I wrote a paper on my daughter's diagnosis and I got a "proficient" grade, due to it lacking emotion. Tell me what you think please.
The purpose of the paper was to write an emotional personal narrative about overcoming a challenge in your personal life. One student wrote about how she overcame her fear of driving and received a 100%. I got a 98% because it apparently "Lacked emotion." Tell me what you think please. 26/F Mom to a t1D
" Being a single teenage mother is hard. There are nights when you run on empty because you have spent hours watching your baby breathe, terrified that if you look away for even a moment, something terrible could happen. There are days when you cry quietly in the shower because somewhere between diapers, sleepless nights, and survival, you have forgotten who you are outside of being “Mom.” However, one of the most terrifying and heart-wrenching obstacles I have ever faced was staring the reaper in the eye as he stood over my twenty-three-month-old daughter, ready to claim her life.
Two weeks before that terrifying day, I had a feeling that something was wrong. As a mother, intuition is powerful, especially when it comes to your child. I had read an article online about a mother who dropped her daughter off with their usual babysitter while she went to work. The little girl was not feeling well, so the babysitter encouraged her to rest. Unbeknownst to everyone around her, the child was actively in Diabetic Ketoacidosis, also known as DKA. By the time the mother made it back from work, her daughter had passed away.
Most people read stories like that and think, “That could never happen to my child.” I was not most people. Fear settled into my chest immediately, and I contacted my daughter’s pediatrician to ask that she be tested for diabetes following the conclusion of that very article. The results came back negative. I remember feeling relieved beyond words. I convinced myself that everything was fine and that my fears had been irrational.
What I did not know then was that Diabetic Ketoacidosis is unpredictable and deadly. DKA is a life-threatening complication of Type 1 Diabetes caused by a severe lack of insulin. Without insulin, the body cannot properly turn glucose into energy, causing dangerous acids called ketones to build in the bloodstream. Although many children are diagnosed later in childhood, Type 1 Diabetes does not discriminate by age. Unfortunately, I would learn that lesson firsthand.
On April 22, 2019, my world changed forever.
My daughter was sick. We had been awake the entire night. She was constantly thirsty and soaking through diaper after diaper. Her breath smelled metallic and strangely fruity, and her once bright blue eyes had sunken deep into her face. I was exhausted, scared, and completely alone. Yet despite every warning sign, I made the worst mistake possible: I waited.
When morning finally came, I scheduled a sick appointment with her pediatrician. Without proper insurance information on file, the office refused to see us until everything was sorted out. So we waited even longer while I sat on the phone with the insurance company, holding my barely responsive child in my arms.
Then everything took a horrifying turn.
A receptionist pulled me aside and nurses began accusing me of leaving medication within my daughter’s reach. They believed she was overdosing. I was only nineteen years old, standing there with a blue-lipped, shaking child in my arms while strangers silently questioned whether I had failed her. Shock twisted in my stomach. I knew they did not believe me when I insisted there was no possible way she had gotten into medication.
An ambulance was called, and before I could fully process what was happening, we were on our way to the hospital.
Mortified, I asked the EMT if he had ever seen anything like this before. I pleaded with him, insisting that this could not be an overdose. When we arrived at the emergency room, another EMT took one look at my daughter sitting in triage, ripped her from my arms, and sprinted down the hallway yelling, “I need a glucose check, STAT!”
I did not know exactly what that meant, but I knew it was bad.
I ran after him as fast as my legs could carry me because although we were finally in a hospital, one terrifying truth echoed through my mind: a stranger had just run off with my dying baby.
Seven hundred forty-nine.
That number replayed in my mind over and over as though there were a racetrack built just for it. The average blood glucose level for a child her age is between 70 and 100 mg/dL. My daughter’s blood sugar was 749 mg/dL.
The room erupted into chaos. Nurses cut the onesie from her frail body and attached monitor after monitor. Doctors rushed around shouting instructions while machines beeped endlessly around us. They intubated her, scanned her brain, administered ketamine, performed CPR, and flooded her tiny body with fluids. I stood frozen in the corner, completely helpless, watching strangers fight to save my child’s life.
The hospital did not have a pediatric intensive care unit, so she needed to be life-flighted to another hospital over an hour away.
After an hour of constant monitoring, eight nurses and two doctors fighting to stabilize her, and the terrifying helicopter ride ahead of us, I finally got an answer. My daughter was in severe Diabetic Ketoacidosis. She was dangerously dehydrated, and her brain had begun to swell. Had we waited any longer, I would be telling a very different story.
When I arrived at the hospital in Danville, Pennsylvania, everything felt unfamiliar and overwhelming. I wandered through endless hallways feeling intimidated, confused, heartbroken, and consumed by guilt. None of it mattered, though, except finding my daughter.
When I finally entered the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, I spoke briefly with a doctor before being directed to her room. My heart shattered the moment I saw her. Tubes and wires surrounded her tiny body. Saline and insulin dripped through IV lines while machines monitored every breath she took. She looked terrified. She was trapped in an unfamiliar place surrounded by strangers and painful procedures she could not possibly understand.
For the next three days, we met with endocrinologists and diabetes specialists who taught me everything I needed to know about Type 1 Diabetes. They explained insulin, glucose monitoring, carbohydrate counting, dangerous highs and lows, and how to keep my daughter alive. Slowly, the panic inside me began to settle. For the first time since this nightmare began, I realized she was going to survive.
The past seven years have not been easy. Diabetes does not take breaks, and neither do parents of diabetic children. Every outing requires insulin, insulin pumps, continuous glucose monitors, test strips, glucagon, juice boxes, snacks, lancets, and emergency supplies. Every meal requires calculations. Every high or low blood sugar reading still sends fear rushing through my body.
But over time, something incredible happened: my daughter learned strength alongside me.
Now she is learning how to check her own blood sugar, count carbohydrates, and understand how insulin affects her body. Watching her grow into someone who refuses to let diabetes control her life has become my greatest accomplishment.
Looking back, I am grateful for every person who helped save my daughter’s life: the EMTs, nurses, doctors, endocrinologists, and the scientists who helped discover insulin in 1921. Most of all, though, I am grateful for my intuition.
This experience taught me the importance of trusting my instincts and never taking a single moment for granted. Life can change in the blink of an eye, and sometimes the smallest voice inside you can become the very thing that saves someone you love."