“I am not my insulin pump”

“One 8-year-old me sat on one doctor’s table with many tears trickling down my cheeks. One needle poked into my flesh. One finger with a spot of blood. One pint-sized girl with a sugar level so high she could have died. One reading, one change, one diagnosis. One girl with juvenile diabetes; one whole life ahead.

Three syringes pierce my skin. Six glucose readings mocking the New York City Stock Exchange. A dozen doctors telling 12-year-old me I can do better. One day in the life of a girl with juvenile diabetes.

One day to dress up for a report on Jane Goodall. One tank top. One pair of khakis. One stuffed monkey. The first day with one “magical” insulin pump that will help me rip my ticket to the roller coaster of juvenile diabetes apart.

One too many questions. One too many “why can she have her cell phone out?” One too many tears rushing down my face silently screaming “why me?”

One more obstacle. One more insecurity. One more aspect of this disease I want to hide.

More than 40,000 needles pricked my flesh. More than 25,000 blood sugars treated. 21-year-old me with one “magical” insulin pump that hasn’t quite yet broken the roller coaster’s tracks.

One pancreas, long gone. One lifeline penetrating to promise life. One medical device attached to me until they find a cure.

No text messages, no phone calls, no forbidden calculators for exams. No disrespect, no intent to harm; no, I don’t want to announce what it is to the world.

One plea. One request. One wish: no judgment.

I’m just one girl, with Type I Diabetes, balancing a math equation with infinite variables battling against me.

Countless reasons why math is not my major.

Don’t judge me on what I need to do to get by.”