I’d been sick — and getting sicker — for a year when my general practitioner concluded that I either had anorexia nervosa or was a hypochondriac. I’d seen him over 15 times for chronic sinus infections, weight loss, unquenchable thirst, fatigue, and hunger. He treated me with rounds upon rounds of antibiotics — to no avail.
He wasn’t the only medical professional I saw over the 18 months I was sick
I also saw an optometrist for my blurry vision, a dietitian for my rapid weight loss, an ENT for my sinus infections, and a gynecologist for my irregular periods.
I did all sorts of things: took pregnancy tests, changed antibiotics, ate more calories, and prioritized rest.
None of these things made me feel any better
One night, shortly after graduation, I was lying in bed gazing at my wedding photo. My husband and I were so happy — and healthy looking. Tears streamed down my face as I curled into a ball and asked God to let me die.
The months leading up to that moment were torture. Fellow gym-goers, my students, and my own professors and colleagues whispered about me. Some were blatantly mean.
One man at the gym walked by me and snarled, “Eat a hamburger.”
One friend confessed that she visited the bathroom at the same time I did to ensure I wasn’t bulimic.
A professor of mine pulled me aside and told me she was concerned that I was hiding something.
No one believed I wasn’t trying to be a size 00
I was so fatigued and fragile — and I was miserable. I was only 24-years-old, but I felt I was 84. My body was creaky, and my skin felt like it was paper-thin. I had no energy and no joy, and my self-esteem plummeted.
This changed one day, on a Friday, when I took a nap at 10 a.m. My husband had tried to call me many times, but when I didn’t pick up, he rushed home from downtown St. Louis and took me to our local emergency room. The nurses told me I “smelled sick” while drawing vials upon vials of blood to send off to the lab.
They piled warm blankets on me, but I couldn’t stop shaking
An hour later, a doctor walked into the room, his eyes wide at the lab printout in the crook of his arm. He announced that he knew why I’d been sick. Then he told me that I had Type 1 diabetes. I was in a state called DKA — diabetic ketoacidosis. I needed to get on an insulin drip immediately and be monitored in the ICU.
In the five days that followed, multiple doctors and nurses told me I was very lucky to be alive. My blood sugar upon arrival was 700 — that’s seven times the norm. My body was going toxic and shutting down. I “smelled sick” because my body was spilling so many ketones.
I reeked of a nail-polish remover scent for days
Unfortunately, many medical professionals still believe that Type 1 diabetes — formally called juvenile diabetes — cannot happen in adults. Yet, I had every single classic symptom of a new diabetic. The fact that five medical professionals couldn’t put two and two together is astonishing and could have cost me my life.
My journey to diagnosis taught me what many women already know. Too often, women are seen by the medical community as too sensitive, as complainers, as complicated, and as not knowing their own bodies. Women are not always (or even sometimes) believed and trusted as the rulers of their own bodies.
You are your best advocate, no matter what issue you face — physical, mental, emotional, or even spiritual. Don’t let anyone talk you out of what your intuition is telling you. Be persistent in finding answers and solutions — not brush-offs and bandages.
You are important, your health matters, and we need you here
I am happy to report that I am still here 16 years later. I have four beautiful children by adoption. My husband and I are still married. And my diabetes is considered “well-controlled.”
My disease is a daily battle, but I am so grateful to be alive after being misdiagnosed.
If you or someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder, reach out to the National Eating Disorders Association Helpline at 1-800-931-2237.
