It takes a village
1991-1992
April 1991. It became a routine, coming home from school and walking straight to the mailbox. Then I saw it, the large envelope, thick and ready to deliver acceptance news. Santa Clara University was my top choice, a great school with an intimate chemistry department. It was in California - the sun sounded lovely. I open the envelope. YES I got in!
The next several months included high school graduation, working through the summer, training for my collegiate cross country season, and hanging out with friends. Most were dispersing out of town and mostly west coast in the fall. There were no students from my high school going to the college I selected, though SCU created meetups for the few across town. My boyfriend was entering his sophomore year at Stanford, just a short Caltrain ride away. I recall a friend saying, “California? They have earthquakes in California. Are you sure you want to go? You might fall into the ocean!” She and I didn’t see eye to eye on certain things. She saw the barriers. I was THRILLED about the possibility.
I figured out running and diabetes, enough to be relevant at a small Jesuit university. I missed pushing my limits to the extent I did before the diagnosis. Staying aware of my body kept me from being a burden on myself and others. It wasn’t as sexy to my soul, not going right to the edge physically, but I did the best I could for where I was in my experience. It worked...enough.
The car was packed. Dad and I were off on the long drive west and then south, down the coast through Oregon and Cali. I was 12 the last time we did that drive, headed to Disneyland and San Diego Zoo, just him, my sister, and I. He was good like that, my Dad. After my parent’s divorce, he made sure to take my sister and me on trips to give us life-enriching experiences together. As a fireman, we didn’t lack, but there wasn’t excess in the means of finances. Being a single dad wasn’t popular or expected in the 80s, raising two girls full time. His girls having the opportunity to go to college was a dream he held for as long as I could remember. I’d be his first, but not his last. Being raised in a two-bedroom house with six siblings, my Dad optimized to provide differently, and he did.
We arrived hours before I met my new team on Levy’s steps, the athletic building. It was perfect timing to unload and say goodbye. The campus was quiet since it would be weeks until students arrived for the fall semester. Dad and I moved me into a temporary housing dorm once we arrived. It had a pool and was close to the athletic center. It felt like California; palm-tree lined entrance and a beautiful Mission, my anticipation felt realized.
Extended family time filled my weekends with lake trips, birthday parties, and other celebrations of sorts growing up. I knew my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins all well. I’m proud to say the Thomas family needs little excuse to have a gathering. It was an exceptional childhood.
My best friend in high school chose Western Washington University. I can’t recall if I left first or not, but visits were frequent between our two colleges over the next four years. We just spoke the other day, didn’t feel like a day had passed since those high school nights we would talk for hours on the phone.
It was time to say goodbye to my Dad. The car was empty, and he had a 20-hour drive home. We drove out to the SCU entrance sign to get a few more pictures, exciting for us both, to say the least, this transition. I had written a note telling my Dad how much I loved him and thanking him for all he had done for me in my life. I tucked it neatly in his sun visor, an unexpected message for his ride home. We hugged and hugged and said goodbye; it was a lovely launch. I walked back to my dorm, sat on the end of the bed, and the reality hit me. A thousand miles now laid between the two central support systems I had my entire life, my Dad and my younger sister. I realized I might not get to argue again with my younger sister over boys, clothes, using the car, hair spray, or music. We had been through loads together, sharing a room until junior high, our parent’s divorce, moving homes, asthma, and diabetes. One was hers, and one was mine. We were only a year apart in school. The small gap probably made a difference; we are very close. My deep connection to her was the reason it was hard that day, emotionally. She was such a constant in my life, among the other changing circumstances.
I cried that afternoon. Caught between what was and what was about to be. I knew the home I had just left, I knew where to go for a run, I knew my garbage got picked up on Tuesday, and 93.3 ZooFM was the station I liked. I laced up my running shoes, tossed my hair in a scrunchy, and jogged over to the steps to meet my new team.
Life with or without diabetes is more fulfilling with a connection to others and support from a well-developed village—a safe place to be you, without judgment. The ladies on my SCU team softened the transition for me that day, and I am grateful.
As a health coach, I am here to meet you where you are.