I remember standing eye-level at our small turquoise Formica kitchen table and watching my father practice injecting an orange with a syringe. Although she was in her early 20s, my mother had just been diagnosed with what was then called “juvenile diabetes.” After a few rounds of practice injections with the orange, my father gave my mother her insulin. And thus, at three years of age, I was introduced to living in a family with a chronically ill parent. We held routine “mommy drills” — what to do if mom started acting silly or, even worse, was unconscious due to low blood sugar. Read More
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