I was eight when my normal life got ripped out from under me. As a fourth grader, life wasn’t all that difficult. Nothing weighed on my mind except choosing which friend to spend the weekend with. That weekend in 2005 started just like any other.

On Saturday, Abby had a slumber party for a bunch of girls. We spent the night watching movies, munching popcorn and candy, and drinking out of heart-shaped water bottles. I just couldn’t get enough water. I must have refilled my bottle and gone to the bathroom at least 15 times. I missed a lot of the movie because of those treks.

I was a frustrated kid. For the last few months, sleeping had become a chore. I. Could. Not. Fall. Asleep. At all. Ever. I spent those nights watching the fish float up and down in my lava lamp. Why would a kid who usually slept like a rock suddenly not be able to rest? I was exhausted all the time. I would cry during the night, out of frustration, and then my mother would climb into bed with me. Even with her there, I couldn’t drift off. I tried everything: sleeping exercises, counting sheep, and even sleep medicine. Nothing worked. I thought I was going crazy.

After I got home from Abby’s, I told my mom about being so thirsty and peeing like crazy. She talked to my dad, who has type 1 diabetes. On a hunch, he decided to check my blood sugar.

As I inspected his glucose monitor, I became nervous. “Dad, I don’t want to. I’m fine, really,” I said.

“It won’t hurt,” he assured me. “Just a little pinch, just for a second.” He pricked my finger, drew a drop of blood, and put it on a strip. I recall noticing that both my parents held their breath, although at the time I didn’t understand why. The meter beeped with its answer. My father’s reaction said it all.

My blood sugar was 453 – a clear sign that something was wrong. I didn’t know that a normal level was between 80 and 150. There it was, looking us dead in the face: a clear sign that my normal childhood was over.

Although it was pretty late at night, my father, mother, and I got in the car and headed to the emergency room. When we arrived, my father explained what was going on and we were immediately ushered into a private room. The EMT was an older man in a blue jumpsuit with long hair. He reminded me of a hippie janitor, but he was nice. I remember him swiftly putting a long needle into my bony left wrist. It hurt, so I tried to think of something else.

The hippie janitor hooked me up to an IV and left. I looked at my parents’ faces. It hurt to watch them. They had seen their beautiful little girl turn into a skeleton over the past few months. The sleepless nights had etched dark circles under my eyes. I looked like a zombie. Their faces were somber as they put it all together: the exhaustion and frustration, the mood swings, the many bathroom runs and empty glasses.

It hit my father like a brick wall. Diabetes can be inherited, and his fear of having one of his children endure what he had was always in his mind. I later found out that he cried on my mother’s shoulder, thinking it was his fault.

They both put on their best fake smiles as a volunteer walked in holding a teddy bear with warm eyes and soft fur. It would be the first of many hospital stuffed animals. I greedily reached for the bear and cuddled it close. The next nurse who came in I didn’t like too much. She lifted my shirt and said she would count to three. She lied. As most nurses do, she stabbed deep into my skinny stomach on two, not three. Little did I know that I’d have to endure six or more of these shots every day for the rest of my life.

Then the doctor came in, unhooked me from the IV, and talked to my parents briefly. We were going home! I was so happy. I was fixed! All better! I was wrong.

When we got home, I crawled into my grandma’s lap and cradled my wrist with the sharp needle still in it. My grandmother rubbed my back and held back tears as I finally, for the first time in months, fell asleep.

The next morning I discovered I didn’t have to go to school. I was so happy – until I found out I was seeing a doctor, as well as a dietitian and an endocrinologist, instead.

The waiting room had a children’s table and many used coloring books and crayons. I began to color as my mother talked to the receptionist. I looked around the room at all the sick kids and wondered how many had colored in this book. I wondered how many of the kids who had passed through this room were still living. I looked around to make sure my mom wasn’t near, grabbed a red crayon, and scrawled “Jennique was here” in my best fourth-grader handwriting. I thought I was going to die, and I wanted to make sure that if I did, no one would forget me. Maybe someone would read what I’d written and know that I had been here too.

I was taught how to “count carbs,” give myself shots, and check my blood sugar. Then I realized it wasn’t over. This was just the first of hundreds of doctor visits. I didn’t want to understand, so I didn’t. I kept crying about how it wasn’t fair. It was my first lesson that nothing in life is fair.

Shots scared me, and I refused to inject myself. I couldn’t get over the idea of purposely making myself hurt every time I ate. My mother had to hold me down on the bed, and I would thrash violently while my father gave me a shot. It must have been awful for them, but if they hadn’t done it, they would’ve lost me.

That week I must have aged ten years. I was thinking about things no eight-year-old should have to. I worried that if I made one mistake I would go blind, lose an arm or leg, or die. That makes a person grow up.

I had seen my father give himself insulin injections every day, but I didn’t worry about him, didn’t wonder why. Now, for the first time, I understood. I cared. I worried. Because I had diabetes, I now cared about others. I cared about their struggles and pain. I wanted to help them. I wanted to understand.

My normal life ended when I was eight years old, and my new life began. I went back to school a week later in the same body, but everyone could tell that I wasn’t the same girl.

It has been 3,135 days since my diagnosis. Since D-Day I have given myself 16,000 shots. I have pricked myself 13,000 times. Each shot makes me grow wiser, smarter, and kinder.

People ask me if I would choose to not have diabetes, given the chance. My answer always shocks them. “No. I am glad I have diabetes.” It has molded me into an incredible person I feel I wouldn’t be if I hadn’t suffered what I have. I have an unbreakable bond with my father, and diabetes has helped me decide what I want for my future. On February 22, 2005, my life changed – for the better.