“No more syringes! You’ve gotten old enough to move onto the more advanced methods!” With significant excitement in his voice, this was my doctor’s big news for me. Unfortunately for him, my enthusiasm was not quite as high as he was wanting it to be. The idea of the change from a simple poke of a syringe was actually somewhat frightening to me. I would now be put on an insulin pump. This device would be constantly connected to my body. The terror of this future event began horrifying me.

I had been diabetic for three years; I was a petrified ten year old little girl. The time came when my doctor switched me to an insulin pump which required a site. A site is a long needle that, by the push of two springs, quickly punctures into the designated area. Once the needle is in you, you gently pull the needle out and a small, tiny, plastic tube called the cannula stays in the body while strong adhesive tape keeps it on the surface of the skin. Imagine going in to get a flu shot. Instead of a nice slow and steady poke, the nurse plunges a three inch needle into you skin at the speed of lightning. When the needle is slowly pulled out of you body, there is still a tiny piece of plastic buried within your tissue.

I’ll never forget the first time I had to use a site. It was a Wednesday night, and I was staying at my dad’s house. My mom went to the pharmacy to pick up the supplies and brought them over. While I was anticipating her arrival, my stomach began churning. As I was finishing up my dinner at the table, the door bell rang. I lost it, for I knew it was my mom. I suddenly released my fork from my hand, buried my face in my palms, and let out a high pitch squeal. Pictures of long needles and blood filled my head as thoughts of pain and insulin rushing through my veins crammed my brain. I refused to answer the door, not only because I didn’t want this event to happen, but partly because I couldn’t move. Finally, with tears flooding my face, my dad gently flung me over his shoulder and moved me to the front door.

While my mom was getting the supplies ready, the smell of the insulin was suffocating my nose. It was as if I was sitting right inside a hospital. I sat on the stairs, begging my parents to let me continue using syringes rather than a site. Sure it was still a needle, but the thought of one little poke in and out did not scare my ten year old self as much as a needle that quickly pierced me. I tried working my sad, scared puppy dog eyes on my parents for what was probably twenty minutes.That was it, my mom refused to give me any more time. I built up enough courage to tell myself the dreaded moment had come. I wanted to be brave by injecting it myself, but a ten year old can only be so courageous. My dad instructed me to take a couple deep breaths and it would be over before I knew it. With my dad holding my hand, my mom counted, “1..2...3! There! It’s in, you did it Lauren!”

After the entire neighborhood had known I was in pain, I finally calmed down, realizing that I was perfectly fine! With just a stinging sensation running through my abdomen, I had survived. The whole process was not nearly as traumatizing as I had anticipated it to be. I honestly felt somewhat embarrassed for how much of a dramatic event I had made it. Pride filled my body as a huge smile made its way to my face. Along with my parents, I was proud of myself for doing this. It had to be done one way or another: I had no control over it.

To this day, I use that moment as a reminder to myself that I cannot have control over everything. If something needs to be done, take a deep breath and do it because nothing is really as bad as it seems.