Living with Diabetes by Nicole Johnson Click here to return to book details Part I: Journey of a Lifetime “There she is, Miss America 1999, beginning the journey of a lifetime ...” Chapter 1 TO BE PERFECT... To the outside world, beauty pageants are about perfection — a fit body; a sparkling smile; an enhanced evening dress; a flawless talent; a quick, sharp mind; a politically correct answer; a smooth response ...perfect poise. Pageants are every bit of what they seem to the outside world ...and more. A lot of hard work goes into them. But if you really want to understand pageants, if you really want to know what it’s like to compete, you have to remember that a pageant, any pageant, is a competition between individuals, each with a story all her own. Even greater, however, every pageant is a competition against yourself and your own weaknesses. Pageants are fraught with stories of inevitable disappointments, the courage and dedication to overcome those disappointments, and then the final achievement — for every girl who makes it on stage in a pageant has already proven herself worthy; she’s already one of the best. The behind-the-scenes stories of a pageant can be dramatic. I don’t mean the animosities between contestants — I always tried to ignore these. But there’s often the voice that feels dry and off-key just moments before a performance, or the girl who pulled a muscle in dance rehearsal who’s now called upon to go through a gymnastic routine in front of an expectant audience, the missing gown, the forgotten lines — and judges, those omnipresent beings who are watching everything and who won’t tolerate failure. That is exactly where I was just before Thanksgiving in 1993 as I waited for that final phase of competition at a preliminary competition for the Miss Florida title — Miss Sarasota/Manatee County. Months of work had gone into preparing for this competition. I had strived to combat the weaknesses I perceived in myself. Here, in this pageant, I was in the best position to reach the perfection that I daily tried to achieve. I was used to this sort of pressure, the everyday pressure of competition. I took the nervous tremblings of the flesh in stride; after all, that was just a part of the weakness. You feel the butterflies, you accept the butterflies, you never give in to them. But what hit me now felt like a deathblow. It was something very, very different from nervous butterflies before a performance. It was a pain I’d never felt before and could never imagine enduring again. It was a pain that felt as if it might rip my life from inside of me — at nineteen, on stage, in a pageant. “Why is this happening?” That thought ran through my brain, screaming disaster. I was lying on a wooden bench backstage, holding my abdomen, writhing in agony. I couldn't stand, much less walk. I couldn ’t even sip water. I felt as if I couldn ’t breathe — and that meant panic. My mind felt as if it were trembling — and then I collapsed and started losing consciousness. The reprieve from pain would last only as long as I was out and the lapses I was having in consciousness were temporary. After each lapse I would surface again into this incredible agony. It was absolutely terrifying. My body was in rebellion and I was losing control. As a pageant contestant, you’re always afraid of losing control. Now I was afraid of losing my life — of blacking out and never coming back. With just a few hours until curtain,pageant volunteers rushed to find a doctor in the auditorium. When he came backstage, he poked around my stomach and told me my appendix was probably getting ready to rupture. He asked me to do jumping exercises. I thought he was crazy, I couldn ’t even sit up! But I managed to do as he asked — how I even managed to stand, I ’ll never know. “Hmm,” he said, examining me as I jumped, and then prodding me again. “Can’t say for sure.” That is the last I remember of him. I continued trying to get comfortable, but nothing seemed to work. I moved from spot to spot looking for relief, trying to gather the strength to continue with the competition. Later, my parents came backstage, and my mom found me on the floor of the restroom, my head resting on the cool of the tiles — trying to become calm, catch a breath, and wish the pain away. My parents begged me to leave. I had to see a doctor, they said. But I refused. The pageant would be over in just a few hours. If I could hang in there, if I could overcome this apparent weakness, if I could perform, I might be able to finish the pageant. And if I could be strong enough to overcome this weakness, I might even be able to win. “I ’ve come this far,” I pleaded, “...please don ’t deny me the opportunity to try....” So there I was, at that final stage of this preliminary competition for the Miss Florida title. How could I not participate? The title was just within my reach. I had been first runner-up so many times. But this time I had worked harder, I had prepared better, I could almost taste the victory. The title ...and perfection ...were right there, or so I thought. FEAR AND WONDERING Yet as I fought to stay in this pageant, I knew something was wrong — desperately, desperately wrong. I tried to push the thought aside — just as I had for a while now. I thought about the last several weeks and, more recently, about this terrifying weekend. For weeks, I hadn’t felt right. There had been annoying headaches, dizziness; my eyes were bothering me. I couldn ’t put my finger on it. At first, I thought that I just needed glasses. But there were other symptoms too. Symptoms I had tried to ignore. I felt extremely fatigued and unquenchably thirsty — all the time, no matter how much water, juice ,or soda I drank. Plus I was constantly running to the bathroom. I could have chalked that up to the amount of liquids I was drinking, but I knew that it wasn’t normal to get up several times in the middle of the night. So it was more than needing a pair of glasses. I allowed myself to assume that these bizarre symptoms were just side effects from my hectic schedule and busy life. I knew I wasn’t eating or sleeping as I should, but who does in college? I was a sophomore at the University of South Florida. In my pursuit of excellence, I wanted to drain every ounce of opportunity from my college days, living them to the fullest — academically, socially, spiritually, and in preparation for a career. So, I carried a full load of coursework, and was involved in everything from music groups to student government — all while holding down a part-time job. I was even president of the Baptist Student Union, the largest group on campus. But for all that activity, and even with some late-night pizza indulgences, I thought I was fit and healthy. No matter how busy I was, I worked out nearly every day. But even I had to admit something was wrong. I had seen several doctors to find an answer, and I kept following their advice and trying to recover and forget it all. I was a fighter — not a quitter. I wanted to succeed so terribly much. I didn ’t want to give in to physical weakness — that was one of my worst fears — weakness and failure. This was no temporary fatigue; I’d read somewhere that Margaret Thatcher once said that she got by on four or five hours of sleep a night: it was all a matter of habit and will. But my body wouldn’t respond to force of will; it seemed to be rebelling against my habits; but I knew in my heart — I could feel it — that it was much more than that. The symptoms were hanging around like a foul-mouthed and abusive ex-boyfriend. The headaches, fatigue, dehydration, and blurry vision weren’t just petty annoyances; they were interfering with my concentration, my schoolwork, and my ability to lead or merely to participate in the groups I ’d joined. On my first visit to the university’s health center I was told that I was “probably anemic and should take a multi-vitamin and iron supplements.” That didn ’t work, and I went back to the health center, saw a different doctor, and was diagnosed with the Beijing flu. I was perplexed; I had never heard of the “Beijing ”flu. How could I have it — I thought, in my ignorance — when I had never been to China? That doctor prescribed antibiotics, told me to get some rest, and I did feel a little better — I felt well enough, at least, to decide that I wouldn’t let a little flu — Beijing or not — keep me down. I pushed myself to go to class. I continued to participate in extracurricular activities. And, yes, on top of all of that, I prepared for the Miss Sarasota/Manatee County competition. The weekend before Thanksgiving is a busy time for anyone, with the holiday ahead and often more than the usual work to get through. But for me it was also pageant weekend, with the finals on Sunday. I drove the several hours from Tampa to Sarasota on Saturday morning for rehearsal and the interview portion of the competition. Even though I was again plagued by flu-like symptoms, I was convinced I could still compete, perform, and do it all — and do it all well enough to win. That is, until I woke up on Sunday morning. I had been miserable all night, but I passed it off as nerves or something I ate, and kept rolling over trying to sleep. But sleep or even rest was evasive. I gave up trying to get some sleep as soon as I could — as soon as morning peeked through the windows — thinking that facing the day would be less frustrating and less exhausting than trying to sleep when sleep wouldn’t oblige. I felt a clammy sweat on my body and forehead. Getting dressed was a chore. My muscles ached — almost as though I’d been through a heavy workout. I was fumbling with the buttons on my clothes, when I suddenly had to run to the bathroom, vomiting. The violence of getting ill left me shaken and in tears. I splashed my face with cold water, gargled, and tried to get a grip on myself. I was still determined to go on, though I knew, at this point, that I needed prayers of support. Coming from a close, faith-based family, I called my parents immediately and asked them to pray for me. They told me I should pull out, that my health was more important than any competition. But there was no way I would quit. I was determined to give my all in the pageant. I remembered what Helen Keller said: “Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired and success achieved.” For me, this was a character-building moment — I wasn ’t going to fail the test. My parents and I stayed in touch by phone the rest of the day; I drove myself to the convention center, cell phone in hand, being consoled by Mom. Driving at this point was no easy task since the pain in my abdomen had grown intense. I would roll down the window to try to get some relief, only to break out in goose pimples and shivers from the fresh air. Diarrhea had joined vomiting as my twin tormentors — I felt exposed to the possibility of horrible embarrassment. Here I was, on the final day of competition, a day when I should have been limber and confident, and ready to knock myself out to win. Instead I was cradling my abdomen, doubled over in pain, and spending every spare moment in the bathroom, groaning. Even worse, I felt as if I were going to lose consciousness. It was completely unnerving — or not quite completely, because I hadn ’t lost my will to win. I pushed the negative thoughts as far away from me as I possibly could. I kept gasping, not only for breath, but for the courage to try. THE SHOW GOES ON I wanted to keep my game face on, but of course it seemed hopeless. My head was spinning, and my mind kept fading in and out. My ears were scarlet from hearing the girls whispering and gossiping backstage. I was still kneeling on the bathroom floor, and while the bathroom tiles felt cool and comforting, I knew this position made me look as bad as I felt, and the tiles left what looked like a red rash with indentations on my forehead. When I pulled myself upright, it felt as if the room were moving, as if I were losing my balance. I gulped hard to keep another wave of nausea from overtaking me. People around me dabbed my temples with damp paper towels. A hand reached out and supported me by the elbow, and, with quiet resolve, I shuffled to my dressing area. The opening number was a parade of the contestants — big smiles, good posture; I could not give a sign that I felt worse than I’d ever felt in my life. People often say that pageant contestant smiles are fake — this one was, but I hardly think it could be criticized. The woman who keeps her composure, who smiles when her body is seemingly being ravaged by the worst flu imaginable — to me, that ’s a good thing. If a beauty pageant is meant to showcase what ’s best in a woman, I think this is it. It’s a kind of strength, a strength that mothers know when they deal with children who are sick and troublesome, and the mother herself is sick, but who has no time — or desire — to think about herself. Pageants can build that kind of character. Backstage again, I had to change into a swimsuit — about the last thing in the world I felt like doing. A one-piece that clung to my body like a glove was insulting to my aching abdomen. But my name was called, out I went, and luckily I made it back. Then another change of clothes, and I wondered how my lungs would ever find the breath — and I the necessary confidence — to belt out a song while my stomach clenched itself against embarrassment. But I went out there, and, again, I did it. My appearances on stage felt painfully long, like those dreams you have when time seems to stand still and although you try to run, you don’t go anywhere. My only consolation was the backstage bench, where, after each performance, I collapsed and closed my eyes, becoming as still as I could — just a few moments of reprieve that would give me the strength to make my next appearance. Soon there were only two competitions left: the evening-wear, and the on-stage questions. Backstage, they lined us up, getting us ready for our entrance, but I just couldn’t go any further. What strength I had mustered to make it this far had gone, I could barely stand, my vision was blurry, and then, incredibly, one of the other contestants, Malina Price, put her arms around my shoulders, her head resting on the side of mine. She softly whispered a prayer, asking God to hold me up, to speak for me, and to heal whatever was wrong. She held my hand as I walked past the curtain — this, too, is the spirit of the pageant, of sister helping sister, a race where there can only be one winner, but where contestants nevertheless support each other. From her kindness and blessing, I suddenly felt a jolt of energy. I was rejuvenated and through her touch and her prayer I found the new courage to persevere, new strength to support my weak body.I went on stage — I don’t remember quite what I did — but I made it. Now I had to do it just one more time;it was time to walk on stage for the announcement of the winners. As we walked out there, I knew I had won...regardless of whose name was called, regardless of who got the crown ...my victory was making it to the end! As I was standing there on stage I felt myself swaying, I was getting dizzy again. Malina was standing slightly behind me, and at one point, she had to hold me, literally — and amazingly, covertly — upright. She was my guardian angel. My name was called as second runner-up. At that point, I was just glad I made it through the pageant — to be called as second runner-up was almost unbelievable. But there was no jumping for joy. Never was I more smilingly sedate — in appearance,anyway — about winning a runner-up position than I was now. I thanked God for letting me get as far as I did.I thanked Him for not letting anything fatal happen to me. I thanked Him for providing me with a friend like Malina. Click here to order from Amazon: Click here to return to book details