November 1, 2020
That summer, in 1985, I did not feel like myself. I was tired. I think I was depressed. I had a few weird experiences that I didn’t understand at the time, but I believe they were due to my pancreas kicking in and out at odd times, wreaking havoc. I was thirsty—the thirst was indescribable. It was all I could think about. When school started, I would have to go to the water fountain frequently. My French teacher asked if I couldn’t wait. "No," I said. "I really can’t." She suggested I might be diabetic—I agreed with her.
