In October of 2021, our lives shifted forever.
My son had been complaining of stomach pain for a few days. Like any parent trying to avoid an unnecessary doctor visit, we tried the usual remedies. First, Tums—maybe it was something he ate. Then stool softeners—he’s had issues with constipation before. After exhausting all our typical at-home solutions, he insisted the pain was only getting worse.
Since it was after hours and neither his primary doctor nor any local clinics were open, I took him to the ER. We checked in around 7 p.m. By that time, he was rapidly declining—vomiting, growing weaker by the minute. He needed a wheelchair just to get to triage.
I sat helplessly as child after child—laughing, running, seemingly healthy—got called back before him. I understand triage works based on severity, but my son was deteriorating in front of my eyes. I had to repeatedly alert the nurses: “He’s vomiting.” “He’s about to pass out.” Still, we waited. At 3 a.m.—eight hours later—they finally took him back.
The usual workup began: vitals, blood draws, and then a COVID and flu test. When the doctor finally came in, his words hit like a truck.
“He’s COVID positive—and he’s in diabetic ketoacidosis. Your son is a Type 1 diabetic.”
They believed COVID had triggered the autoimmune response. His diabetes was always there, lurking beneath the surface, just waiting to emerge.
He was admitted and spent three days semi-conscious, hooked up to an insulin drip. He was 12 years old. It was the scariest, most stressful experience of my life as a mother. Due to COVID restrictions, only my husband and I could be with him. No visitors. Not that he would have recognized them—he wasn’t lucid.
Fast forward to today—he’s now a smart, witty, and ornery 16-year-old who’s about to get behind the wheel. The transition hasn’t been easy. Being diagnosed at 12 meant adjusting late in childhood, learning a whole new way of living. Like most growing teens, he’s hungry all the time—but he’s limited to 70g of carbs per meal. That’s not much for a teenager still growing and active.
It took over two years to get him on an insulin pump, which changed everything. With it, he can manage his blood sugar more consistently, and life feels a bit more normal. But the stress? That doesn’t go away. The financial burden is relentless. Insurance only covers so much, and what they don’t? We pay out of pocket—because he needs these supplies to live. There’s no pill for Type 1. This isn’t like managing Type 2 with diet or oral meds. This is survival—every single day.
And then there’s the school.
We’re constantly advocating for his 504 Plan to be upheld. He’s not allowed to take a test if his blood sugar is below 70 or above 250—it impairs his thinking. Yet a health teacher once forced him to stay and take a final when his blood sugar was in the 50s. His vision was going in and out, and she refused to let him leave to see the nurse. The nurse had to come to the classroom to get him. She stayed with him until he finished the test—because the teacher wouldn’t let him go.
He didn’t even tell me until two weeks after school ended. He was afraid.
And what was done about it? Nothing.
He’s not exempt from finals, even if he’s been out due to diabetes-related instability. If he gets sick, it takes him longer to recover. His blood sugar becomes unstable. He’s had almost all A’s, yet still, no grace. No mercy. Just expectations that don’t account for the reality of his life.
The emotional toll is real. He’s gone through counseling to cope—and it helped. But the weight of being different, of always fighting, of always having to prove himself? It wears on him. And as a parent, watching your child carry that kind of burden is unbearable.
A principal once told him, “Well, life isn’t fair.”
No kidding. He knows that better than most.
So here’s what I say: Do better.
Do better, insurance companies.
Do better, school systems.
Do better, world.
Because our kids deserve better.
Signed,
A frustrated and exhausted mother
Singing Like A Canary 