For most Americans, November is associated with Thanksgiving. It's a transitional month between October and Halloween and December and Christmas. Some might associate November with autumn, but as a native Californian, autumn is just when the leaves fall off (some of) the trees. San Diego is even worse than my NorCal home -- it's still 80 degrees Fahrenheit every day. Yet two years ago, November gained a whole new association with my family and I. November became National Diabetes Awareness Month.

It was the morning of August 30th. I had spent the night at my friend’s house and was riding the high of helping orchestrate a successful surprise birthday party for her. My mom texted me, saying that my sister wasn’t feeling well, so they were taking her to the doctor. It was a pretty innocent text. I wasn’t worried at all, considering I had seen her the day before and she seemed perfectly fine. I ignored my phone for a couple of hours, as I helped clean up the party aftermath.

When I finally looked at my phone, it contained texts that I still haven’t forgotten and I probably never will. “Kira has diabetes. Pick up your brother and come to the hospital now. She is in the ICU.” First and foremost, I was confused. The first thought that went through my head was, “but my sister isn’t fat.” She was the exact opposite -- she was a super picky eater but young, and energetic and seemingly healthy. The second thought that went through my head was, “I have to get to the hospital now.” My mind and body turned to autopilot. I was weirdly calm about the whole thing, but I’m guessing it was the shock. I told my friend what the texts said, wished her one last happy birthday, and promised to keep her updated on the situation. I remained composed until I couldn't reach my brother on the phone. All at once, my anxiety kicked in, and I started to panic.

I spent more than my fair share of time in the hospital as a child. The last time I had been hospitalized, I was about my sister’s age, six years old. I called my mom and she answered but said she had to go because they were giving my sister an IV. Before she could hang up, I could hear my sister screaming in the background.

My miserable memories of being in the hospital as a child came flooding back. And now my sister was in this uncomfortable, terrifying, alien place. I ran through my house, grabbing stuffed animals, blankets, toys -- everything I didn’t have in the hospital. I shoved everything into my car and started to drive towards the hospital, like a maniac. I had recently received my driver’s license and was usually a nervous driver, but on that drive, all I could think about was getting to my sister.

What happened after that is kind of a blur -- which is ironic, considering that’s when all the important stuff actually happened. But one thing was clear -- my sister had Type 1, or juvenile, diabetes. I had always heard the term “Type 2” used when talking about diabetes, but it meant nothing to me. I soon found out that Type 1 diabetes is a chronic condition in which the pancreas stops producing insulin. It has no cure. She would have it forever. Managing Type 1 diabetes is a never-ending, 24-hours a day job. When she eats she needs insulin. When her blood sugar is too high, she needs more insulin. The scariest part is when her blood sugar drops -- if it drops too low death can occur in minutes.

On the outside, my sister appears to be a “normal” little girl. But on the inside is a broken pancreas that risks her life every day. I’ve watched her battle with the never-ending needles and other unpleasantness for two years, and she still inspires me to this day. This November, my family celebrated National Diabetes Awareness Month, and on the 14th, World Diabetes Day. Each year, this month brings awareness to diabetes. My sister will always have it -- but maybe, one day, we can find a cure -- and November will be about turkeys again.