Sláinte

It will never mean the same.

You know those days that mark the beginning or the end of something? Like, there was life before someone died, and life after, but those two parts of your life don’t look the same. March 17th, 2026 will forever be one of those days for me, and my family. St. Patrick’s Day will now be a toast to something that isn’t about friends at the pub and corned beef and cabbage. It will be about something so much more personal where terror meets gratitude in the blink of an eye. And thankfully, no one died.

My 17-year-old son Zakary, is the picture of health. He’s a lean machine with a diet and workout ethic way beyond his years. He is easy on the eyes, and I don’t just mean mom’s eyes. It’s said enough to me by others that I trust it’s true. He has charisma and charm that help him get away with just about anything. He’s smart, talented, and in a relationship. GPA 3.85. He’s got money in his pocket from child acting and he has a car. It’s good to be Zakary.

For the last month he’s kind of been a dick. My husband and I have watched him slowly decline in so many ways over these weeks. He’s been irritable, snappy, and a total slob. His room looks like the aftermath of a zombie Apocalypse followed by Gremlins coming through and having a rave. His bathroom looks like 7 frat boys are sharing it. He is starting to present like the DMV sloths from Zootopia. It had crossed our minds, is he doing drugs? Why is he going through the weirdest dehydration ever? He is complaining of muscle cramps that no amount of water, Gatorade or magnesium is touching. He’s eaten enough bananas to sink the Titanic. He’s taken every supplement, is eating crazy amounts of food, both healthy and unhealthy, and he looks like he may be losing weight. What in the actual eff?

Monday, March 16th, 2026. He walks through our front door pale as a white walker, disoriented and weaker and slower than previously said sloths. He’s been dealing with a knee issue, and that pain seems to be getting to him. At a previous appointment, I asked the knee doc if we could also run some bloodwork, which he ignored, even after I made a second phone call earlier that day to ask again.

It seems my mom-dar is in full swing. Every fiber of my being knows something is wrong, and I’ve had enough. I take him to the closest ER, and within minutes he is being rushed back to triage like he’d been shot. As I start to rattle off the myriad of symptoms this month has presented, a doctor says to a nurse, “Prick his finger, he’s in DKA.” The nurse shows him the blood sugar monitor, and they exchange a look that pierces my heart and makes it bleed. He is put back in a room and as I follow, I ask the doc, “I’m sorry, what is DKA?” Firmly, he says “Diabetic Ketoacidosis.” Confused, I nod like I have any idea what that even means. I haven’t yet set my backpack down and an IV has already been inserted. Blood is drawn and sent out for a rush. They start a drip for hydration. The doc explains to me what Diabetic Ketoacidosis is. I’m bewildered. “Zak isn’t a diabetic? I still don’t understand?” Before he can answer, Zak’s body starts cramping up, his foot crunching over like Frankenstein, and he’s writhing and crying in pain as the cramping moves through both legs and up to his right hand. I’m rubbing, breaking quick-heat packs for his left leg and Harrison, the nurse, takes care of the right.

By now, Doc, who I now know is named John, explains to me that with a blood sugar of over 500, very high ketones, and very low potassium levels, he recommends putting Zakary on an insulin drip. The gaff is, they believe he needs to go to a Pediatric ICU, and this hospital doesn’t have one.

We had arrived at the ER at 530pm. It is now midnight and a 5-person transfer team arrives with what looks and sounds like a transformer. I ride in the front seat of an ambulance to Childrens Hospital Los Angeles, and Zak is accompanied by 4 medical professionals in the back. We get settled into room 5474B where we learn shortly thereafter that Zakary has Type 1 Diabetes.

There is no time to process what this feels like. All I know is a doctor told me that had I waited another hour to get to the hospital he might have died. Or at least he’d be in a coma. All I can access right now is relief. Thank goodness he’s alive. I keep hearing the term “DKA” over and over. I have never heard this acronym in my 55 years on this planet. In one night, I’ve heard it at least 50 times.

The next 48 hours are a fever dream. “Hi, I’m Izzy, your night nurse. We need to prick his finger and check his blood sugar, would that be ok?” I nod. I mean, what? Is there another option? She explains to me that we will spend the night with the goal of stabilizing his blood sugar and that insulin will be given constantly until we can get it under control. She brings me sheets and something they call a pillow and a couple of blankets so I can sleep next to him. The leg cramps come back, worse than ever before, and tears pour out of both our eyes as he screams. There is only one thing worse than 11 out of 10 pain. It is your child in 11 out of 10 pain. Moments like this take pieces of my soul and put them in a Ninja blender. As he calms and falls back asleep, I put together the hard couch turned inside out bed and put the gnarly pillow behind my head and stare at the ceiling. I can’t believe I’m here.

The flood of love that follows this day is overwhelming. The families at his school rally like a close family does. One of my favorite people arrives with black coffee and a Modern Bagel (the best GF bakery in LA) and some Saje Stress Relief Spray that will serve in lieu of a shower for a couple days. I’m usually the person who brings people things in the hospital. I barge in, unafraid to help and deliver what others need. I’m learning quickly who my people are and for the first time in my life, I’m letting them take care of us. Later that day, as she delivers smoothies for Karl and me, she catches Zakary and I sharing a moment bubbling up with tears. We were reading an email from another favorite mom that a collection had been made and there were links to gift cards for Amazon, Door Dash, Uber Eats, Instacart and cash venmo’d to me. We are so moved as we read it we just both break down a bit. Especially with the included GIF, that means a lot to us. More than any of them could even know.

The kind of mom friends I now have, thanks to this incredible school, show up in a way that is hard for me to receive. I’m not sure why we need or deserve any of these gifts. I’m told to receive them and use them for whatever we need in the coming days. I’m too tired to refuse it and accept the gifts, the hugs, the messages and have sprayed myself with the Saje spray at least 57 times.

We get a training from the hospital on how to inject insulin, do math problems, and understand the when and how much of it all. No big deal. Just life and death stuff. We are told if we can get a dietician training we can possibly go home that night.

HOLD PLEASE. I say I need to talk to the doctor. Our Endocrinologist comes in to check him, and I explain why I’m not comfortable taking him home so soon. Call me crazy but I don’t think one day of a diagnosis and one hour of learning his treatment plan is enough to send us home. I also want him to get through a night without Frankenfeet and screaming? Would that be ok? The doc agrees and turns out we will not have time for Dietcian training anyway, so another night is mandatory. Crisis averted.

Zakary seems relieved at this news. We aren’t ready to start this new life just yet. Hiding in a corner room at CHLA with medical professionals seems less stressful. We are insulated and don’t have to do anything we don’t want to.

By the time all things settle, Karl and Liam head home (they had come for Diabetes 101 training) and my coffee/bagel/smoothie/spray delivering angel Phaedra has left, I realize I have not had dinner. The cafe downstairs has closed up their hot food options, and I find myself using Door Dash to have some food delivered from my favorite Hollywood restaurant, Hugos. Seems some moms knew what I would need before I did.

The next morning I get up with the sun to use the restroom, and when I come out, I see Zak opening his eyes smiling. We stare at eachother with Chesire Cat grins for a few seconds both realizing what we had been hoping for came true. NO CRAMPS!!! The only thing better than being overcome with relief is seeing your child being overcome with relief. I feel like I can leave him for a bit and go downstairs to handle some business. After a stop at the Administration window, I peeked into the gift shop. I find myself buying a reusable water cup with Wonder Woman on it, a crossbody purse to replace the one that ripped in the rush to the hospital, and a little Stitch stuffie perched on a surfboard to remind Zakary we’d be doing normal things soon. This diagnosis doesn’t define him. He will eat what he wants, surf, ski, skate, act, dance, sing…he’s still him. He now has Type 1 Diabetes. But I now have a Wonder Woman drink cup and a Monarch butterfly cross-body bag to hold my wallet and a stuffed animal to cheer him up. Once again, I realize some moms knew what I needed before I did. I spent money in that gift shop with a huge smile feeling so much love.

The kind of urgency to teach him, and our family what T1D means and how we will move forward is 100 mph. Three days ago, I thought that Diabetes meant you have to eat healthier and count carbs. I now have what feels like a PhD in type one. I have a kid with a Dexcom CGM monitor stuck in his arm, a Bloomingdale’s size shopping bag full of insulin, monitors and medical supplies. It really hit me as we were saying our goodbyes. Zak can’t put a single thing inside his mouth without knowing how many carbs it has, when his last insulin dose was, what his current blood sugar is reading, and a chart for a math problem that needs anywhere from 1-3 steps depending on the answers to those other questions. Did I mention I’m not good at math? Am I really qualified to be the main caretaker of this new situation? Remember when you brought your baby home from the hospital the first time? How you just wanted to put them back in your womb? How you questioned yourself on why anyone would think you are in any way qualified to care for another human being? Yes, it feels just like that all over again.

We leave the hospital and Zak wants to stop at In-and-Out Burger. We are all hungry. I desperately want to go straight home and be in control of a meal. Instead, I give in. We count the carbs that he’s going to order. While Karl and the boys are inside ordering, I open the trunk, dig through the bag of supplies, do the math and have everything ready for him to inject. I feel like a drug dealer in the In-and-Out parking lot, and he comes out and nervously says, “Ok, dad’s got the food, let’s do it.” I hand him an alcohol wipe, he pulls up his shirt and wipes a spot while I prime the insulin pen, then tick to the amount of insulin we both agree is the right number. I hand it to him, he stabs his stomach while we all watch. We fumble the stuff back into boxes and bags, we shut the hatch, I look around like “nothing to see here” and we get in the car. They eat their burgers on the way home. I didn’t order any food, I just wasn’t able to stomach all that was happening. But we did it. And Zakary, for about 30 minutes, felt like himself snarfing his double double (protein style) in the backseat of his car.

Now, we are at home living with T1D. The amount of change is something I’m pretty sure only another T1D family would understand. Speaking of that, an amazing, experienced theatre mom came by with a basket full of “IYKYK” things like a t-shirt that says “Duck Fiabetes”, her son’s favorite candies for low blood sugar moments, a Carhardt fanny pack for his to-go kit and things like special wipes to help with the ouch when removing the blood sugar sensor. Zak and I went through this basket, which included sticky notes that told us what things were for and why. Once again, our school/theatre family knows what we need before we do. Spending an hour with this experienced mom who completely felt how much this sucks but was at the same time giving me all kinds of hope that it will get easier was magical. Both her husband and her son have T1D, and she’s so chill. She shared with me her breakdown in the cereal aisle when it really hit her this would be for the rest of her son’s life. I felt tingles in my legs when she said it as the logic of this concept has landed on me, but I’m incapable of unpacking it completely.

That night Zak felt well enough to go see a friend’s play in Hollywood. I only agreed because I knew his dad and siblings would be nearby at another theatre. Those at the show were so happy to see him, but as my family tends to do, he gave the wrong impression. I don’t fault him for wanting to do something normal. I got messages how great he looked and how they couldn’t believe he was already out supporting his friends. Fun fact: he left quickly after the play and pulled his car into a 7-11 parking lot. Then dad had to come to drive him, and his car home. He had hit a low and pushed too hard too soon.

The following day his Aunt Melissa, my husband’s sister came by and surprised him. She’s from Arizona, but was nearby for a conference. She needed proof of life and nothing was stopping her from hugging her nephew. She came, she hugged, she did the dishes, she sat on the couch and drank prosecco with me and she took the metro back to Long Beach where her conference would start. This check-in from her made us realize that we aren’t the only ones affected by this shock. It also reminded us how much we are loved.

The next night he wanted to go to a bonding party for his musical theatre class. He went, I called the parents asking where the pizza was coming from and counted his carbs for him and texted him before he ate. He had fun. This felt so good, until I had to wake him early in the morning to deal with his high sugar reading. He slept on and off the rest of that day. Look, I get it. He wants his life to be normal. He had already went to the gym on his first day home, went for a bike ride, went to see friends. I couldn’t stop him from wanting to live. For over a month he could barely function, and now he’s grappling with the notion that he nearly died. I need to give him leash. I really want to put him in a bubble and keep him with me forever, but I know we all need to learn how to manage this as a family, give him space. Blah Blah. I prefer the bubble idea. Just saying.

Just 7 days after this episode of ER, ambulance, diagnosis and coming home, Zakary feels ready to go back to school. Missing a week of high school, especially the conservatory training his day includes, falling further behind seems more stressful than going. Monday morning includes me getting up at 5am, heavily caffeinating and making and counting the carbs in his breakfast BEFORE I start packing the stacking bento boxes we’ve acquired, counting the carbs of everything in his lunch and putting sticky notes on it, packing separate zero-carb snacks like hard-boiled eggs, string cheese, meat sticks and chiccarones (fried pork skin, something I grew up with and knew he’d like), Gatorade Zero, his giant water bottle and candy for lows. He packs his “to-go insulin kit” that another dear friend had sent the first day we got home. It is complete with an ice pack, sleeves for insulin pens, needles, alcohol wipes and hand sanitizer. He has another pouch with his Accu-check monitor, a needle pen for pricking your finger, tiny white lancets and ketone sticks you pee on. These are necessary if his digital system fails him, or if it’s extra high or extra low, he needs to check things the old-fashioned way. I continue to breathe deeply, double-check my math constantly, write everything on a white board to make sure we both agree what’s what. With three different bags loaded for his day, he’s ready to walk out the door. The fire-burning terror that rises in my body intensifies and I close my eyes. I already know many parents who do this daily. I know it’s possible. I know it’s manageable. But four days out of the hospital feels too soon. He’s not a baby and I have to follow his lead. I follow him in my car, not because I’m totally paranoid but maybe because I’m absolutely totally paranoid, but because I have to check him into the office with paperwork and have a meeting for his 504 plan.

As he hugs friends and people jump all over him excited to see him back, I try to sneak a couple of photos. He let’s me, his friends let me, and there was a celebratory feeling that Zak didn’t die.

After a quick stop at the office for hugs and a rundown with Nurse Donna, an actual nurse practitioner who I do feel safe leaving him with, he goes off to class with friends.

Our principal, who I also consider a friend, gives me a gift. Her eyelashes always look amazing, and she shares her secret with me. It’s Thrive Waterproof mascara. Once again, everyone seems to know what we need except me. I fight the tears, and start to feel like it’s all going to be ok. This office is packed with people who care, and attendance lady, Ms. Paulette, turns out she also has T1D! Who knew? She cracks jokes and let’s me know she’s been doing this since childhood, before any whose its and what’s it galore, and that between her and Nurse Donna, he will be rock solid at school.

I now sit down with counselor Mr. Bauman. He’s a little older than me, and his white beard, warm smile and buttery tone of voice cooled the fire burning under my skin. I give him the paperwork the social worker from CHLA had given me, which is recommendations from the American Diabetes Association. I include recommendations from another school mom friend who specializes in these plans for her job, and he assures me he’ll have it ready by the end of the day.

I say my goodbyes and sit in the car for a moment. I admit to myself I really don’t know exactly what a 504 plan means except that it allows him some special privileges. “Hey Siri, what is a 504 plan?” “A 504 plan is a formal, legally binding document developed by schools to provide accommodations for K-12 students with disabilities, ensuring equal access to learning.”

I’m paralyzed by the word “disability”. Type 1 Diabetes is a medical disability that will require accommodations for the rest of his life. Jesus. This is a lot. I physically shake like a wet dog to pull myself together and drive. I stare at the Dexcom readings on my phone way too much and Zak and I text a lot making sure we are both seeing the same thing and what he’s doing to handle the numbers we see. I no sooner have finished the breakfast and lunch hurricane of dishes that I get the text. “Ok if I come home right after lunch and miss arts? My phone is dying and I’m kind of freaking out.” I respond, “Of course.”

We knew he needed a phone upgrade and adding Apple watches was recommended by every T1D parent I’ve communicated with so far. As soon as he got home, my husband took him to the AT&T store and executed this mission. Finally, something he could do to help. This was good for him, and me. We made it through the rest of the week with full days at school, lots of communication of what he was doing for highs and lows, and just got the hang of it all.

Cue Spring Break. The fact that we can all sleep in and rest a bit is incredible. Well, kind of. My Apple watch alerts me in the middle of the night of his highs or lows, and I’m learning he tends to sleep through this. So if menopausal pee wake-ups aren’t enough, now I’m getting up to give him sugar or prep an insulin pen. The thrills of victory and agonies of defeat are in full swing. We go to the beach, he puts the special patch over his monitor, waxes his board and is ready to go out. As he starts to swim out, he goes dangerously low, and has to swim right back in. All the planning, picking up boards at storage, a new wetsuit, and a deep need for “vitamin sea”, he is thwarted by T1D. He struggles to swim back in, it freaks him out, and he doesn’t go back in that day.

We will keep trying. We will go back to the beach. We will eat Shake Shack and go to the Pantages, we will laugh through Spamalot, we will brave Disneyland, we will keep making plans. We are learning something new every single day and it’s really fucking hard.

But he’s alive. I’m not writing another piece about how my compounded grief is crushing me. This time, my thankfulness is winning. Every time I look at his face, see him laugh with one of his siblings, argue with him about anything, even watch him cry or struggle…I have a surge of gratitude. There are 4000 mothers out there that lost their teen to this last year. I will wake up every day ready to help him tackle T1D with enthusiasm, hope and the light of a new day. Because I can.