In August 2023, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. For a few months before this diagnosis, I could tell something was off, and I didn’t really feel like myself. To be honest, the diagnosis felt like a blessing because it meant I could get back to living. However, taking on the new lifestyle did not come easily to me. I saw diabetes as something that I was going to solve. I started limiting my carb intake to only around 60 carbs daily, all fruit. I mainly survived on meats and cheese, with the occasional mixed nuts and vegetables. I was taking insulin, and my blood sugars were getting worse and worse after eating fewer and fewer carbs. During this entire time, I was exhausted and getting all my energy from coffee and energy drinks. I never went outside; I would work from home during the day and do my online school work at night. Naively, I thought the diagnosis meant I could just start taking some insulin and get back to how I was used to living.
On top of all that, for some odd reason, eating was becoming more and more difficult. This was hard to even describe, so I didn’t really tell many people. I told my mom I thought I was having allergic reactions to foods, but it seemed to be happening every time I was eating. However, this was just another thing I would solve; no issue is too big for me to resolve on my own. I looked online, and the recommendation was to have a carbonated beverage with every meal. So I planned to do that until it all blew over.
However, the lethargy, difficulty swallowing, slowed thinking, and general malaise did not blow over, and I was quite literally at my breaking point but wouldn’t acknowledge it. Then, the straw that broke the camel's back occurred: a raccoon. Yes, a raccoon triggered my breaking point. One exceptional fall night, I decided to leave my window open, and when I was sleeping, a raccoon tore through my window’s screen and scattered about for who knows how long. It could have sat on my chest, peering down at me, for all I knew. Eventually, I woke up, heard something on my dresser, and had a game of chicken stare down with the raccoon until he decided to leave. Guess I won, but I was shook.
After my unwanted visitor, my whole facade had shattered; I was convinced that I was dying, and rapidly. If you didn’t get a chance to speak to me during this period of my life, then I feel bad for you. Never have I been so nice, loving, and understanding. Honestly, if this monomyth hero call to action didn’t happen, I am unsure where I would be today.
My parents were a massive help to me during this time. I was able to get back to rational thinking after a few months of staying with my dad. However, the difficulty swallowing and diabetes were only getting worse. At this point, I was primarily living off of chicken noodle soup, smoothies, and eggs. I went to a GI doctor and got an endoscope, but this really did not help. They could not make a diagnosis based on the endoscope alone because nothing in my esophagus appeared abnormal. The next step for the doctors were the big guns, an esophageal manometry; in other words, medieval torture.