Gianna used the following essay in each of her applications.

Common Application: Indicate a person who has had a significant influence on you, and describe that influence.

Within the prison of room 216B, I curled up under a flimsy hospital blanket, flanked by my teary eyed mother and an ever-present nurse. Clenched teeth prevented puddles in my eyes from moistening parched cheeks. How could a body that I’d taken such good care of turn against me so suddenly?

“A classic presentation of insulin dependent diabetes.” My soul flung itself against the bars of the bed, attempting to escape the doctor’s words. Blood boiled through sugar soaked veins as I envisioned a life dominated by injections, schedules, and restrictions. What right did she have to assign a biological label to something that encompassed so much more than a malfunctioning organ? I resisted the urge to rip out my IV and throw it at her. Instead, I threw myself into the daily struggle of maintaining a quasi-normal metabolic state. Despite my efforts, it became increasingly clear that the human brain was never meant to play pancreas. I became convinced that it was no longer a question of “if” I would succumb such diabetic complications as blindness, kidney failure, and limb amputations, but “when.”


Enter Delaine. She had gotten my number through a friend of my mother’s, and suggested that I consider an insulin pump, a device that delivers insulin 24 hours a day through a tiny infusion line. I returned her call intending to disregard the advice. I didn’t want a constant reminder of my disease clipped to my waistband; I wanted people to leave me alone to contemplate my miserable future.

Fortunately, Delaine ignored my wishes. A diabetic for 16 years and a pump user herself, she had nothing but praise for the little machine. No more schedules, shots, or “diabetic diet.” Best of all, the improved control meant a reduced risk for complications. It wasn’t a cure, but I was convinced. Delaine was living proof that my diagnosis wasn’t a death sentence, and for the first time in months I felt hopeful. A week after I began pumping, we met in person over ice cream sundaes.


“How many carbohydrates are in this creation?” she asked, gesturing grandly toward her dish. I paused, wanting desperately to thank her for everying she’s done for me, to explain that the matted fur of my old teddy bear had finally recovered from the endless nights I ‘d spent sobbing into his stomach.


I wanted her to know that she had transformed my perception of diabetes so much that I would no longer give it up. I've watched her use her illness to connect with people and offer them encouragement, and I want to help others the same way. Last week. I overheard a woman mention her newly diagnosed husband. I've never been an extrovert: words don't have a particular flair when escaping from my mouth into the ears of strangers. Yet there I stood, offering support and advice to a person in need. She's taught me to enjoy every moment because there are no guarantees; I refuse to have any regrets if this illness becomes stronger than I am. She is a master weaver, creating a blanket of kindness that will warm me forever.