Is there a “right age”?

Hey y’all!

I know, I know, I know.  It’s been AGES since I’ve posted.  Life has been crazy, ya know?  The only reason I’m posting right now is because I’m procrastinating on all the studying I should be doing for final exams.

So I saw a post on TypeOneNation this week that really got me thinking.  Many of y’all know that I spend a lot of time on that site, helping new PWD adjust to their diagnosis and answering questions from anyone who needs advice.  One of our new members this week, with whom I’ve been communicating quite a bit, is a mom whose teenage son was recently diagnosed.  Among her many questions was one that stuck out to me: Would things be better if her son had been diagnosed at a different age?

As y’all know, I was diagnosed at age 7.  That means that I was young enough to be completely helpless and overwhelmed with my condition—I relied on help from others for years afterward—but old enough to remember “normal” life.  Kinda right in the middle, getting the best and worst of both sides.

When I attended CC19 this past summer, I had the opportunity to meet kids who were diagnosed at 1, 2, and 3 years old.  Kids who have no memory whatsoever of a life before their condition.  And through my work in the DOC, I’ve met people who were diagnosed in their teenage years, or even older.  They’ve had to learn an entirely new way of life, something that—while it’s difficult at any age—is so much harder when you’re older and independent.

So what’s the ideal age to be diagnosed?  Is there even such a thing?  I suppose it depends on your perspective.  There have definitely been times when I’ve wished I didn’t remember my life before I was diagnosed... but there have also been times when I’m grateful that I was able to experience a “normal” life for so long.

I also see things from a parent’s perspective.  At CC19 I spent a lot of time with a 5-year-old boy who was diagnosed when he was 2.  I saw him checking his blood sugar, taking insulin, doing all the things I do every day—and it broke my heart because he’s so damn young.  I can’t imagine helping a kid adjust to a T1D diagnosis when they’re too young to understand what’s going on, too young to put on a facade of bravery like all PWD do when we’re old enough to keep our fear inside.

On the other hand, if you’re diagnosed young—really young—you never miss the life you had without your condition.  I went through every stage of grief when I was diagnosed—I think all of us did, if we were old enough to understand what was going on.  It would be nice, in a way, to grow up without the trauma that results from the memories of a T1D diagnosis.

So I don’t know.  I guess there’s never a good time to be diagnosed, because it’s gonna suck no matter what.  It’s a scary, dangerous, awful thing.  And whatever age you’re diagnosed, you’re always gonna wish it had been different: earlier, later, whatever.

If there’s one thing my time in the DOC has taught me, it’s that a diagnosis like this one brings out a strength that people don’t know they have.  Whether you’re a PWD or a parent of one, that diagnosis teaches you a new hopelessness and then a new hope.  And yeah, I know I said I wasn’t gonna get all emotional with this one, but if you’ve been through it, you know.

Stay tough, y’all.  The holidays are coming—my next post is probably gonna be about that.  In the meantime, I’m sending lots of love your way!