When I was 11 years old I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. My initial reaction to my newfound diagnosis was to chide myself over the fact that I was unable to escape this diagnosis in the first place. I felt trapped, or as though I had been caught red handed for doing nothing in particular, and prescribed with a punishment more severe than I could have ever imagined.
If only I had stayed home.
If I had never agreed to pay a visit to the doctor, I would have never been diagnosed with diabetes. If I had never been diagnosed with diabetes, I could have continued to live my life free of medication and the constraints that treatment imposed.
When you are 11 years old, this is apparently how the world works.
I learned how to give myself insulin by injecting an orange with a syringe. The nurses told me that the skin of an orange resembled human skin, at least better than the skin of any other fruit. I practiced dosing the orange with insulin for an entire week, until I finally felt as though I had mastered the injection technique.
I was very disappointed to discover that my skin did not feel like orange skin in the slightest.