Check 'Yes' or 'No'

Written on a whim

January 11:

My dad sits beside me in the waiting room for the endocrinologist.

He’s hardly left my side since everything happened. Simultaneous storms.

Later, when my friend texts me asking me what happened, I’ll begin to question everything.

Did we break up because of my diagnosis, or was it before?

Honestly, I hardly remember the days and weeks leading up to January 6, 2024.

“Simultaneous events,” I’ll reply.

But for now, there’s paperwork. More paperwork. Because my ICU records weren’t detailed enough? I curse under my breath and I continue to write and check the boxes.

Then, I got to the one that made me stop.

“Have you accepted your diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes?” the paper screams violently at me.

I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I?

The same thing happened to my heart. I watched it breaking in real time, the words coming from his mouth sounding blurry and fuzzy.

The bedroom was dark, and the bed was warm, but his words and his demeanor, were colder than ice.

A nice nurse comes to get us from the waiting area, and we’re escorted immediately to the scale.

I frown and almost start to cry but then I look at my dad and I remember a note he wrote me once when I moved to New York City that said “You’ve got this and we’ve got you.”

I step forward onto the scale. 87 pounds. Improvement.

Less than a week before, I had been 76 pounds. That was the darkest day.

My cheeks looked as if they were carved out with a precision blade, and even then, every time I tried to eat I would immediately have to vomit.

That’s the kind of sick I was. I was deep in the throes of diabetic ketoacidosis and I had no idea.

I wasn’t only losing weight and unable to put it back on, but I also had other symptoms.

• Extreme thirst

• Craving specific foods, only to throw them up or become full after a bite

• Rapid breathing that I couldn’t explain

• Headaches

• Extreme fatigue

• Muscle aches and cramping

• What I thought was a UTI

These are the symptoms I’ll report to my endocrinologist. But there were others I didn’t realize were just under the surface.

I’ll realize as I go along that my vision is improving— I won’t need to wear contacts anymore.

I’ll also notice suddenly, one week after my diagnosis, that I no longer have deep, black circles underneath my eyes.

I’ll also be able to speak normally again. This is a big deal since I assumed I had lost that ability years ago. I’ll notice the people around me laughing at my jokes more because they’ll finally understand what I’m saying.

“We’ve got our old Amelia back,” my mom will sob through happy tears.

But first, we have to learn everything there is to learn about insulin and my new way of eating. We have to watch the January days drag by, as I cry in my room over this fate I hadn’t yet accepted, and how he hasn’t even checked on me once since he walked me downstairs and put my bags in the car that Saturday, January 6.

He was supposed to be long gone the night before, in which case I probably would have fallen asleep by myself and, as my doctor later told me, “never woken up.”

My blood acid was .1 points away from what my doctor told me was a multi-organ failure.

Lucky for me, I ended up with only a pancreas that no longer produces insulin and a heart that’s broken over an ex-boyfriend who no longer gives a damn.

January 16:

I sit at my computer anxiously. It’s my first day back to work since my stint in the ICU.

My mom goes to Trader Joe’s and brings home flowers for my desk.

I wonder if I should be ashamed to be living with my parents again at the age of 32, or if I'm gaining precious time with them that my peers might not ever get.

In my first meeting of the day, my glucose monitor goes off. Fuck. This insulin thing is trickier than we thought.

A few sweet tarts and a yogurt later, my blood sugar is back to normal. I text my dad and tell him I think we must have overshot the runway on insulin with my breakfast.

“We’ll get it,” he texts back.

After work, I eat dinner with my parents and I tell them I feel like I need to get out of the house.

They wearily let me go alone to HomeGoods. The fact that I had the energy to go do anything after a day of work feels incredible.

For the first time in what feels like a decade, I’m able to escape reality for an hour, while I browse through aisle after aisle of beautiful (and also some very ugly) home decor.

I reach out and let my fingers traipse along the edges of the carpets, and I inhale deeply on the candle aisle, wondering what’s wrong with the clearance section candles.

Why did no one want them? Was it because they were broken? Like me?

Or were they too much, lingering long after they’d been extinguished?

I stand there for too long, and I consider a third option: maybe they just weren’t the right scent for most people.

I decide that I too, am not right for most people. And that I no longer want to be.

I find the perfect candle and despite my mom’s urgent texts that “we don’t have space for any more stuff! Don’t buy stuff,” I buy it.

I go home and I light it, and for a while, I don’t notice that my heart still aches.

January 28:

The last Sunday of the month that nearly broke me.

I’m so ready for a new slate.

I’m finally feeling (and looking) healthy again.

I’ve officially hit the 100-pound mark, and I still have about 10 more to go.

After a relaxing weekend at my family’s cabin, it’s time to make some progress on continuing to move more shit out of our apartment.

By our, I mean his and mine. I put my key in the door and almost expected him to be sitting there, waiting to embrace me, like he used to.

Instead, my parents and I spent a few hours gathering more of my clothes and belongings and attempting to steam clean.

I’m reminded of the song Happiness, where Taylor Swift sings “Honey when I’m I above the trees, I see this for what it is; but now I’m right down I’m in it, all the years I’ve given is just shit we’re dividing up.”

It’s not as painful, exactly— not anymore, like it was when it was raw—but now, I’m above the trees. I can see it for what it was, which was a love unlike any I’ve had before and unlike any I’ll likely ever have again.

For that opportunity, I am grateful for the past two years, and the memories we share.

Next, I think about my relationship with myself. I have fallen pretty hard in love with myself, lately.

Now I know that I deserve someone who chooses me out of a clearance section aisle of hundreds of other candles, takes me home, and lights me up.

January 29:

As of today, I am officially 103 pounds. My curves are slowly starting to take shape again. I can breathe normally, and I can eat again, as long as I inject my insulin before every meal.

I’m also on a long-acting dose that I take each night (again, another injection), which is supposed to help me stay stable throughout the day.

We’ve still got high days, low days, and rollercoaster days, but overall, my blood sugar is much better than it was before.

I’m energetic. My skin glows. My hair is starting to get its natural waves back. It’s stopped falling out in globs every time I shower.

When I look in the mirror, I love the version of me that’s looking back.

Where I used to hate my cheeks and think they were too round, or that my thighs were too big, or that my boobs weren’t big enough— now, I just simply love the vessel that God created to carry me through this lifetime.

While I wouldn’t wish Type 1 Diabetes on anyone, I’m so happy that it happened to me when it did. I needed a major 180, and losing control of my entire body was what I needed to be healed.

I don’t think I could have made these lifestyle changes without some kind of drastic outside force making me do the hard lifting to feel better.

I think my heart would agree. It needed to be broken to be made whole again. I needed to take back parts of myself that I hadn’t seen in a while. I had to be happy first, before expecting someone else to make me happy.

So if I could go back to January 11, I would check off the box next to the question, “Have you accepted the diagnosis of your Type 1 Diabetes?” as a huge “YES.”