My parents canceled my insulin refill on a Thursday afternoon and used the money to buy my sister VIP concert tickets.
I remember thThey used the money for my insulin to pay for my sister’s VIP concert tickets and told me I could ration my medication for a few more days.e exact day because I had been tracking the refill all week.
My name is Ava Morrison. I was seventeen, a high school senior in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and I had been living with Type 1 diabetes since I was nine. By that point, insulin wasn’t just medication in our house—it was survival. It sat in the butter compartment of the fridge. It traveled with me in insulated cases. It controlled what I ate, how I slept, and how carefully I had to move through my days. My endocrinologist had explained it to my parents countless times: I couldn’t “stretch it,” I couldn’t skip doses, and I absolutely could not run out.
My mother, Denise, knew all of that.
So did my father, Craig.
Which is why what they did still shocks people when I tell them.
