Monkeys at the Zoo

By Maggie Malloy

Monkeys at the zoo: a simple phrase that seems to be full of ambiguity and unimportance. Yet, my ten-year-old self found that these four words held so much power and control over my future.

My mother has always been an avid psychic-goer for as long as I can remember, and her experiences have inadvertently allowed me to place trust in these individuals. So with prefacing this thought of psychics and placing preconceived notions aside, my mother visited her dependable medium, Jane, one random Saturday in the year 2009. As my mom bore three children, two boys and one girl, she naturally always asked about us. When she brought up my name and inquired about what was in store for her only daughter, Jane hesitated for a couple of minutes and frantically wrote down on her loose-leaf piece of paper, “Monkeys at the zoo” with no explanation or description. Jane did not understand why or how this statement had any correlation to me, but she could not nudge her inclinations.

A few months later, 2009 blended into 2010, and I was diagnosed with Type I Diabetes. Every summer JDRF, a nonprofit organization that funds research for Type I Diabetes, hosts a walk at the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo. And even though I was still insanely bitter about my new chronic disease, my mother forced me to participate in this walk, along with the support of friends and family. I did not want to give my energy nor did I want to raise money for a condition that I still feel is so unfair. But, mother knows all, and our group of thirty-five headed to the zoo on a blisteringly hot August summer day. There was a tour guide who tried a little too hard to force a smile and she kindly led us all around the different exhibits. We really did not spend more than two minutes at each different display, except for one. Our tour guide, whose name I selfishly forgot, directed our attention to the monkey exhibit and told me that this female monkey’s name is Lola. And that Lola, the monkey, is a fellow Type I Diabetic. My state of resentment was too strong to fully grasp what this really meant until my mom loudly gasped and reminded me of her visit with Jane. Monkeys at the zoo. It all makes sense. Again, preconceived notions set aside, this experience with Lola was way too surreal to not believe in Jane’s four words.

I like to commence my diabetic journey with that story because I believe, somehow, that it mitigates the other hardships and obstacles I have faced with diabetes. Soon after the JDRF Walk and meeting Lola, I began to spiral with diabetes. There was not an ounce of me that wanted to take care of myself: I lied about pricking my finger, I lied about taking my insulin, I lied that I was in a healthy mental state with my disease, pretty much every single diabetic endeavor I encountered was full of deceit.

Here is where the psychologists weigh in. Due to my pent-up animosity and depressive state, my parents thought there was no other choice and that it was crucial that I see a psychologist. In typical Maggie fashion, I fought, pushed, and shoved this idea away. How could this person possibly understand my struggle or even begin to empathize with me? It was clear that I was depressed, but another diagnosis was slapped onto my plate and I was now a depressive diabetic.

I’m not really keen about divulging my emotions to a stranger, but to make a long story short, I found that I could take utter comfort in my therapist. She understood me; she did not pry; she had shown acceptance. For once, I felt that someone was on my side and I could unleash all my internal emotions, without pissing my mom or dad off–or worse upsetting them. The truth is, no one really knows why diabetes happens and everyone is ignorant of what the disease entails. A diabetic’s psychology and mental health will differ from an individual who is not diabetic. My therapist, who will remain unnamed, explained this to me. I don’t feel as if I need to educate others, even if diabetes is a chronically severe disease, constituting life-long complications, rather I feel as if I only need one person to truly understand me. And, that is what my therapist was for me: not my mom, not my best friend, not another diabetic. Sometimes all we need is one person.

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Maggie Malloy was born in Cleveland, OH. She will be graduating this April and heading to law school!

Featured art: Blooming Mind by Ella Stevens