Diabetes Story: Homeward






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	Diabetes Story: Homeward
	I've made it known to them that I have a return plane ticket for Thursday and that I plan to go back to the United States as scheduled. I'd like to hear what a US doctor has to say about my supposed diabetic condition. A doctor visits me in my room and tries to convince me that I won't be well enough to travel and that I should stay in this hospital until my condition stabilizes. He tells me that they are responsible for my health but cannot be responsible for what happens if I make this terribly wrong decision. I tell him that I take full responsibility for my own health and start thinking about who I can call to get the Marines in here to free me should they try to keep me here by force (The part about the Marines was a joke).
	Until now the nurses have been measuring my blood glucose level and injecting me with insulin. Now I've got to learn to do this myself so I can survive the trip home. Of course I'm still in denial and don't think that any of this is really necessary, but to humor them and in deference to my sister's advice I meet with an endocrinologist and a nurse so that they can demonstrate how it's done. They show me a One Touch Ultra blood glucose meter and a NovoLog FlexPen insulin delivery device.
After becoming proficient in the use of these modern technological marvels I ask the doctor about "The Plan." She is supposed to write up some instructions I can follow while I'm travelling, i.e. how much insulin I should give myself. She says she's been working on it but that it's a difficult problem because she doesn't know what my blood glucose level will be during the trip.
I ask, "Won't I know what my blood glucose level is?" After all, as of now I'm an experienced One Touch Ultra user. I'm told that I'd have to have one of these. I ask, "Won't I have one of those?" I'm told that I'd have to buy one and that it displays European units (mmol/L) so I wouldn't be able to use it in the United States where everyone understands a different unit of measure (mg/dL). I ask, "How much does it cost?" I'm told one hundred krona (at that time less than $13). I'm wearing a hospital gown but still wearing a pair of blue jeans underneath. I stand up, take out my wallet and remove a one hundred krona bill, then hand the bill to the nurse and take the glucose meter out of her hand. I say, "It's MY meter now." Let's make a new plan.
The meter has a sticker on the back that says it's distributed by LifeScan, Inc in Milpitas, CA. I used to work in Milpitas; it's in Silicon Valley near San Jose. It wasn't until much later that I read the manual and confirmed my suspicion: you only need to push a few buttons to make the meter display its result in mg/dL. Aren't those software engineers brilliant? In any event, even without that knowledge I was comfortable burning $13 to increase my chances at arriving in the US alive.
The flight home is uneventful. At the connecting airport it's kinda a pain in the butt to go to the restroom, get in a tiny stall, pull down my pants and give myself an injection in the thigh, but I want to avoid giving myself an injection in the easiest place by far, under the skin covering my abs. My dad had type two diabetes and injected insulin subcutaneously over his abs; his stomach looked pretty bad. Vanity compels me to preserve my six-pack abs. After all this is only temporary, right? Once I see a US doctor this thing will be over. Note to the reader: Now, five years later, my stomach looks like my dad's stomach did.
I've never whisked through immigration and customs so fast. The guy behind the counter can no doubt see how happy I am to be back in the United States; he barely looks at my passport before welcoming me back with his own smile and waving me on ahead. My friend Ellen will be waiting outside the terminal to give me a ride back to her house where I left my car for a month. I march out to the curb as fast as I can get there.
It's a wonderful summer day in Boston so I start to pull out a cigarette, hoping to relax after a long flight (without a cigarette). How about that! There's a young hottie in a Jeep Cherokee smilin' at me! Maybe after a crummy week, THIS will be my lucky day! She pulls over near to where I'm standing. Wait, I know that face. It's Allison, Ellen's daughter. I'm home.
It's five years later and I'm no longer in denial. I have type one diabetes.

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Disclaimer: While the events described above are representative of true to life events experienced by the author, details of the story may be fuzzy due to the fact that it happened more than five years ago. I respectfully defer to any objection made by a witness of events described in the narrative.
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