Hospital Visit #1

I cannot remember getting to the hospital from Dr. Gilliland's office. I cannot remember any conversation Mom and I had on the way. I imagine we talked about contacting my teachers and arranging for my homework assignments. Hell, yeah! That's just what I wanted to think about! The worst effing day of my life and we'll discuss homework. Maybe that's why I can't remember it. I blocked it!

I don't remember anything leading up to being in the room. Nothing. I was in Dr. Gilliland's office hoping it was all a big joke. Next, I was in the hospital room knowing that it wasn't. A nurse was drawing what seemed like an infinite number of vials of blood from my arm. Finally, she was done and left the room.

Another nurse came in with a bag of clear liquid and a big goddamn needle. She introduced herself although all I could imagine was that giant needle inserted into my brain via my left eye and it made me completely forget her name.

I came back to whatever version of reality had taken over my miserable life as "Crispy Dick: Butt of all chicken jokes large and small."

The nurse explained that I was dehydrated and she was going to start an IV of liquids to help to rehydrate me. She put a tourniquet around my arm and found a likely volunteer vein to take the railroad spike in her hand. At least that's what it felt like when it went in just below the crook of my left elbow. I did not have enough clarity of thought to tell her I'm left-handed, a mistake I have not made since.

That done, she said she would return shortly to finish registering me to the floor. Not having any idea what that meant, I grimaced in response as she left. Mom patted my right arm soothingly.

"We still don't know what your blood sugar is," she said. "Dr. Gilliland thinks it's very high, though."

"That's what he told me, too."

I'm sure we talked more but that's all I can remember of any dialogue we had when I first was in the room. At least an hour passed before the doctor came in with his load of happy-crappy news.

"We got the results of your bloodwork back," he started. "Your blood sugar is over 1000 so I think it's fairly safe to say you have Diabetes."

Mom was in shock, I think, at the glucose number. I had been in shock for the last 3 hours so I don't think I showed much reaction one way or the other.

"In fact, it's almost 1100 so we're going to give you a shot of fast acting insulin as well as start you on an IV of insulin," he told us. To Mom he said, "We're lucky we caught it when we did since he's been driving. He could have blacked out at the wheel and hurt someone not to mention himself."

I wasn't feeling particularly lucky at the moment. Even today, to which my wife will attest, I still have trouble taking "lucky" subjectively. The friendly nurse came in and piggybacked a smaller bag of what I guessed was insulin to my IV.

Dr. Gilliland went on to tell us the first step was to get my blood sugar down to a more normal level. Once we got there, then we'd learn to maintain it with diet along with medications. He said I had Type 1 or Juvenile Onset Diabetes. He explained that there are two types of Diabetes.

The type I had typically occurred in younger people. One could even be born with it. The body's pancreas, a gland that produces the hormone insulin which helps the body metabolize sugar into the energy the body needs to survive, stops working. Type 1 Diabetics usually have to take shots of insulin in addition to following a strict diet in order to control their blood sugar.

Type 2 or Adult Onset usually attacks adults, hence the name, although it could appear in children as well. Obesity is one of the leading causes of Type 2 Diabetes but a malfunctioning pancreas can also cause it. Typically, with this type of Diabetes, there's plenty of insulin to go around but the body can't use it to metabolize the sugar. In the majority of Type 2 cases, pills and diet are successful in controlling the body's glucose levels. Occasionally, Type 2 diabetics had to take insulin injections.

Why was I so lucky? Could just be hereditary. My recent bout with the flu could have caused it, research had revealed in a number of test cases. The gunshot wound might have caused it if the projectile nicked my pancreas as it zipped around my abdomen but that was unlikely and probably would have caused the symptoms to show up sooner.

The first nurse returned with a syringe. She informed me it was a shot of Regular insulin. I tried to make a joke that I wanted "Unleaded" but it sounded as feeble as I felt and went over about the same with my audience. She scrubbed my upper arm with an alcohol swab and, without warning, jammed the needle under my skin and depressed the plunger without any hesitation then yanked the needle back out following that action with another alcohol scrub then was headed for the door. Shit! The whole incident took about 0.637 seconds! "Thanks?" I called to her back. No response. Yep, this is gonna be a fun few days, I think.

Dr. Gilliland was talking to Mom so I guess they both either missed or ignored completely my slightly painful and completely impersonal encounter with the nurse.

I was in the hospital about ten days, most of which are only a foggy conglomeration of insulin shots, visits from Dad's employees; dietitians explaining the diabetic diet which existed solely of exchanges. If you were allowed one bread exchange and you had corn, you couldn't have potatoes. Or you could swap three vegetable exchanges for one meat exchange. A half-cup of ginger ale counted as one bread exchange.

How does liquid count as bread? Don't ask me. To Mom and me, it was a mind-numbing shuffle of carbs vs. vegetables vs. fats vs. dairy and it had the innate ability to make a new diabetic prefer to simply never eat again.

Mr. Grove, the band director, came to visit me and stayed about an hour. Mr. Grove always scared the bejesus out of me and I don't know why. I guess it was because he was so intense as a band director. As it turned out he had a great sense of humor which he used to cheer me up. He also suggested Mom bring the mouthpiece from my horn so I could keep my embouchure in shape.

Another hazy day Mrs. Eaton, my American History teacher, stopped by with my assignments. yay. She also proved to have a pretty sophisticated sense of humor. Most of her jokes were about politics and while I only faintly understood them I somehow could appreciate her effort.

Proving myself a liar, I learned to give myself my own insulin shots. I pretty well killed an orange with my practice shots. When I graduated from it I told the nurse I didn't know if I could do it to myself. Her response was simple. "I'm not going to do it for you any more so either you do it or just die." Reflecting, as I have over the years, on that method, I've decided it was both brutal and effective.

I also had my first insulin reaction while I was in the hospital. I remember that one vividly. It was vaguely reminiscent of those days at the creek. I'll try to describe it: My stomach felt hollow like it was completely empty; I started to sweat; it became increasingly difficult to concentrate or even think about what was going on. When I called for the nurse, my voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere else in the room. As my sugar dropped lower my hands started shaking very badly and sweat was pouring in rivulets from under my hair. I began to think I was going to die and it really didn't matter to me. I wasn't afraid. I just figured death was better than feeling the way I was feeling.

The nurse brought a cup of orange juice with sugar in it and stayed with me until I drank all of it and started to feel better. Sometimes, it would take two cups. It seems I was always prone to low sugar around supper time. Don't know why but I was.

Shortly thereafter I wound up with a hideous case of bronchitis complete with fever and spells of thinking I'd never be able to breathe again. Those days are literally a blur to me. Being pumped full of antibiotics. Endless blood draws, it seemed. Freezing, sweating, freezing again, gasping for air and unable to get any. More blood draws. First afraid I was going to die then even more afraid that I wouldn't. I was put on a "sliding scale" for fast-acting insulin. Depending on what my blood sugar was, I would get "x" number of units.

Eventually, though, I came out of it and then I was prepped to go home. 1800 calorie diabetic diet, 20 units of "Nph" insulin (long-acting) per day, daily urine tests at home and weekly visits to the doctor to monitor my blood glucose levels. Such were the days before at-home testing with Internet access and reporting your physician can look at without you having to set foot in the office unless something major happens.

Somewhere during my time in the hospital I lost another 40 or so pounds. At my worst, I was just under 350 pounds with a 56-inch waist. The middle of February, 1977, when I returned to school, I weighed just under 200 pounds with a 40-inch waist. It was great!

My first day back, Robilyn Moyer, arguably the hottest girl in school, came up all smiles and introduced herself to the "new" guy. It cracked me up. The look on her face when it turned out to be ol' crispy___! It wasn't all champagne and roses, though. I could have lost 400 pounds and there would still have been people who could not or would not forget that original image of me and continued to lay upon me copious amounts of shit for the remainder of my time at Kosy High. On the other hand, I got to go home for lunch every day because of the diet. My food had to be prepared a certain way. Man, how times have changed!

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 5