When my blood sugar hit 380 during class, I assumed it was just another bad day with diabetes, the kind I’d been having more and more often without fully understanding why. I felt heavy, like my limbs were filled with wet sand, my thoughts slow and slippery as if they couldn’t quite connect. The classroom lights felt too bright, the hum of other students’ voices too loud, and by the time I asked to be excused to see the nurse, my hands were already trembling.
The nurse’s office at Riverside High always smelled faintly of antiseptic and spearmint gum, a place meant for scraped knees and headaches, not the kind of danger I was carrying in my bloodstream. Nurse Kimberly Strand had been there longer than most of the teachers, fourteen years of handling everything from asthma attacks to broken fingers. She greeted me with her usual calm professionalism, but the moment she tested my blood sugar, something in her expression changed. The number blinked on the screen, 380 and rising, and instead of reassuring me like she usually did, she asked me to sit down immediately.
She asked about my insulin pump, when I’d last adjusted it, whether I’d eaten something unusual. I answered automatically, my brain foggy, telling her my stepmother handled the settings, that Valerie had adjusted it that very morning like she always did. Nurse Strand pulled the pump from my backpack to double-check, her fingers moving confidently until she reached the settings screen. That was when she froze. I watched her eyes scan the numbers, her mouth pressing into a thin line as concern shifted into something sharper, something I couldn’t quite name.
She asked me questions that felt different this time, more precise, more urgent. When was the last time your basal rate was changed. Did your doctor approve this adjustment. I admitted I didn’t know, that Valerie usually handled those details. Nurse Strand nodded slowly, then told me to stay seated while she stepped into the hallway. She didn’t close the door all the way, and through the crack I heard fragments of her phone call, words that cut through my fog like ice water. Dangerous settings. Prolonged hyperglycemia. Possible Munchausen by proxy. Immediate intervention required.
I didn’t understand all of it then, not fully, but I understood enough to feel fear coil in my stomach. Twenty minutes later, while I was still sitting on the vinyl chair staring at a poster about handwashing, a woman I’d never seen before walked into the office. She introduced herself quietly as a CPS investigator and told me I wouldn’t be going home that afternoon. She said my stepmother had been systematically harming me using my own insulin pump for eight months, and the words felt unreal, like they belonged to someone else’s story, not mine.
I’d been living with type 1 diabetes for six years by then, since I was eleven. The diagnosis came after two weeks of feeling like my body was betraying me in slow motion. I was constantly thirsty, exhausted no matter how much I slept, losing weight even though I was eating all the time. My mom noticed before anyone else did, noticed how often I ran to the bathroom, how my clothes hung looser every day. She took me to our pediatrician, Dr. Neil Waverly, who ran blood tests and sent us straight to the emergency room when my glucose came back at 620.
That night changed everything. Doctors explained that my pancreas had stopped producing insulin entirely, that my immune system had destroyed the cells responsible for keeping my blood sugar in balance. I would need synthetic insulin for the rest of my life just to survive. It was terrifying, but my mom turned fear into action. She learned everything. She attended classes, joined support groups, memorized ratios and warning signs. She set alarms to check my levels in the middle of the night and fought with the school until they understood exactly what I needed to stay safe.
For three years, we managed it together. She taught me how to calculate doses, how to listen to my body, how to advocate for myself. By the time I was fourteen, I was doing most of it on my own with her watching from the sidelines, ready to step in if I needed help. Then, in November, everything shattered. My mom died in a car accident on a rainy evening, a semi-truck crossing the median without warning. The police said she died instantly, as if that was supposed to make it easier.
After that, my life felt like it was held together by routine alone. My dad was swallowed by grief, barely functional, and I moved through school and diabetes care on autopilot because that was what my mom had trained me to do. Six months later, my dad met Valerie Hawthorne at a grief support group. She was a widow, polished and soft-spoken, with an efficient smile and endless sympathy. She worked as a pharmaceutical sales representative and mentioned it often, as if it made her an authority.
They married quickly, eight months after my mom’s death, and Valerie moved into our house along with her opinions and her insistence on helping. She offered to take over parts of my diabetes management, framing it as support for my overwhelmed father. At first, it seemed harmless. Helpful, even. She asked about my numbers, reminded me to check, offered advice. My dad was relieved to hand off something that scared him.
The first big change was the insulin pump. Valerie convinced my dad it would be better, more precise, easier. My endocrinologist agreed it could work well, and we went through the required training. Valerie took copious notes during the caregiver sessions, nodding along like a star student. When I started using the pump, it felt like freedom. No more injections, just steady delivery throughout the day and meal-time adjustments.
But Valerie insisted on reviewing everything. Every setting. Every change. If I adjusted something, she questioned it. Within two months, my blood sugar started creeping higher, staying stubbornly between 250 and 350. I told her something felt wrong, and she took over completely, reprogramming my pump with confidence that made me doubt myself. She blamed growth, stress, my supposed lack of discipline. She prepared my meals, calculated my doses, programmed my boluses herself.
I grew sicker. Exhausted. Foggy. By junior year, I couldn’t focus in class, couldn’t keep up at soccer, couldn’t understand why nothing worked. Dad believed Valerie when she said it was my fault, that I wasn’t compliant enough, that teenage boys were difficult patients. And so, night after night, she adjusted my pump again, standing over me with that calm, helpful smile, insisting she was fixing the problem.
That night, Valerie changed all my pump settings again.
Why did the school nurse file a report when I needed my insulin pump during class? The school nurse pulled the insulin pump out of my backpack and her hands froze when she saw the setting screen. Her face went from concerned to confused to something harder that I couldn’t read. She asked me when I’d last changed my basal rate and I told her my stepmom adjusted it this morning like she always did.
Nurse Kimberly Strand, who’d been managing diabetic students at Riverside High for 14 years, looked at me with an expression I’d never seen before and said we needed to call my endocrinologist right now. My blood sugar was at 380 and climbing despite the insulin I’d been taking all week. I felt like I was moving through syrup. My thoughts slow and sticky.
She left me sitting in her office and made a phone call I wasn’t supposed to hear, using words like dangerous settings and possible Munchausen by proxy and immediate intervention required. 20 minutes later, a CPS investigator arrived at the school and told me I wouldn’t be going home that afternoon because my stepmother had been systematically poisoning me with my own insulin pump for 8 months.
I’d been living with type 1 diabetes for 6 years since I was 11 years old. The diagnosis came after 2 weeks of constant thirst and exhaustion, losing 15 lbs despite eating constantly, trips to the bathroom every hour. My mom took me to our pediatrician, Dr. Neil Waverly, who ran blood tests that showed my glucose at 620.
He sent us straight to the emergency room where they stabilized my blood sugar and started me on insulin injections while explaining that my pancreas had stopped producing insulin entirely. My immune system had attacked the insulin producing cells, and now I’d need synthetic insulin for the rest of my life to survive.
The diagnosis was scary, but manageable with proper care, regular monitoring, and consistent insulin delivery. My mom learned everything about diabetes management. She attended classes at the hospital, joined online support groups for parents of diabetic kids, tracked my blood sugar meticulously in detailed logs. She learned to count carbohydrates, calculate insulin ratios, recognized the signs of both high and low blood sugar.
She set alarms to check my levels at 2 a.m. to catch dangerous overnight drops. She advocated for me at school, making sure teachers understood my condition and could recognize emergencies. For 3 years, we managed my diabetes together as a team. I learned to test my own blood sugar, count my carbs, and administer my injections.
By the time I was 14, I was handling most of my diabetes care independently with mom supervising and supporting. Then, mom died in a car accident when I was 14. She was driving home from work on a rainy evening in November when a semi-truck lost control and crossed the median. She died instantly, the police told us.
Though that information provided no comfort, my world shattered. My father was destroyed by grief, barely functional for months. I was numb, going through the motions of school and diabetes management automatically because mom had trained me so thoroughly that the routines were mechanical. Dad and I existed in our grief separately, unable to help each other because we were both drowning.
6 months after mom died, Dad started dating again. I wasn’t ready for it, but understood he was lonely and scared and trying to survive his grief however he could. He met Valerie Hawthorne at a grief support group, a widow whose husband had died from cancer two years earlier. She seemed nice at first, sympathetic and understanding, patient with my sullen teenage grief.
She was a pharmaceutical sales representative, which she mentioned often as if it gave her medical credibility. Dad married her 8 months after mom’s death, and Valerie moved into our house with her efficient smile and her insistence on helping with my diabetes management. At first, her involvement seemed helpful. She’d ask about my blood sugar readings, remind me to check before meals, offer to help count carbohydrates.
She told Dad she had medical knowledge through her pharmaceutical work, and could take some of the burden off him. Dad was grateful because managing my diabetes had overwhelmed him since mom died. He didn’t understand the calculations and ratios the way mom had. Felt anxious about making mistakes. Valerie’s offer to take over seemed like a relief, one less thing for him to worry about.
I didn’t love having her involved in something so personal, but I told myself it was temporary, that I’d be going to college in a few years anyway. The first change Valerie made was switching me to an insulin pump. I’d been using multiple daily injections since diagnosis, a method that worked fine, but required carrying insulin pens and needles everywhere.
Valerie convinced Dad that a pump would be better, more convenient, more precise. My endocrinologist agreed a pump could work well for me and explained the process. training on pump use, learning to calculate basil and bololis rates, understanding how to troubleshoot problems.
The pump company required both the patient and a caregiver to complete training. I completed mine easily, already understanding insulin management. Valerie attended the caregiver training and took copious notes. The pump itself was actually great initially. It delivered tiny amounts of insulin continuously throughout the day, the bassel rate, plus larger bololises before meals to cover carbohydrates.
I could adjust settings myself, but Valerie insisted on reviewing all my changes to make sure I was doing it correctly. She’d asked to see my pump settings every evening, checking my basil rates and bolis calculations. If I’d adjusted anything, she’d question why, asking if I was sure that was right.
Her tone was always concerned, never accusatory, but the constant oversight made me feel incompetent and watched. Within 2 months of getting the pump, I started feeling off. My blood sugar was running higher than it should, consistently between 250 and 350 instead of the target range of 80 to 180. I checked my settings and they looked correct, but somehow I wasn’t getting good control.
I told Valerie something seemed wrong and she immediately took over my pump programming, saying she’d optimize the settings since I clearly wasn’t managing well. She spent an evening researching and adjusting my basil rates, explaining she was using her pharmaceutical knowledge to improve my control. I let her because she seemed confident and I felt increasingly foggy and tired.
But my blood sugar didn’t improve. It got worse. I was constantly thirsty, exhausted, struggling to focus in school. I’d wake up with readings in the 400s despite the insulin pump supposedly delivering insulin all night. Valerie would look concerned and adjust my settings again, increasing my basil rates slightly.
She started preparing all my meals and counting carbohydrates for me, saying I must be calculating wrong. She’d program my meal time bololises directly into my pump, not trusting me to do it myself. I felt infantilized and controlled, but I was too tired to fight back effectively. My junior year started in August and I was struggling academically for the first time in my life.
My concentration was shot, sitting in class, feeling like I was underwater, watching teachers mouths move but not processing their words. My hands shook constantly. I was always thirsty, drinking bottles of water that never satisfied. I’d get up to use the bathroom multiple times per class, teachers giving me increasingly annoyed looks.
My soccer coach benched me after I couldn’t keep up during practice. My endurance completely gone. Friends asked if I was okay, and I’d say my diabetes was just being difficult, like it was my fault I couldn’t control it properly. Dad noticed I looked unwell, but Valerie always had explanations ready. Teenage growth spurts affected insulin needs.
Stress from school was spiking my blood sugar. I wasn’t following the meal plan she created. She’d show Dad my blood sugar logs on her phone, the app she’d set up to track my readings, pointing out how erratic they were. She suggested I needed to be more disciplined, more careful, more compliant with her management.
Dad, who understood nothing about diabetes, believed her completely. She was the one with pharmaceutical knowledge after all. She was the one who’d completed the caregiver training. She was trying so hard to help me, and I was the ungrateful stepson making everything difficult. The first time I ended up in the nurse’s office at school was mid-September.

I felt wrong during third period chemistry, dizzy and nauseous, my vision blurring. I checked my blood sugar in class and it was 426. I tried to calculate a correction bolus but couldn’t think clearly enough to do the math. I stumbled to the nurse’s office where Nurse Olivia Strand took one look at me and tested my blood sugar herself, not trusting my meter.
Her machine confirmed 419. She checked my pump settings with me standing there swaying and her forehead creased in confusion. She asked who programmed these settings and I said my stepmom had. She asked if my endocrinologist had approved these rates and I realized I didn’t know that Valerie had been adjusting settings without consulting Dr. Rachel Inamoto.
Nurse Strand called Valerie, who arrived at school within 20 minutes with her concerned parent face perfectly in place. She explained to Nurse Strand that I’d been having terrible control lately, that she’d been trying to optimize my settings based on her pharmaceutical knowledge, that teenage boys were notoriously difficult to manage with diabetes.
Nurse Strand suggested maybe we should consult with my endocrinologist about the settings, and Valerie agreed immediately, saying she’d been planning to schedule an appointment anyway. She took me home, scolding me gently in the car about not following the meal plan she’d created, about drinking sugary sodas. She was sure I was sneaking despite my denials.
That night, Valerie changed all my pump settings again. I watched her do it, too exhausted to protest, as she explained she’d researched more and found better basal rates that would finally give me good control. The new settings made me feel worse. Over the next week, my blood sugar barely dropped below 300.
I was consuming enormous amounts of water, peeing constantly, losing weight despite eating the meals Valerie prepared. My vision was blurry at the edges. My skin was dry and itchy. I told Dad I needed to see Dr. Inamoto and he said Valerie had an appointment scheduled for next month. I said I needed to go sooner.
And Valerie asked why I was being so dramatic, whether I was just trying to get out of school. The second visit to the nurse’s office happened in early October. I was in English class when my vision started tunneling and I couldn’t stand up without the room spinning. A classmate walked me to Nurse Strand’s office where I collapsed into a chair, hands shaking uncontrollably.
She tested my blood sugar, 487. She looked at my pump settings again, and this time she took photos of them with her phone. She asked me specific questions about who controlled my pump settings, whether I could access them myself, how often Valerie changed them. I explained that Valerie had taken over completely, that she told me I wasn’t managing well enough myself.
Nurse Strand’s face went very still, and she said she wanted to try something. She walked me through manually calculating what my basal rate should be based on standard formulas for my weight and activity level. The number she got was significantly lower than what my pump was currently delivering. She asked if she could adjust my settings temporarily just for the afternoon to see if I felt better.
I agreed because I felt awful and nothing else was working. She changed my basal rate down by 30% and had me stay in her office for 2 hours testing my blood sugar every 30 minutes. By the end of school, my reading had dropped to 256. Not perfect, but better than I’d felt in weeks.
She printed out the settings she’d tried and told me to show them to my endocrinologist. Then she asked a question that felt strange. Does Valerie prevent you from seeing your doctors alone? I thought about it and realized that yes, Valerie had attended every medical appointment since she’d entered our lives. She sat in the exam room, answered questions for me, described my symptoms to doctors.
She’d positioned herself as my primary caregiver, and I’d let it happen because I was grieving and tired. Nurse Strand looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read and said if I ever needed help, her office was always open. The comment felt loaded, but I didn’t understand with what. That evening, Valerie checked my pump settings, and her face darkened when she saw they’d been changed.
She demanded to know who altered them without her permission. I explained Nurse Strand had made a temporary adjustment because my blood sugar had been so high. Valerie’s friendly mask slipped for just a moment, irritation flashing across her face before the concerned parent expression returned.
She changed the settings back immediately, explaining that Nurse Strand wasn’t a doctor or an endocrinologist, that she had no right to adjust medical settings, that she’d probably made things worse. She told Dad that night that the school nurse was overstepping boundaries and interfering with my care. Dad agreed to call the school the next day to complain, but Dad didn’t get a chance to make that call because Nurse Strand called him first.
She explained her concerns about my pump settings, suggested that my control would be better with different basal rates, recommended immediate consultation with my endocrinologist. Dad thanked her and hung up, then told Valerie what she’d said. Valerie launched into an explanation about how nurses with limited training often misunderstood complex diabetes management, how she’d been optimizing my settings based on pharmaceutical research, how the nurse was causing problems by interfering.
Dad believed her. He sent an email to the school principal requesting that Nurse Strand not adjust my medical settings without parental consent. My blood sugar continued to run dangerously high. By late October, I’d lost 12 lbs. I couldn’t afford to lose, my clothes hanging loose on my frame. My soccer coach cut me from the team entirely, saying I was a liability in my current condition.
My grades dropped from A’s and B’s to C’s and D’s because I couldn’t concentrate long enough to study. I’d fall asleep during class, wake up disoriented and embarrassed. Friends stopped inviting me places because I was always tired and sick. I told Dad I needed help, that something was seriously wrong, that I felt like I was dying slowly.
He scheduled an emergency appointment with Dr. Inamoto for the following week. The appointment with Dr. Inamoto should have fixed everything. She took one look at me and her professional mask cracked, genuine alarm showing through. She said I looked terrible, that I’d lost significant weight since my last appointment, that this level of diabetes control was unacceptable.
She downloaded my pump data and went very quiet as she reviewed the settings history. She saw that my basal rates had been changed multiple times over the past 3 months, adjusted upward repeatedly despite my blood sugar running high. She asked who was making these changes and Valerie immediately spoke up, explaining she’d been optimizing settings based on my poor control and her pharmaceutical knowledge.
Dr. Inamoto said something that made the room temperature drop. These settings aren’t optimizing anything. They’re making him worse. She explained that basal rates should be adjusted downward when blood sugar runs high, not upward, because high readings suggested insulin resistance or other factors that needed different treatment approaches.
Increasing basal rates when someone was already hypoglycemic could lead to dangerous complications. She asked Valerie directly whether she had any actual training in diabetes management or whether her pharmaceutical sales experience had given her the mistaken impression she understood endocrinology. Valerie’s face went red and she said she’d been trying to help, that I was difficult to manage, that maybe the problem was my compliance.
Dr. Inamoto turned to me and asked if I’d been following Valerie’s meal plans and taking the insulin boluses she programmed. I said yes, that I’d been doing everything Valerie told me to do. Dr. Inamoto looked at my pump data again and pointed something out. My meal-time boluses were enormous, far larger than appropriate for the carbohydrates I should have been eating.
She asked what I’d been eating and I described the meals Valerie prepared. Dr. Inamoto did quick calculations and her face went pale. She said the insulin doses were three to four times what I needed for those meals. Then she asked a question that changed everything. Has anyone checked you for ketones recently? Ketones are produced when the body breaks down fat for energy because it can’t access glucose properly.
High ketones combined with high blood sugar means diabetic ketoacidosis, a life-threatening condition. Nobody had checked my ketones in months. Dr. Inamoto pulled out a urine test strip and had me provide a sample. The strip turned dark purple immediately, indicating dangerously high ketones. She said we needed to go to the emergency room immediately, that I was in DKA and needed IV insulin and fluids.
Valerie started protesting that this was an overreaction that we could manage at home. But Dr. Inamoto cut her off sharply. She said, “If we didn’t go to the hospital right now, I could go into a coma and die.” At the emergency room, they put an IV in my arm and started pushing insulin and saline while monitoring my blood chemistry every hour. The ER doctor, Dr. Philip Granville, who’d worked in emergency medicine for 23 years, reviewed my recent medical history and asked pointed questions about my pump management.
He said my condition was severe enough that I should have been hospitalized days ago, that whoever was managing my diabetes had been doing it catastrophically wrong. Valerie explained again about trying to optimize settings, about my poor compliance, about her pharmaceutical knowledge. Dr. Granville looked at her with undisguised skepticism and asked if she’d ever actually worked with insulin or diabetes medications.
She admitted she sold cardiovascular drugs, not diabetes medications. Dr. Granville pulled Dad aside out of Valerie’s hearing and told him something that changed everything. He said my pump settings and insulin doses weren’t mistakes or well-intentioned errors. The pattern was too consistent, too specifically wrong. He said it looked like someone had been deliberately mismanaging my diabetes to keep me sick.
He used the term medical abuse and suggested Dad needed to examine who had control over my care and what their motivations might be. Dad came back into the room looking shaken and confused, staring at Valerie like he’d never seen her before. I spent 3 days in the hospital while they stabilized my blood sugar and cleared the ketones from my system.
Dr. Inamoto visited daily, each time documenting my condition and asking more questions about my home management. She brought in another endocrinologist, Dr. Steven Brightwell, for a second opinion. He reviewed my case and agreed with Dr. Granville’s assessment.
The mismanagement was too systematic to be accidental. He said he’d seen cases of Munchhausen syndrome by proxy in diabetes patients, where caregivers deliberately sabotage medical treatment to keep patients sick and dependent. He said he was required to report his suspicions to child protective services. The CPS investigation started while I was still hospitalized.
A case worker named Gerald Thornton, who’d worked in medical neglect cases for 11 years, came to interview me privately. He asked detailed questions about who controlled my medical care, how Valerie had taken over my pump management, whether I’d been prevented from seeing doctors alone. He asked if Valerie had ever seemed to enjoy when I was sick, whether she got special attention from my father or others for being such a devoted caretaker.
I thought about how Valerie had posted constantly on social media about managing my difficult diabetes. How she’d positioned herself as a martyr caring for her sick stepson, how Dad had praised her dedication repeatedly. I realized she’d been building a narrative where she was the hero and I was the tragic patient she was only trying to save.
Gerald reviewed my medical records going back to when Valerie entered our lives. He found the pattern immediately. Perfect diabetes control until Valerie took over my pump management, then steady deterioration. He documented how she’d progressively increased my basal rates despite worsening hypoglycemia, how she’d programmed excessive meal-time boluses, how she’d resisted any outside medical consultation.
He said the evidence was compelling enough that they were pursuing charges. The detective assigned to the case, Detective Iris Lamont, who’d worked in abuse and neglect for 17 years, would be interviewing all parties and gathering documentation. Detective Lamont arrived at the hospital on my third day of admission. She brought a laptop and spent 2 hours reviewing my pump’s complete data history.
Every setting change, every bolus delivered, timestamped and documented. The pump stored months of data, and the pattern was irrefutable. Valerie had systematically programmed settings and doses that would keep my blood sugar dangerously high. Detective Lamont explained that this was more than neglect. It was deliberate harm. She’d seen similar cases where caregivers induced illness for attention or control.
She said Valerie would be arrested as soon as they completed interviews and documentation. Dad was devastated and defensive simultaneously, unable to accept that his wife had been deliberately hurting me. He said Valerie had made mistakes but never meant harm, that she’d been trying to help and just didn’t understand diabetes well enough.
Detective Lamont showed him the data, the pattern of deliberately wrong settings repeated over months. She asked if he’d noticed me getting progressively sicker, losing weight, struggling in school. He admitted he had, but said he thought it was just difficult diabetes. She asked why he hadn’t questioned Valerie’s management when nothing was improving.
He had no answer, just sat there looking broken and guilty. Valerie was arrested 3 days later and charged with child endangerment and reckless endangerment. Her defense attorney tried to argue she’d made honest mistakes based on insufficient medical knowledge, but the evidence was too strong. The pump data showed intentional mismanagement.
Her social media history showed her building a public narrative of being a heroic caregiver to a sick child, getting sympathy and attention. Investigators found search history on her computer, how to make diabetes worse, insulin resistance causes, diabetic ketoacidosis symptoms. She’d been researching how to keep me sick without killing me, walking a line between suffering and death.
The preliminary hearing happened in December. Dr. Inamoto testified about the medical evidence, explaining how Valerie’s pump programming had been systematically wrong in ways that suggested intent rather than error. Dr. Granville testified about my DKA episode, saying I’d been hours from potential coma.
Nurse Strand testified about her growing concerns, about how she’d noticed the pattern of dangerous settings, and how Valerie had reacted with anger when those settings were questioned. Gerald Thornton testified about the CPS investigation, about interviewing me and finding clear evidence of medical abuse. The judge found probable cause and bound Valerie over for trial.
The trial happened in March, 6 months after the day Nurse Strand first noticed something wrong with my pump. The prosecution presented overwhelming evidence. pump data showing systematic mismanagement, medical testimony about deliberate harm, my medical records showing progressive deterioration, Valerie’s internet searches proving knowledge and intent.
Her attorney tried to paint her as a well-meaning but misinformed caregiver. But the jury saw through it. They deliberated for 6 hours and found her guilty on both charges. The judge sentenced her to 3 years in prison, followed by 5 years of probation with permanent prohibition from any caregiver role involving minors or vulnerable adults.
Dad and I went to therapy together, trying to rebuild our relationship after he’d failed to protect me. Dr. Lawrence Kimell, a family therapist who specialized in trauma and betrayal, helped us work through the complicated feelings. Dad’s guilt about trusting Valerie over me, about not recognizing the abuse, about failing the way he’d promised mom he never would.
My anger at him for believing her manipulations, for not listening when I said something was wrong, the grief underneath everything, the way we’d both been vulnerable because we’d lost mom and Valerie had exploited that vulnerability ruthlessly. The physical recovery was faster than the emotional healing. Once I was back in control of my own diabetes management with Dr. Inamoto’s supervision, my blood sugar normalized within weeks.
I gained back the weight I’d lost. My energy returned. My concentration improved. My grades recovered. I made the soccer team again the following season, but the psychological scars took longer to address. I developed anxiety around anyone touching my medical equipment, around letting anyone else have input into my care. Dr. Kimell connected me with a therapist who specialized in medical trauma, Dr. Angela Morrison. Wait, can’t use that name. Dr. Angela Fletcher, who’d worked with abuse survivors for 19 years. She helped me process the violation of having someone weaponize my chronic illness against me.
Nurse Strand became something of a hero in my story. The person who’d recognized the pattern, and taken action despite resistance from my family and school administration. She’d filed the CPS report that saved my life, documented the evidence carefully, testified courageously. I learned later that she’d faced pressure from the school principal to back off, to stop interfering with family medical decisions, but she’d persisted because something had felt wrong to her experienced eye.
Years of managing diabetic students had given her intuition about what proper care looked like, and my case had violated every instinct she had. The school held an assembly about medical abuse awareness after Valerie’s conviction, bringing in speakers to educate students and staff about recognizing signs of caregivers inducing illness.
They reformed their policies about school nurses documenting concerns and reporting suspicions. Nurse Strand spoke briefly about trusting instincts when something seemed wrong, about how chronic illness patients were particularly vulnerable to this type of abuse because their conditions provided cover for the harm.
I graduated high school on time despite missing significant school during the worst of my illness. I was accepted to several colleges and chose one with an excellent premed program. I wanted to become an endocrinologist to work with patients like me who lived with chronic conditions that made them vulnerable. Dr. Inamoto wrote one of my recommendation letters describing how I’d survived medical abuse and developed resilience and determination she rarely saw in patients.
Valerie served her full three-year sentence. She never admitted what she’d done, maintaining throughout her imprisonment that she’d been trying to help and had made honest mistakes.
Her parole hearing included testimony from me, now 19 years old and thriving in college. I explained how she’d systematically poisoned me with my own medication, how she’d ignored my suffering, how she’d built a public narrative of devoted caretaking while privately destroying my health. The parole board denied early release, citing her lack of remorse and continued danger to any vulnerable person in her care.
Dad and I rebuilt our relationship slowly. He moved to a smaller house, the one where mom had died and Valerie had lived felt poisoned to both of us. He attended therapy regularly, working through his guilt and his dangerous tendency to defer to authority figures instead of trusting his instincts. He started educating himself about diabetes, learning what mom had known, becoming the parent I needed him to be.
We had dinner together weekly talking about my classes and his work and gradually healing the fractures Valerie had created. I’m 23 now in my second year of medical school specializing in endocrinology as planned. I work with Dr. Inamoto during summer breaks learning from the doctor who saved my life by recognizing abuse.
I volunteer with diabetes advocacy groups speaking to families about recognizing signs of medical abuse, about the vulnerability chronic illness creates. I talk to nurses and teachers about trusting their instincts when something seems wrong with a patient’s care. The insulin pump I wear now is controlled solely by me.
No one else has access to the settings. No one else programs my boluses. The trust Valerie destroyed with my medical equipment took years to rebuild, but I’ve learned to manage my diabetes confidently and independently. My A1C is consistently in the healthy range. I’m thriving physically. The permanent damage she could have caused avoided because Nurse Strand recognized the pattern in time.
People ask sometimes why the school nurse filed a report when I needed my insulin pump during class. The answer is that she noticed what everyone else had missed. That my pump was being weaponized against me by someone who was supposed to be caring for me. She saw patterns in settings that made no medical sense, documented her concerns carefully, and took action despite resistance.
She understood that chronic illness patients need advocates because their conditions can provide perfect cover for abuse. The worst thing about medical abuse is how invisible it is. Valerie hurt me with medication that was supposed to keep me alive, using my chronic condition as both weapon and shield.
She looked like a devoted caregiver while systematically poisoning me. If my pump had been programmed slightly differently, if I’d gone into a coma instead of just DKA, she might have gotten away with it. People would have said my diabetes was just difficult to manage, that she’d tried her best, that sometimes these things happen.
But one school nurse with 14 years of experience looked at my pump settings and knew something was wrong. She documented evidence. She filed a report. She stood firm despite pressure to back down. She saved my life by trusting her professional instincts over comfortable assumptions.