You Are Not Your Disease.

I remember the moment, like it was yesterday.

The shaking of the bed woke me up. I thought we were having an earthquake.

We weren’t.

Patrick was shaking uncontrollably. His movements were rapid and jerky. When I asked him what was happening, he couldn’t speak.

The only thing he could control was his eyes, which kept diverting to a side table. That’s when I noticed the pen he discreetly carries in his pocket.

Patrick is diabetic.

And he was having a diabetic episode. It was the first time I’d experienced this.

Immediately I thought to give him insulin. Boy, am I grateful that I wasn’t smart enough to figure out the pen because I could have killed him. His blood sugar was already too low and insulin would have made it worse.

His eyes continued to shift between me and the side table where a bottle of Coke sat.

The light bulb went off, and I knew he needed sugar. I started to give him the soda when I realized it was Coke Zero. Ugh. That does me no good.

So I ran to the kitchen and grabbed orange juice.

(Note to self - don’t hand a glass of orange juice to a person who is convulsing. They fling the orange juice everywhere and can’t take a drink.)

After helping Patrick swallow some orange juice, the convulsions started to diminish.

Within minutes, he was snoozing away while I sat by his side sobbing. I questioned whether I should call 911 or use his face to unlock his phone and call his mother. All I knew was that he had a pulse and was still breathing.

When he came to, about 15 minutes later, he had no recollection of the event.

When I explained why I was sobbing and told him about my experience of the episode, his eyes swelled with tears and he asked me the most heartbreaking question: Are you going to leave me?

Tears immediately sprang to my eyes.

What I heard when he asked it was this: My disease makes me unlovable. I can’t ask you to sign up for a life of a caregiver. I’d understand if you want to get out now.

I can’t say for certain that’s what he meant, but it’s how I interpreted the question.

Diabetes is something he has. It’s not who he is.

Gosh, I wanted to shake him some more and remind him of that! Instead, we just hugged. And cried. And hugged some more.

Unconditional love, the kind of love that I strive to give and receive, doesn’t know a disease.

Instead, it sees hope.

Where some might have walked away, I saw opportunity. Opportunity to love. To learn. To equip myself with tools to be a good partner to an individual with diabetes.

I share this story to give you hope on National Diabetes Day.

• If you have diabetes, or any other disease, you are still lovable. 


• If you have a friend, parent or partner who has been diagnosed with diabetes or any other disease, educate yourself on what that means for them and how you can offer support.

I called the American Diabetes Association. I talked to doctors and administration at local hospitals. No one could help me.

All of the available resources were directed toward the patient. There wasn’t a guidebook on how to be a partner to or care for someone who isn’t a child.

Patrick became my educator.

I learned how to use his finger-prick glucose monitor. He taught me how to use his insulin pen should I need to administer it. He made me memorize his healthy range so I would know if he was high or low.

We talked about his symptoms of high and low blood sugar. I learned what liquids raise his blood sugar the quickest, and he educated me on how to give him the drink to prevent choking should he have another episode of that scale.

Focus on what you can control and equip yourself with knowledge.

Don’t be afraid to ask questions. Talk through scenarios and practice!

And if you’re the patient, don’t be afraid to share this with your friends and loved ones. If a person can’t handle the responsibility, that’s on them.

Remember, your disease doesn’t mean you are difficult or unlovable.

PS - Patrick approved this blog!
Photo Credit: Jordan Clark Photography