Corinne Figueiredo

9-28-21

Battling For My Life

"The disease does not have you; you have the disease." At 16 years old, I was told this

when I was struggling with the desire to live. My life had changed entirely over one diagnosis,

Type 1 Diabetes. At the time, I already thought I had my life figured out. I was thinking about

my future. Going to college in Boston, Massachusetts, getting my degree in physical therapy. I

could not do that anymore. I sat in that waiting now, asking myself what do I do? What is the

point anymore? This disease causes so many people to lose their limbs, and even worse, it kills

647 people out of 100,000. I did not want to be another statistic. From that point on, I was

battling for my life.

In November of 2016, it was another typical day for me except for the fact it was, at the

time, my ex-boyfriends' birthday. We planned to get Portillo's because it was his favorite. I

remember walking into the smell of freshly made hotdogs and Italian beef. The red and white

patterned tables in front of us, but we chose the old fashion bar stools because I loved the old

fashion setting. I got my usual because I was a picky eater. Two hot dogs with only ketchup,

small cheese fries, and a large strawberry milkshake. The hot dogs were so perfectly cooked and

juicy, the fries were perfectly crisp with not too much salt, the cheese sauce was the perfect heat,

and the strawberry milkshake was so creamy with fresh chunks of sweet strawberries. Overall

the conversations happening at once, I could hear the laughs of everyone around me. After

finishing the delicious meal, it was time for the famous Portillo’s chocolate cake that was so soft

and chocolatey. Everyone indulged in the cake. After two hours, it was time to leave and go back

home. We were all so full that we had to unbutton our pants.

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It was a fantastic, dark night as we were driving home. The leaves were falling off the

trees in beautiful red and yellow colors. Then all of sudden, my stomach felt as if all the food

was going to come up. The car ride seemed way longer than 20 minutes. I was sweating and

shaking so bad I could barely walk. Finally, I told my ex-boyfriend I had to go home because I

did not feel well. When I arrived home, I could not keep the food down any longer. I fell to my

knees and could not get up. Every time I moved, it felt as if I was on a boat. I did not go to

school the next few days because I could not keep my food down for 72 hours. We thought it

was the stomach flu. I had all the classic symptoms, and after three days, the throwing up

stopped. I was wrong. That was only the beginning.

Three months had passed, and I was not getting any better. I had lost control of my

bladder and had lost my vision. I was 16 years old and had to wear diapers, and I could not see

the board anymore. I had a fear of not knowing what was going on inside of me. I was an athlete

and a straight-A student at the time. I just pushed it to the side because I did not want to believe

something was wrong with me. My mother was in the health care field and wanted to believe I

was okay, but three months passed, and I was only getting worse. We could only think of what

we have been trying to prevent for so long, diabetes. I was always pre-diabetic, but we monitored

my eating so well for so long. Finally, our biggest fear came true, and it was time to go to the

hospital to get some tests.

Where I went to get my test was my doctor's office, where my mother worked. The

waiting room was packed with ten people before me. It smelled clean and sanitized like a

hospital. The waiting was killing me, and my anxiety was making my head go to dark places.

The lights felt so bright, and my concentration was wandering. Then, finally, I heard my name

get called by a soft, familiar voice. It was my mom taking me back to get my blood test. I had a
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fear of seeing my blood, but my mom calmed me down. It was more than seeing my fear of

blood, however. It was more about how this test will tell us if I have to deal with a disease for the

rest of my life. We were both so scared, and I could sense it from her, but she put a stern face on

me, and I did the same for her. We were not ready for what happened next.

We were playing the waiting game again. I was at home lying in bed, looking up at my

ceiling. I had no energy to do anything else. I knew the news would not be in my favor. I was so

right. I heard my phone ringing, and it was my mom. She was crying and apologizing to me. She

said the words to me. I had diabetes, and for three months, I was only getting sicker. My organs

were only working at half percent. I should have been dead. My mother assured me we would

get through it all, but the rest of the conversation was like we were underwater. Her voice

became distant to me, and all I could think about was how my life just took the wrong turn. Why

was I still alive? What hope do I have for my future? Those questioned never left my head. I

could not see my future anymore.

As months passed, I saw all the doctors, got all the possible tests, and tested all new

medications. Most of them made me sick or did not work at all. Finally, we found out my

diabetes was autoimmune, and it was type one. That meant I had to go on insulin. My pancreas

was dead and did not produce insulin anymore. I was going through the motions. I was so empty

inside that I felt like a giant shell. At this point, I was only alive for my parents and my siblings. I

had lost all hope in my future and, more importantly, in myself. This is a life I did not want for

myself. A life of pain from the needles going in and out of my body to inject a medicine that kept

me alive. It was the burning sensation every time I had to give myself insulin. The countless

nights of no sleep because my machine alarmed me like an alarm clock every time my blood

sugar was low or high. The times I got dizzy and almost like I was drunk because my sugars
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were too low or the anger and frustration that came from my highs. Being monitored by my

parents every two seconds like I was a prison mate. Everyone was treating me like fine china,

fragile. I did not want to do it anymore. I wanted my life back. Nevertheless, the burnout was

much worse than expected.

On top of my medications and logging everything I ate and doctors on top of doctors, I

became tired—it what we call a diabetic burnout. I finally hit rock bottom and stopped taking my

medications. Everything I felt before had come back even worse this time around. Nonstop

puking, peeing every five minutes, and I lost my vision again. I became a terrific liar and lied to

all my doctors and my family. I told them I was okay and taking care of myself when I was

killing myself. It did not last very long, but it was long enough to get sent to the hospital. At the

hospital, they ran a blood test and urine cultures to find out the problem. When they came back, I

already knew what the problem was. One of the tests was an A1C. A normal A1C was 5.0-5.6.

Mine came out at a high of 12.1. My organs were starting to shut down again. The look in my

mother’s eyes said it all. She knew I was tired and did not want to fight anymore, but the fear

made her angry. Instead of being a prison mate, I was now a puppy on a leash. Instead of going

forward, I was now heading down a path of no return. Of course, now I had to face my doctor.

She was one you did not want to face.

Now, I was in a waiting room, dreading the screaming session I was about to witness. On

the other hand, I did not care. I was in another waiting room anxiously waiting for another

Doctor to ask me why I was not taking care of myself. I could not give them a reason because I

did not know myself why. Finally, I heard my name being called from the corner of the small

waiting room. It was time to hear the endless questions. They did their standard work-up on me,

which included my weight, temperature, and blood pressure. The blood pressure cuff squeezed
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my arm so tight; I could feel my heart beating through my arm. We went over my labs, and my

doctor's face turned as red as a fire truck. She was frustrated with me, and I could tell. She gave

me everything she could so I could survive, and I failed her. Through the mist of it, all the

conversation went muffled again. All I could think about was my siblings and my parents, the

people who loved me most. Then, I snapped out of it when I heard my doctor say, “the disease

does not have you; you have the disease.” I finally woke up out of my dark place and came to

realize I desired to live.

The realization that my life was not over just because I had a disease. I could overcome

all the obstacles with my faith and the support of those who loved me. I had to take control of my

disease instead of it controlling me. I had to realize there would be good and bad days, but I

could not give up. Managing a disease is like caring for a child, around-the-clock care. It is only

when you let it define you that the disease can control you. Day by day, I am battling for my life.