Diabetes
This is the story of my experience with the healthcare system. A story which may seem all too familiar to other Latinas who don't have health insurance or who struggle with a chronic illness like diabetes. During June 1985 times were very hard for me. I was 20, a junior in college, and living with my tia because my mother had lost her job. There were seven of us living in my tia's two bedroom house on East L.A., they were all victims of the bad economy, and downsizing. I had no idea, however, that the hardest time for my mother and I was about to begin. My mother was a single-parent. I never knew my father. He left when he found out that my mother was pregnant. My mother was a seamstress working in the sweat shops of Los Angeles in order to survive with a small child. My tia was my second mother. She picked up the slack that my father left behind. She watched me until the wee hours of the night when my mother got home from a 12-hour day of sewing endless bundles of clothes at the "fabrica." I was always a sick child. My mother relied on the bus to get around. I found out that my mother often had to wrap me in heavy blankets when I had high fevers and had to take two or three buses to take me to Children's Hospital on the other side of town. I heard this from my tia. My mother tries to forget those times because they are too painful. Those were turbulent times in the L.A. of the early 1960's - riots, disturbances - a foreign world to my mother who grew up in a dirt-floored house in Mexico. I was commuting 50 miles each way to U.C. Irvine from East L.A. everyday because I couldn't afford to live on campus, and carrying a full load of 21 quarter units. I was determined to graduate in four-years no matter what. One Thursday evening a strange pain overcame me and I collapsed during class. I was taken to the U.C.I. Medical Center. The first question they asked was "What kind of medical insurance do you have? I said none. I never thought I would need it. My mother didn't have insurance either. You know, sweat-shops are not in the business of taking care of the people whose hands toil day and night to make them a profit. Sad isn’t it? I was in the hospital for ten days of extensive testing to find out what was making me so ill. In the meantime, the hospital social worker was bending over backwards to find an exception to the convoluted Medi-Cal regulations so that I could get medical coverage. My mother was also fighting her own battle. She went to the Social Services Department in East L.A --she went like the women who go to the Basilica in Mexico City on their knees seeking miracles—only to be humiliated by the social workers. They made her justify her need for Medi-Cal for her sick daughter. "Why aren't you working?" "Why don't you have medical insurance?" they would ask; "Tell me again, what's wrong with your daughter?" they rudely insisted. Their attitude just made my mom angrier and she fought back. She made herself understood in her broken English. It took three visits to make the social workers get her some health coverage. They finally said yes, but with a "but." They said "yes, but you may have to pay the state back if you have any property." What property? My mom replied! "Does an old broken car counts as property?" It took six hours with numerous specialists from U.C.I. and U.C.L.A to find out what was wrong with me. Finally, they diagnosed me to have a rare form of chronic pancreatitis. I had developed three peach stone-sized calcifications in my pancreas. As a result, I had lost 2/3 of the functions of my pancreas, and I was told that I would probably become an insulin-dependent diabetic within the year. I didn't worry about that though because I was too worried about feeling better so that I could make up my classes and finals. The doctors told my mom that I needed an operation. But I was safe now, I had Medi-Cal. I felt that I was the richest person in the world then because I had health insurance. Against the doctor's orders I had been staying late working to complete numerous papers while in the hospital awaiting the operation. My mom was driving 45 miles everyday from East L.A. to Irvine to see me at the hospital. Twenty days later, after the surgery, I was allowed to go home. The recovery was slow, but I was able to make-up my classes and start my senior year in the Fall. I graduated in four years, and went on to law school. I became the first person in my entire family to finish college. Four years later the doctor's prediction came true. I became diabetic in the middle of law school. Fortunately, I had graduate student insurance at Berkeley which was very good. I was sent to U.C. San Francisco where I got the best medical care available. I was in good hands. I am a Type I diabetic. This means that I am insulin-dependent. I have to take three to four injections of insulin a day. I feel fortunate because I had the opportunity to acquire the tools to take control of my healthcare. I have insisted and demanded that physicians make my case a priority, and that they provide me access to the latest medical advances. I have demanded that I be allowed to attend classes to teach me to understand and how to control my diabetes. I don't want to become another statistic. Diabetes is prevalent in minority groups. It affects the Latino population disproportionately. Studies show, however, that detecting it on time and keeping it under control decreases the ominous risks and complications that come with uncontrolled diabetes. I have also insisted that I be given the recommended tests to make sure that my diabetes is in control - annual ophthalmological exams, A1C tests every three months to monitor my control, and kidney function tests to monitor whether my kidneys have been affected. It has been eight years since I developed diabetes, and although I have had minor complications with my pancreas, I have not had any permanent damage to my eyes, or kidneys, which are the first signs of diabetic complications. I have been on the insulin pump now for two years. This has allowed me to control my diabetes even better. I feel fortunate because my insurance paid for the six thousand dollar pump. My doctor knows that I want to have children someday, and that this expensive pump will help me do so. I have done a lot of research on diabetes and pregnancy. I have learned that good control will help decrease the risk of miscarriages, spinal cord defects, and other birth defects. But my diabetes has been a daily struggle. It is a difficult part of my life, a part that I cannot choose to ignore or run from, and which affects every decision I make: when and what to eat, when I can have children, when and how I exercise, what can and cannot eat when traveling. It is awkward whenever people in public stare at my pump every time I have to dial a dose of insulin. They ask "why does your beeper have a plastic tube?" or "What is that?" It's also difficult to explain to co-workers why I have so many doctors’ appointments. Family doesn't understand why I can't eat all the great Mexican food they make. It's difficult to explain the concept of carbohydrate counting and why my blood sugar goes up when I eat too many starches, not just foods with sugar. "Come on, have a couple more tamales and rice, it won't kill you" or "Mija, you should try that 'hierba' that cured tia Cuca's diabetes - she eats everything now." They would comment. It’s hard to tell them "no thanks." It makes me feel alienated and lonely sometimes when the family gathers on the holidays. What do I say? How do I make my point that I cannot eat certain foods? I try to be polite when rejecting their delicious meals. Sometimes they get upset with me but I know I owe it to myself to take care of my body even if it means to never eat my aunt’s savory chicken tamales again. I have come full circle from the days when my mother struggled to take me to the doctor on the bus. I am now an attorney. I often wonder how my life would have been had my mother stayed in Mexico. Would I have survived my illness, would I have been told that I couldn't have children as so many diabetic women were told? I feel so lucky and fortunate that my chronic illness has taken a turn for the better. I refuse to lose this battle. Unfortunately, the medical profession in our communities has not educated Latinos about Diabetes, its risks, and how to avoid them. I have many relatives who have developed Type II diabetes later in their lives, but who have not been given the tools to fight this disease. I have made it my mission to help them and others with knowledge about this illness so that they may live longer and healthier lives. This is why I tell my story to everyone who wants and cares to listen. Anonymous
Anonymous