At age eleven I was diagnosed as a Type I diabetic. I weighed 90 pounds dripping wet, and in May of 1972 I went from that 90 pounds to 56 in about two and a half weeks. I was incessantly thirsty. I couldn’t eat enough food, and I threw up and pissed like a drunken sailor.
My dad took me to the family doctor, and he tested my urine and called the children’s hospital in Columbus, Ohio, to get me admitted. Once there, my blood tested at 901 – I was on the edge of a coma. I was in the ICU for a week before they moved me to a regular room, where my diabetic training commenced.
I was put on a special diet – seven exchanges a day. Three servings of meat or protein (eggs, fish, peanut butter), four milk or dairy, three fruits, three vegetables and two fats. If I wanted ice cream, I could have it, only if I exchanged one milk and one dairy for it. I was told to avoid a lot of starches, potatoes, bread, rice, cereal – everything an eleven year old craves. Only three of these, no more candy. No more sickly sweet sodas.
The doctors at the hospital told my dad that I had juvenile diabetes, and that I most likely wouldn’t see my 21st birthday. My dad and I celebrated that birthday together on December 16, 1981, and I’m 57 now. The docs were a bit off.
The doctors also told my dad not to be too strict with me. The more I was treated like I was a normal, the less likely I’d develop complications – everything in moderation. Of course, this instruction became another way for my mother to punish me. She rid the house of sugar. It was an actual sugar embargo. No more cakes, pies, cookies, candy, Captain Crunch. Nothing entered the house that could be construed as sugar.
I stuck to my diet and Dad would sneak me out on Saturday afternoons for ice cream. And, with sugar on the barred substance list, I learned to cook. Cakes, pies, and Toll House cookies were just a few ingredients away. I made a few trial and error mistakes, but you can’t keep a good (or bad) diabetic down.
However, if mom discovered my transgressions, she’d beat me silly, yell, scream and ground me for weeks on end. I didn’t get caught often, but when I did, there was hell to pay. When I turned sixteen, she took me to a church counselor to see, “What the @?!#!,” was wrong with me.
I talked to him for an hour. She talked to him for an hour. In the end, she grabbed me by the hand, and we stormed out of the church. Later that evening, my Dad told me, “Your mom is upset because the counselor told her you weren’t the problem, she was.”
On July 4th, 1980, I packed everything I owned and escaped to Ohio. By September I was back. I had a relapse. My insulin needed adjustment, and my blood sugar went back to 700, so I had to spend another two weeks in the hospital. This was proof to my mom that I wasn’t taking care of myself, and they were just wasting their time and money on a lost cause.
In September of 1981 I left again. This time I went to Grand Prairie, Texas. I sold the ‘useless comic books’ that were ‘taking up space and collecting dust’, and I rented a two bedroom apartment for six months. I fixed my car, got a job working for Kroger Grocery Company, and I paid for two semesters of college with money to spare. Thank you Marvel Comics!
In the spring of 1983 I got sick again, and Dad asked me to come home. He said he’d foot the rest of my college education. I almost graduated. In 1988 I was about 30 credit hours short of my degree in Computer Science, and I’d taken enough English courses to keep me close to an Associates in English.
After my dad died that year, I had another episode with diabetes, this time dropping instead of elevating. My sugar went to 28 one morning, and I almost died on the way to the hospital. Now, instead of too much sugar, it was not enough.
I was bouncing back and forth before my incarceration. And, now, after being in prison for 25 years surrounded by pancakes, pasta and everything but the proper nutrition, I’ve developed PTSD – Pancake Traumatic Stress Disorder.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Beginning to feel a little less ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, and Misunderstood’. In spite of 25 years behind bars, John Green continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583
