Thursday - A Shot in the Leg
Dec. 14th, 2006 03:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about the first time I ever gave myself a shot. A few months ago my cousin (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
noblwish) suggested I tell the story, as she had heard me tell it before and liked it, but I told her that since it happened at Christmas time, I should wait until December. Since December has arrived, I'll tell it here for her benefit.
I was 9 years old, and it was a year and a couple months after my initial diagnosis with Juvenile-onset (Type 1) diabetes. While I cheerfully practiced giving shots to an orange and my rag doll, I stubbornly refused to even consider sticking a needle in my own skin. I made my mother do the honors for me.
"You're going to have to learn to do this yourself," she told me time and time again, "I might not always be around to do this for you. What if something happened to me?"
I disregarded this as an empty threat. She was a mother - my mother - and I knew she wasn't going anywhere. How could she?
She didn't force the issue, and I did everything else I needed to without her pushing me. I tested my urine for sugar (home blood tests were not available yet) and dutifully recorded the results to show to my doctor. I also prepared the very shots I refused to give. I took the insulin out of the refrigerator, rolled the bottle in my hands to mix it, filled the syringe, and even swabbed off the chosen site of the injection with alcohol. Then I closed my eyes and waited for my mother to stick the needle in my arm or leg or bottom, whichever spot was up for rotation.
I had recently started seeing a new doctor, who decided that instead of taking one large shot of insulin in the morning (which was the standard treatment back then) I should take two shots a day, one at 7 A.M. and one each evening at 5 P.M. Compared to the 4+ shots I take each day now, this doesn't seem like a big deal, but at the time I felt like he was punishing me. When I protested, Dr. Dobson told me that if I was good, and did good on two shots, then maybe, maybe he would let me go back to taking just one each day. He was lying, but at the time I resolved to do very good so that I wouldn't have to take so many shots.
One Saturday in December, my parents went out to do some Christmas shopping and left us kids at home. They promised to be back in time for my 5 P.M. dose of insulin. I know now that a late insulin shot is not that big of a deal. I know I can even forget or skip a shot and not suffer any dire consequences. At the age of 9, however, I understood rules to be very rigid things. Never mind that I had survived almost a year with no evening shots before this. To my mind, if the doctor said my shot should happen at 5 P.M., then that's when I should take it. For all I understood, I could die within hours if I didn't.
At 4:55 P.M., I gathered the bottle of insulin, the syringe, and an alcohol swab to sterile everything with, and prepared for my mother to come home. I thought she was cutting it a little close, but I had faith she would not let me down.
At 5:00 P.M., I had the syringe filled and everything laid out neatly before me, ready to go for when she walked through the door.
At 5:10 P.M., I started getting a little antsy. I emptied the syringe back into the bottle of insulin and refilled it, over and over again, as I watched the clock anxiously.
At 5:15 P.M., I used the alcohol to sterile a place on my thigh, so that it would already be clean. Surely she would be home at any minute.
At 5:20 P.M., I sat with the syringe poised above my leg, trembling. Where was she? Didn't she remember I was supposed to have taken this shot at 5 P.M. sharp? Didn't she still love me?
At 5:25 P.M., I assumed that she no longer did love me and I had to do this awful thing myself. I pinched up an inch of skin with my left hand, positioned the syringe with my right hand, closed my eyes, held my breath, and plunged the needle into my flesh. I felt a pinching sensation, but nothing more. When I was done, I wrapped my arms around myself as I listened to my heart pounding in my ears.
At 5:30, my parents walked through the front door.
My mother called out my name, and breathlessly apologized. "We lost track of the time, baby, do you have everything ready to go?"
I just stared at her, so angry I couldn't speak. Finally, I burst out, "You're too late! I didn't know when you were coming home! I gave myself the shot without you!"
Her face lit up and she threw her arms around me, telling me that she knew I could do this if I had to. She kissed my face and smoothed my hair as I stiffly endured her affection.
"See, it wasn't so bad, was it?" She asked. "I'm so proud of you!"
I didn't want to talk to her. I was one seriously ticked-off 4th grader. No, it wasn't so bad, but that wasn't the point for me. The point was that I had to face one down of my greatest fears, and just because I overcame it didn't mean I was in the mood for a celebration. While my mother's face was beaming, my own mood was decidedly sulky.
"This is your disease, not mine," she always told me, "It's your responsibility and you have to learn how to take care of it yourself. Eventually, you aren't going to have a choice." She said it so many times that I can still hear her words, verbatim.
After that evening, I took over the responsibility of giving my own evening shots.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ # ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
These days, I see an endocrinologist a couple of times a year so I can have him write my prescriptions and give me treatment advice that I may or may not take. He once asked me what my secret is, because after almost 30 years I have remarkably few complications. My control of my diabetes is excellent, and far better than that of most of his patients.
I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him that I consider him to be an unnecessary inconvenience. This is my disease, not his, and I don't expect or trust him to be able to save my life if anything were to go wrong because of my neglect. My secret is that I know my treatment is my responsibility, and that I have no choice but to take care of myself if I expect to live.
My secret is I grew up in a house with a very wise woman whose voice still echoes these things in my head.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ # ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
noblwish) suggested I tell the story, as she had heard me tell it before and liked it, but I told her that since it happened at Christmas time, I should wait until December. Since December has arrived, I'll tell it here for her benefit.I was 9 years old, and it was a year and a couple months after my initial diagnosis with Juvenile-onset (Type 1) diabetes. While I cheerfully practiced giving shots to an orange and my rag doll, I stubbornly refused to even consider sticking a needle in my own skin. I made my mother do the honors for me.
"You're going to have to learn to do this yourself," she told me time and time again, "I might not always be around to do this for you. What if something happened to me?"
I disregarded this as an empty threat. She was a mother - my mother - and I knew she wasn't going anywhere. How could she?
She didn't force the issue, and I did everything else I needed to without her pushing me. I tested my urine for sugar (home blood tests were not available yet) and dutifully recorded the results to show to my doctor. I also prepared the very shots I refused to give. I took the insulin out of the refrigerator, rolled the bottle in my hands to mix it, filled the syringe, and even swabbed off the chosen site of the injection with alcohol. Then I closed my eyes and waited for my mother to stick the needle in my arm or leg or bottom, whichever spot was up for rotation.
I had recently started seeing a new doctor, who decided that instead of taking one large shot of insulin in the morning (which was the standard treatment back then) I should take two shots a day, one at 7 A.M. and one each evening at 5 P.M. Compared to the 4+ shots I take each day now, this doesn't seem like a big deal, but at the time I felt like he was punishing me. When I protested, Dr. Dobson told me that if I was good, and did good on two shots, then maybe, maybe he would let me go back to taking just one each day. He was lying, but at the time I resolved to do very good so that I wouldn't have to take so many shots.
One Saturday in December, my parents went out to do some Christmas shopping and left us kids at home. They promised to be back in time for my 5 P.M. dose of insulin. I know now that a late insulin shot is not that big of a deal. I know I can even forget or skip a shot and not suffer any dire consequences. At the age of 9, however, I understood rules to be very rigid things. Never mind that I had survived almost a year with no evening shots before this. To my mind, if the doctor said my shot should happen at 5 P.M., then that's when I should take it. For all I understood, I could die within hours if I didn't.
At 4:55 P.M., I gathered the bottle of insulin, the syringe, and an alcohol swab to sterile everything with, and prepared for my mother to come home. I thought she was cutting it a little close, but I had faith she would not let me down.
At 5:00 P.M., I had the syringe filled and everything laid out neatly before me, ready to go for when she walked through the door.
At 5:10 P.M., I started getting a little antsy. I emptied the syringe back into the bottle of insulin and refilled it, over and over again, as I watched the clock anxiously.
At 5:15 P.M., I used the alcohol to sterile a place on my thigh, so that it would already be clean. Surely she would be home at any minute.
At 5:20 P.M., I sat with the syringe poised above my leg, trembling. Where was she? Didn't she remember I was supposed to have taken this shot at 5 P.M. sharp? Didn't she still love me?
At 5:25 P.M., I assumed that she no longer did love me and I had to do this awful thing myself. I pinched up an inch of skin with my left hand, positioned the syringe with my right hand, closed my eyes, held my breath, and plunged the needle into my flesh. I felt a pinching sensation, but nothing more. When I was done, I wrapped my arms around myself as I listened to my heart pounding in my ears.
At 5:30, my parents walked through the front door.
My mother called out my name, and breathlessly apologized. "We lost track of the time, baby, do you have everything ready to go?"
I just stared at her, so angry I couldn't speak. Finally, I burst out, "You're too late! I didn't know when you were coming home! I gave myself the shot without you!"
Her face lit up and she threw her arms around me, telling me that she knew I could do this if I had to. She kissed my face and smoothed my hair as I stiffly endured her affection.
"See, it wasn't so bad, was it?" She asked. "I'm so proud of you!"
I didn't want to talk to her. I was one seriously ticked-off 4th grader. No, it wasn't so bad, but that wasn't the point for me. The point was that I had to face one down of my greatest fears, and just because I overcame it didn't mean I was in the mood for a celebration. While my mother's face was beaming, my own mood was decidedly sulky.
"This is your disease, not mine," she always told me, "It's your responsibility and you have to learn how to take care of it yourself. Eventually, you aren't going to have a choice." She said it so many times that I can still hear her words, verbatim.
After that evening, I took over the responsibility of giving my own evening shots.
These days, I see an endocrinologist a couple of times a year so I can have him write my prescriptions and give me treatment advice that I may or may not take. He once asked me what my secret is, because after almost 30 years I have remarkably few complications. My control of my diabetes is excellent, and far better than that of most of his patients.
I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him that I consider him to be an unnecessary inconvenience. This is my disease, not his, and I don't expect or trust him to be able to save my life if anything were to go wrong because of my neglect. My secret is that I know my treatment is my responsibility, and that I have no choice but to take care of myself if I expect to live.
My secret is I grew up in a house with a very wise woman whose voice still echoes these things in my head.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-12-14 09:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 06:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-16 07:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-14 10:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 12:02 am (UTC)I can so totally identify with how scared you were
The thing is, I wasn't nearly as dilligent with my control until the onset of my eye problems and beginnings of kidney disease.
Then I realized how serious I needed to be with it
Just a little too late
Now my a1c's are always under 7 which I'm proud of.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 06:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 02:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 06:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 06:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-17 04:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 09:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-16 05:27 am (UTC)I don't think I could administer them myself NOW. I'm sure I would adjust, but... not easily :)
no subject
Date: 2006-12-17 04:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 02:38 pm (UTC)I cannot even imagine. I had a grandma with diabetes. She had to give her own shots to herself 3 or 4 times a day. My mom did it sometimes, but I could never watch... And I prayed to God that I would NEVER have to do that to myself. I'm thankful I'm not blood kin to her (I'm adopted) as it runs very heavily in that side of the family. My uncle has it. My mom is borderline. My great-uncles and cousins have it. Yeah.
*HUGS NINA TIGHT*
You're an inspiration to me!!!
no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 06:42 pm (UTC)*hugs you back*
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Date: 2006-12-15 06:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 06:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 07:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-17 04:31 am (UTC)You have no idea. I still piss and moan about things, but always manage to do what needs to be done despite all my reluctance. ;^D
no subject
Date: 2006-12-17 02:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-17 07:25 pm (UTC)