candy or ice cream. I especially love the New York style pizza: the thin-crusted kind that you can easily fold in half in one hand, and finish in four bites. The pizza at the hospital was probably not going to be what I was imagining, but I didn't care. I needed something positive to lift me up at that moment.


"I want that!" I said, pointing right at the "12-inch Cheese Pizza" written on the menu.

Just then, I noticed the little pizza was 101 carbs. My nutritionist taught me that a typical meal should be between 70-90 carbs. My mom tried to comfort me. "I think you can have it now, because they are monitoring you, but we’ll have to be much more careful next time we go for pizza".


"Okay" I said, disappointed. The thought of not being able to have cheese pizza was too much to think about.


It took four days to get out of that hospital bed. The first night home was awful. When I went to prick myself in the arm, I couldn't draw any blood. "This sucks" I screamed. I must have stabbed myself fifteen times in the arm before I unwillingly forced myself to prick my finger. It didn't even hurt that much, but the realization that I would have to do this for life started to sink in.


Diabetes has changed my life. There’s no point in trying to deny that. But how, is rather complex. Of course there are the negatives: needles, emotional rollercoaster, higher chances of other diseases… The list goes on. When I’m alone, I still cry from time to time about the fact that I am stuck with this disease forever. Then there are the positives: healthier eating, and a vast new knowledge of responsibility and self-reliance. If there has been one thing that diabetes has taught me, it’s how to grow up quickly. On top of all the schoolwork, student council meetings, sports games, musical theater rehearsals and band concerts, I still manage to keep myself healthy completely on my own. Lastly, there are neutral, unexplainable ways it’s affected me: I save my needles, every last one. I don’t know if I’ll ever use them again for a school project or something, but I just can’t bring myself to throw them out. They’re a part of me, and I accept that.
I still don’t know what to make of the whole thing. All I know is that I have to keep my head up; otherwise I become lost and can’t find my way. I cannot let this disease defeat me, no matter how hard it tries. Honestly, all it is is a minor speed bump in an otherwise pretty decent life.