45 Years and Counting
1980. My plans for a fantastic summer vacation were derailed after my annual physical when I ended up sharing a hospital room with an 11-month-old baby in a full-body cast. Instead of kicking off my attempt to win the library’s summer reading program by reading the most books, I spent a week in the hospital learning about Type 1 diabetes.
During the following week, my parents and I learned the life-threatening aspects of the illness and the crucial need to manage food and sugar levels for my health. I collected urine in a cup twice daily, so I could dip a test strip into it. The results appeared after a minute, and I discovered the approximate range of my sugar levels.
A nurse taught me to administer insulin shots, first on an orange, and then on my thigh, stomach, and arms. A rail-thin dietician gave me a booklet that listed the equivalent of one fruit in the diabetic meal exchange as an apple, half of a banana, or ten grapes. She wrote a food plan describing what to eat each day—one protein, one starch, and one fat for breakfast. She wrote a similar prescription for lunch and dinner. It didn’t matter if I was hungry or what I craved—I was simply to follow the plan.
A good day had no “reactions” or low blood sugars—and no high ones. Foods became “good” or “bad,” which led me to believe I was a good or bad person based on whether I ate them.
Before being diagnosed, I was a content little girl who enjoyed reading, arranging my book collection and toys, and playing teacher with my teddy bears. But after the diagnosis, the lightness of childhood evaporated.
LEARNING TO LIVE WITH TYPE 1
My life became very black and white, and whatever seeds of perfection I had before that summer blossomed with the threat of dying from this disease. I believed I had to keep all my numbers within the prescribed range 100% of the time, and if I didn’t, I was a bad diabetic, which also meant I was a bad person.
For the next 20 years, I struggled to be a “perfect” diabetic. I rigorously tracked every detail, from carbs and protein to sleep, steps, heart rate, and beyond. To manage my condition, I would rotate my insulin pump sites, pre-bolus my meals, and eliminate certain food groups based on the latest trend. After months of micromanaging my life, I’d get discouraged and rip up the detailed charts, frustrated with the lack of discernible patterns and results.
Then something would trigger a pang of guilt—an increase on the scale, a tough day, or a visit to the doctor—and I’d gather my motivation to start the obsessive tracking again, my version of diabetic boot camp.
During that time, no one ever talked to me about the physical and mental health consequences of the pressure I put on myself. No one shared about the variability of the disease—how it was more of an art than a science. So, I thought it was just me, that something was wrong with me.
A few years ago, I reached a breaking point and decided I wouldn’t be a slave to this disease any longer. I acknowledged that my average blood sugar might rise, but it was worth the risk for my own peace of mind. I quit keeping track of everything, listened to my body, and got in touch with my feelings about food.
I also put away the scale that held so much control over my self-esteem. Instead of looking to this inanimate object as a measure of my worth, I started journaling about my gratitude for the body that had served me through the years—giving birth to a healthy baby boy, running a half-marathon, traveling, work accomplishments, and more.
THE GIFT OF GOOD ENOUGH
After years of struggling to meet what I thought was the standard of diabetes perfection, I gave myself permission to be good enough. The most significant gift was that my doctor was in total agreement when I finally said those words to her. She could see that the time, energy, and stress of managing diabetes added to my challenging life with a special needs daughter. She recognized I was tougher on myself than on anyone else. By also embracing the new mindset, she validated my decision to change, and I was astonished to learn that my average blood sugar level remained the same.
There were other benefits as well. By not obsessing over numbers like my total daily units of insulin or carbs in my apple, I gained immeasurable mental and emotional capacity. I felt like I had time to thrive—writing a book, taking walks at the beach for pure enjoyment instead of as a weight and diabetes management tool, and doing watercolor painting, just for fun. And the peace I’ve experienced in becoming the best version of myself is extraordinarily fulfilling.
This leads me back to the health scare.
A few years ago, I had a few severe low blood sugars overnight that left me debating whether to wake up my husband or call the paramedics. While lying there, impaired and sweating profusely, I ate all the glucose supplies on my nightstand and prayed to God to awaken my husband or raise my blood sugar. I was in no condition to evaluate these options, but thankfully, my desire not to be a burden didn’t have an irreversible result.
The first time it occurred, I thought it was just a fluke caused by consuming holiday foods that were not part of my usual diet.
But then it kept happening, and I couldn’t find any reason for these sticky lows—or blood sugars that were hard to raise. I was afraid to go to sleep, wondering if I would wake up. I discovered that more than 60% of Type 1 diabetics have required medical assistance for low blood sugar, and I’m thankful that this hasn’t been my experience.
This led me to reluctantly accept that I had to ask for help, something I generally try to avoid. In my brain, asking for help is akin to admitting I’m not good enough or intelligent enough to figure it out myself. It’s one of those “perfectionist” narratives that clouds my thinking.
Because of previous experiences without clear solutions, I can give into the fear that there won’t be an answer. But this time, my life depended on it.
ASKING FOR HELP
Although my husband is supportive and willing to help me in any way, it was difficult for me to ask him to prioritize MY health. I felt vulnerable and fragile. I described the situation and provided guidelines on what to look for, when to call 9-1-1, and how to use an emergency nasal spray used for treating very low blood sugar.
Then, I began searching for more specialized diabetes assistance. I couldn’t depend on the usual healthcare system, where doctors review data days after it’s collected, make minor changes, and then don’t see you for months. I needed someone to analyze my numbers and offer prompt feedback.
And I found it in Diaverge, a boutique diabetes coaching program. It was fortuitous that they were starting another coaching session precisely when I needed help. All my data was available to them, and they helped me make adjustments as needed in real-time. They also provided PhD-level management lessons on the tools and skills needed to prevent highs and lows—information I would never receive in a doctor’s office.
Moreover, my coaches, who had lived with the disease for nearly as many years as I have, were both Type 1s and had an informative and accepting approach. I’m no longer experiencing extreme lows, and the fear of dying in the middle of the night is gone. Today, my blood sugar levels are incredibly consistent and in non-diabetic ranges, and I’m so glad I asked for help.
LESSONS LEARNED
I learned two significant lessons through this experience:
Asking for help shows courage. People want to help, and when I allow someone else to walk alongside me, they share their experience, which almost always produces better results. It also eases the pressure of my having to know or be everything.
I need to accept what’s happening. Fear of asking for help isn’t always the root of my issue. As I reflected, I realized that I’m quick to find solutions after acknowledging the problem, but my willful ignorance of what’s right in front of me keeps me stuck in a bad place.
I continue to work on acceptance and asking. It’s just not easy for a recovering perfectionist and aspiring good enough-ist.
If you’ve come this far, thank you for staying with me.
