Fourteen Hours to Tokyo

 The high-pitched whine of the airport PA system sliced through the haze of my thoughts, a constant, irritating buzz that mirrored the static in my own mind.

JFK was a mess of people—families hugging goodbye, suitcases screeching across the floors, the occasional garbled announcement calling for a missing passenger. It was the kind of chaos that made my ADHD brain fizz with nervous energy.

I tried to ground myself in the details. The way my sneakers stuck to the grimy floor with each step. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead. The familiar weight of my carry-on slung over my shoulder. Triple-checking. No—quadruple. Maybe more. ADHD had a way of making me forget things, but not this time. Not something this important.

I always carried a worn-out paperback, even though I rarely had the focus to read it. The pages were worn from years of false starts. I ran my fingers over its frayed edges, an old habit, a lifeline of sorts.

Extra insulin packed in my checked luggage, syringes neatly arranged, snacks tucked into my carry-on. In the dark ages of Type 1 Diabetes, there were no CGMs, no insulin pumps—just fast-acting and long-acting insulin, two glass vials, a syringe, and the fragile balance of blood sugar. Precision. Control. Survival.

I left my insulin on the counter.

I didn’t realize it until we were somewhere over the Pacific.

I had grabbed dinner from a fast-food counter at JFK before boarding—fries, a burger, a cup of tea. I set my small insulin bag down to dig for change, then picked up my tray, balancing it carefully while making my way to a table.

That was the last time I saw my insulin.

By the time I got on the plane and settled into my seat, I didn’t think twice about it. The engines roared to life, the massive aircraft tilted skyward, and I sank back, ready for the long haul.

The hum of the plane was a constant drone, a white noise that began to grate on my nerves. My mind, usually a whirlwind of distractions, latched onto the rhythmic hum of the plane's engines, a constant, predictable sound that momentarily calmed the storm within.

I reached into my carry-on, feeling for the familiar weight of the insulin pouch.

Not there.

I checked the seat pocket.

Nothing.

I checked again.

Nothing.

Heart pounding, I unzipped everything—tossing out books, papers, a half-eaten granola bar. My hands shook. My breath hitched. The pouch wasn’t here.

My throat went dry. My head spun. My vision tunneled. My fingers clenched around the armrest, nails digging into the fabric. I forced myself to swallow the rising panic, but it was useless.

The moment stretched, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

I had left it.

I had left my insulin.

But it wasn’t just the insulin I’d forgotten. It was the countless appointments, the promises, the small, everyday moments that slipped through the cracks of my attention. The feeling of failure curled around me like smoke. I tried to push it away, but it lingered.

By the time the doctor came, I was slumped against the window, my body heavy with exhaustion. He pressed two fingers to my wrist.

My pulse pounded—fast, too fast.

“Do you have anything at all?” he asked.

I forced my eyes open.

“My insulin is in my checked bag.”

He nodded grimly.

“We can keep you hydrated, but—”

“I know.” I swallowed, my throat like sandpaper.

“I need insulin.”

The doctor looked at me, concern deepening. His hands, weathered and steady, moved with a practiced precision, a silent promise of control in a situation spiraling out of mine. His fingers drummed once against his thigh before he exhaled, slow and measured. He knew. We both did.

The crew brought me more water and an oxygen mask. It helped, but not enough. My head spun with feverish heat, and a sickly-sweet taste coated my tongue, a phantom flavor that signaled the poison building within.

My muscles ached, each twitch a sharp, burning reminder of my body's betrayal. My stomach churned, nausea rising like a slow-moving tide.

The blackness outside the window was total, broken only by the distant, winking lights of unseen towns. It was like staring into the void, and the void was staring back.

For the first time since the panic began, a strange sense of calm washed over me. Not peace, but a weary acceptance of my own limitations. The struggle would always be there, the war never truly won. But for a moment, the silence wrapped around me, heavy and absolute.

Tokyo, in my mind, was a beacon. A place where I could prove to myself that even with the chaos of my mind, I could navigate a new world. It wasn’t just a destination; it was a challenge, a test of who I could be outside of the mess I always seemed to leave behind.

When the wheels touched down at Narita, I was barely holding on.

The crew had called ahead. As soon as the doors opened, medics boarded, helping me into a wheelchair, speaking to me in Japanese I barely understood.

I fumbled for the phrase I needed.

“Insulin. Hospital.”

I showed them my Medic Alert bracelet.

They understood. They moved quickly.

By the time the IV was in my arm, the insulin dripping into my bloodstream, I could finally breathe. Relief washed over me, stark and shocking, a contrast to the nightmare of the last fourteen hours.

The cold fire of the insulin spread through my veins, and for the first time in hours, the burning began to subside.

It was over.

I closed my eyes, letting exhaustion swallow me whole.

It wasn't just the absence of pain; it was the return of control.

The feeling of my body, finally responding, finally obeying.

It was a fragile victory, but a victory nonetheless.

I checked the seat pocket.

Nothing.

I checked again.

Nothing.

I looked on the floor, under the seats.

Still nothing.

I would never forget my insulin again.

Not ever again, not the same way.

Not if I paid attention.