Taste of Empowerment
The first time I ever felt empowered was the second day of sixth grade. On the first day, my mom had taken her morning off work to drive me to school, from Chinatown to Northridge, in order to give me my insulin injections for breakfast and lunch, and to make sure the school nurse knew everything she needed to about me. Nurse Sue was astonished that my mom had gone to such an extent to take care of me. "Astonished" might be too nice of a word--I think she was shocked, and perhaps even abhorred. I was in sixth grade now, and I had never given myself an injection, despite having had T1D for 10 years now?! Now that I think back on it, I myself am ashamed.
The second day of school, my mom did the same thing--she took the morning off work and drove another almost 40 miles to school. Again, she waited in the nurse's office while I had my morning classes, and when lunch time rolled around, I entered the nurse's office wondering how we would ever resolve this major inconvenience. As I realized that Nurse Sue could simply administer my shots every day at lunch, I felt some calm. A great deal of dependence and maybe some childishness, but calm. Calm because I didn't have to face the music. So I checked my blood sugar and my mom prepared the injection accordingly. As I pulled up my t-shirt sleeve, Nurse Sue suddenly exclaimed, "No, let her do it herself! You cannot do this for her every single day." I was stunned. My mom was stunned. Stupendous, we both stared at her, as though this were an outrageously revolutionary--and insane--idea. And in fact, it was. Neither of us had ever considered that I would take this over on my own.
After at least 10 minutes of hesitation, I took some deep breaths and told myself this was something I simply must do. I also knew that there was no way in the universe Nurse Sue would let me get out of it. I felt helpless, anxious, nervous--I don't think I had ever felt any combination of those three prior to that moment. And my mom--oh, bless her soul--was just as anxious and nervous as I, peering frantically from the edge of her seat as I millimeter-ed the syringe closer and closer to my skin. She was ready to leap out of her chair if anything for any reason somehow went wrong. At last, I went for it. I hated seeing the needle go under my skin. I had always looked away each time anyone gave me an injection, and each time a medical professional on television administered a shot. But as I pulled the needle out (I'm sure there's a more medically appropriate term for this step of the process), my mom and I exhaled huge sighs of relief in tandem. Nurse Sue simply stood there with an "I told you so" smile, and proceeded to rush my mom out of her office, urging her to go on with her day.
My mom never returned to the nurse's office at Nobel Middle School, and Nurse Sue never administered an injection for me.
This lunch time was a tremendous turning point in my life, but I give little thought to it. I once wrote an essay for Chinese school about Nurse Sue, and I have told this story once in my past year of personal development. Despite that it took me nearly 10 years to face the music, I had finally done it. This was my first step toward real independence, and dare I say, adulthood. I no longer relied on my mom for every single injection--which was multiple times a day. It gave me freedom, and it unquestionably gave her freedom. Granted, she still worried immensely, but at least she no longer needed to physically be with me all the time. Only this week did it occur to me that this was my first taste of not only independence, but also empowerment. Gradually, a whole new world of possibility opened up, and I began to see and exercise control over my life. I no longer was tied down by (medical) dependence on my mom or my school nurse. Rather than letting T1D hold me back and hold me down like I had in elementary school, I began to own it. It was something I had the power to control; it did not control me. It was certainly a part of my life, but it was absolutely not my entire life. If injecting myself had been my biggest fear, and all I had to do to overcome it was just do it, then there was probably little that I couldn't do (within reason). With all of these realizations, I felt empowered.
The second day of school, my mom did the same thing--she took the morning off work and drove another almost 40 miles to school. Again, she waited in the nurse's office while I had my morning classes, and when lunch time rolled around, I entered the nurse's office wondering how we would ever resolve this major inconvenience. As I realized that Nurse Sue could simply administer my shots every day at lunch, I felt some calm. A great deal of dependence and maybe some childishness, but calm. Calm because I didn't have to face the music. So I checked my blood sugar and my mom prepared the injection accordingly. As I pulled up my t-shirt sleeve, Nurse Sue suddenly exclaimed, "No, let her do it herself! You cannot do this for her every single day." I was stunned. My mom was stunned. Stupendous, we both stared at her, as though this were an outrageously revolutionary--and insane--idea. And in fact, it was. Neither of us had ever considered that I would take this over on my own.
After at least 10 minutes of hesitation, I took some deep breaths and told myself this was something I simply must do. I also knew that there was no way in the universe Nurse Sue would let me get out of it. I felt helpless, anxious, nervous--I don't think I had ever felt any combination of those three prior to that moment. And my mom--oh, bless her soul--was just as anxious and nervous as I, peering frantically from the edge of her seat as I millimeter-ed the syringe closer and closer to my skin. She was ready to leap out of her chair if anything for any reason somehow went wrong. At last, I went for it. I hated seeing the needle go under my skin. I had always looked away each time anyone gave me an injection, and each time a medical professional on television administered a shot. But as I pulled the needle out (I'm sure there's a more medically appropriate term for this step of the process), my mom and I exhaled huge sighs of relief in tandem. Nurse Sue simply stood there with an "I told you so" smile, and proceeded to rush my mom out of her office, urging her to go on with her day.
My mom never returned to the nurse's office at Nobel Middle School, and Nurse Sue never administered an injection for me.
This lunch time was a tremendous turning point in my life, but I give little thought to it. I once wrote an essay for Chinese school about Nurse Sue, and I have told this story once in my past year of personal development. Despite that it took me nearly 10 years to face the music, I had finally done it. This was my first step toward real independence, and dare I say, adulthood. I no longer relied on my mom for every single injection--which was multiple times a day. It gave me freedom, and it unquestionably gave her freedom. Granted, she still worried immensely, but at least she no longer needed to physically be with me all the time. Only this week did it occur to me that this was my first taste of not only independence, but also empowerment. Gradually, a whole new world of possibility opened up, and I began to see and exercise control over my life. I no longer was tied down by (medical) dependence on my mom or my school nurse. Rather than letting T1D hold me back and hold me down like I had in elementary school, I began to own it. It was something I had the power to control; it did not control me. It was certainly a part of my life, but it was absolutely not my entire life. If injecting myself had been my biggest fear, and all I had to do to overcome it was just do it, then there was probably little that I couldn't do (within reason). With all of these realizations, I felt empowered.
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