Copyright 1999, Lily Robinton and Insulin Pumpers

 "Pleeeease mom? Can't I just stay one more? C'mon, just one more!" That used to be my voice begging my mom to let me stay over another night or another hour with my friends.  I used to hide when it was time for me to leave my friends and go home to what I considered to be utmost boredom.  I was a normal ten year old social butterfly.  I had never felt strange or excluded, and as far as I was concerned, I fit right in.  That was before I got sick, and was diagnosed as a Type1 diabetic exactly one week after my eleventh birthday.  I didn't know what being diabetic was all about, but I knew enough from my fourth grade health class to know that I wouldn't be able to eat candy or sweets like everyone else, and I would have to get a lot of shots. 

During my next few days in the hospital I learned that unlike
everyone else, I no longer had a functioning pancreas to make something called insulin that the body needed to turn the food I ate into energy.  Instead I would have to take three shots a day of insulin to keep my body running. 

While I was in the hospital my soccer team made me a get well soon card, I appreciated it a lot, but I thought it to be slightly ironic since I couldn't ever "get well" from diabetes, I would literally be stuck with it forever.  It didn't seem fair. Why did I get it?  Nobody else at my whole school had been diabetic.  How did it end up that I was singled out to be the one?  I felt like a puzzle piece that's been thrown in the wrong puzzle box and won't fit with the other pieces no matter which way it's turned. 

Most of my close friends didn't treat me differently afterwards.  I only lost one friend as a result of my diagnoses.   Even though many people acted like I was the same, the difference was as evident as if someone had branded my forehead with a huge DIABETIC stamp.  I put up the best shield I could to announce that I was still the same old Lily, but the effort exhausted me and as soon as I had to perform a "diabetic task" such as taking a blood sample from my finger, my shield would crumble and I would burst into tears at the unfairness of what I alone had to do. Something that none of my friends had to deal with.  Holding up the pretense around my friends that I was okay was so tiring that I began to prefer the safe company of my family. 

To make matters worse, I was about to start sixth grade at a
completely new school where I would be expected to meet many new friends.  I fervently hoped that I would have some of my old
classmates in my new class so I wouldn't have to face any new people. On the first day of school, I discovered to my dismay that I had none of my old friends in my class.  Maybe the old Lily would have been fine in this situation and would have even stepped out to see what fun new acquaintance she could make.  I had buried that person inside me. 

I was tired from having to wear the "I'm okay" shield, and I was fed up with sticking and poking myself all the time, and I hated to have to leave the classroom every day to eat my scheduled snacks.
All this made me want to curl into a ball and hide in a cave by myself.  While I was busy trying to avoid people, my old friends were busy making new friends in their new classes, and slowly but surely, the distance between us widened. 

I made it a ritual every night to look up into the sky and find the brightest star I could, and wish with all my heart that there would be some miracle, some cure that would make me just like everyone else again. I don't know how far I would have pulled back into myself if I hadn't gotten an insulin pump a few months later.  I guess I better explain a little. 

An insulin pump is a box containing a syringe filled with insulin.  A tube attaches to the syringe and runs down to a needle that is inserted in my skin and stays there for three to four days until it needs to be changed. Believe it or not, the needle doesn't hurt during this time. When I need insulin, I can push some buttons on my pump and it will give me that amount through the needle. 

This meant that I wouldn't ever need to stop what I was doing to take an injection, or eat an unwanted snack, or have people make something "special" when I came over to eat dinner.  I could eat sugar, and as much (within reason) as I wanted, all because an insulin pump is much more effective than injections and is more like an actual pancreas.    I was more like a normal kid.  I was still different, but not with a capital D.

Diabetes no longer felt like a death sentence, but was instead
something that I had control over, and it made it a lot easier to
accept. As soon as I began to accept my differentness my personality began to blossom again.  I became more social and outgoing, like I was before I was diagnosed.  I stopped wishing every night to be just like everyone else, and I even found some positive light to my situation.  I realized that being diabetic didn't make me worse than everyone else, and it didn't mean my life would be less fun and exciting. 

The change in my attitude was noticeable, and in many instances, instead of being pitied, I was given respect for dealing with my diabetes.  I was no longer self conscious of being diabetic, and as a result people around me became more comfortable with it's existence as well.  They knew that since I wasn't embarrassed about it, then they didn't need to be embarrassed to ask me questions. Most importantly, by accepting my diabetes, I realized I didn't need to be like everyone else to be happy. 

Thanks for visiting my page. Would you like to learn more about pumping Insulin? Take a click over to Insulin Pumpers
Here's a page that explains how the pumps work

If you have some questions about Insulin pumping, or need some support, send a note to  You'll be glad that you did!

                       Bye for now, Lily

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Joan Fleitas, Ed.D., R.N.
Associate Professor of Nursing, Lehman College, CUNY
Bronx, New York 10468

Last updated: November 16, 2004