Sugar

by Jacqueline Hanzl

Sugar. Pure, white, little innocent sugar. That’s what I used to think; that is until the day I found out it could kill me.

I‘d been feeling like crap for a while. I caught a cold that lasted for the month of September. It was only the beginning of my senior year in high school and I was totally exhausted. And really thirsty. Nothing could quench my thirst.

I think that was the symptom that made my mom suspicious, the thirst. She’s a nurse. And apparently being constantly thirsty is a huge symptom of diabetes, Type I to be exact, AKA Juvenile Diabetes.

I’d been working my ass off as tri-captain of the Varsity Cheerleading squad. Yes, I said TRI-captain. I am one of three captains for our squad. Not sure why we need three… maybe the thought is that cheerleader’s have a third of a normal person’s brainpower? Anyway, I was at a great time in my life. I’m at the top of my class (thank you very much), I was having a blast, totally getting used to the idea of being a senior and finally ditching this lame small town, then WHAM! I was hit with this.

Mom suspected my blood sugar levels were the culprit of my mysterious symptoms, so she brought home pee strips from her job at the hospital to test my blood sugar. In my house, this isn’t that odd. Mom was always bringing things home to try on us when we weren’t feeling well. We had a whole closet full of stuff like flavored tongue depressors (cherry is the fave in our house), blood pressure cuffs, colored non-latex gloves, and the latest and greatest thermometers (rectal is definitely NOT a fave, although mom claims it gives the most accurate reading).

Mom tells me what she thinks after the results confirm her fears. At first I don’t think I understand what she is saying. The words come out of her mouth, “You have diabetes.“ But I hear them as just words, with no meaning. She could have said, “You have doopateetees.“ It’s like she’s talking to someone else, about someone else. I don’t have diabetes. I’m a teenager for God’s sake and a senior in high school. This can’t be happening.

Diabetes doesn‘t mean anything to me. I thought it meant you couldn’t eat sugar ever again or you would die. I respond, “Okay. So I won’t eat sugar anymore, no biggie.” I look at her hand on my shoulder, feel the weight of it as she tells me that diabetes, Juvenile, is a lifelong disease. Words and phrases jump out at me and I can‘t get away from them as she firmly holds me there. “Insulin”…“for the rest of your life”…“needles”.

I think about the window in my bedroom in the attic. It’s small, stained glass, and opens out like a door on a hinge. I can’t get there fast enough. I picture opening the window, sticking my head out, and screaming at the top of my lungs until my body shakes. Instead, I open it to let some air in, curl up in a ball on my bed, and cry until my body shakes.

 

 

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I wake up to my cell phone blaring out Beyonce. Uggh. I don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s only 4:00 pm, will this day ever end?

I walk down the narrow stairs from my bedroom that lead to the kitchen. I hear my parents’ voices but can’t make out the words. I step lightly into the kitchen, tip-toe across the floor, reach the doorway that opens to the living room where they are talking, and press my back against the wall so that I am parallel to the entranceway.

“She will be okay Gayle, I know it. We will all get through this”, my dad says. “Deen’s lucky she has a mom who’s a nurse.” “I know Mike, but she’s so…sensitive…she…”

I cock my ear closer to the doorway.

Can it be? She’s crying!

“I always knew there was something wrong with my Deen.”

Huh? What does she mean she ‘always knew’ there was something wrong with me? I had never heard that one before. Did she somehow know that I was going to have diabetes? Was I sickly child? I don’t remember being sick any more than the next kid.

Her reaction kind of scares me. Mom is usually tough; always in control, especially of me. Lots of things that most parents consider tragedies easily roll off her back; like fevers of 104, chest colds, broken limbs…my life was over…literally.

I go back up to my room and check my phone. Chris had called. How am I going to tell him this? I am broken now. I’m a freak. Why would he still want me? I‘ll text him that I got into a fight with mom or something and I‘ll call him later.

I put on my iPod and an old school Janet Jackson song is on, “Control”. Yeah, I wish I had some of that in my life right now.

Mom walks in and says that Dr. Sheckman wants us to meet him at the hospital to run tests and get me started with all of my supplies. Amazing how she looks as fresh-faced as ever. No sign of those tears that I had heard earlier.

We enter through the emergency room waiting area. Food for thought: as if hospitals aren’t depressing enough, they also have to have that horrible fluorescent lighting. That’s a girl’s worst nightmare right there.

We go up to the 5^th floor where his office is. “Hello Gayle, Geraldine.”

“Please call me Deen, Dr. Scheckman.”

“Okay, Deen, I’m glad you could meet me here. I wanted to come to the house, but I had a bit of an emergency with one of my long-term patients.”

Great, that’s what I am now.

“So Deen, let me test your blood sugar to see where you’re at.”

He pulls out something that looks like a fat pen and an alcohol pad. “Are you right handed Deen?“

“Uhh Yeah?“

Dr. Scheckman rubs the tip of my index finger on my left hand with the alcohol pad. Then, faster than a JedI mind trick, pricks my finger. That goddam pen is no pen at all. Ouch. Dam it, now I’m bleeding. He swiftly places a little strip of paper (test strip) on my finger, which sucks up the blood like a vampire. It was kind of cool, kind of.

Obi one Scheckenobi puts the strip inside a little device that looks sort of like a cell phone. Three seconds pass and it beeps.

“Okay. Deen, how are you feeling right now?”

“Well, other than tired, I feel okay I guess.”

“Your blood sugar is at 200. This is not great. It’s not bad, but it’s not great. We have to get some insulin in you to help bring it down.” He grabs a syringe with a needle from his desk.

“Deen, I need you to take your pants off.”

What the fuck??

“Huh?!”

“Deen, Dr. Sheckman has to give you a shot in the buttocks.”

‘Buttocks’ is a really funny word and if I wasn’t so mortified right now, I would laugh. Especially hearing the way mom says “buh-TOCKS”, emphasizing “tocks“.

I pull down my pants and Dr. Scheckman gives me the shot. Not only am I horrified that I just mooned my doctor, but all I can think about is how my mother’s face is probably purple with embarrassment at the fact that I am wearing a pink lacy thong. I’m sure it’s also offended her in some way too.

Oh boy.

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While in the car on the way home, I examine my “goody bag” from Dr. Scheckster. I’ve scored a nifty little black case that holds a tester, test strips, and alcohol pads. I wanted a hot pink one but Dr. Scheckman (regrettably I‘m sure) said he didn’t have any in that color.

Maybe I’ll start a fashion line of tester holder thingy majiggies. They’ll come in all colors and even gem stones.

Good. Times.

“Deen, I know this isn’t really the time, but are you having sex?”

HO. LEE. Shit.

“What? Why are you asking me this?”

The pink thong.

“Well from the looks of your undergarment, that is not something someone would wear for themselves. Is Chris pressuring you? Did he pressure you??”

Undergarment!?!? “No, no. Mom I really would rather not talk about this”

“Geraldine Marie.” Woe, she brought out the big guns, using my full name. The middle name means business. “We should discuss this now. There’s no time like the present. Chris has quite a hold on you. What he says, tends to go.”

My parents are not in love with Chris. They think he is too controlling. I know that is just the way he is. It’s how he shows his love for me. Who cares if he gets a little jealous? I kind of like it. It’s a little annoying when he tells me what to wear, but it’s fine. I love him so much. This may sound cheesy, but, he is tall, dark, and handsome. Seriously. He is gorgeous and funny and everybody just adores him (well everyone except for my parents).

“Mom, really? I really can’t believe you are doing this right this very second. We just came from the hospital where I was humiliated. A man just saw my butt way too closely and I had to take my pants off in front of my mother. I was also just given all of this crap that I barely know what to do with.”

“Sorry Deen. You’re not getting off so easily. Talk to me. You can always talk to me, you know that. If, God forbid, you are having sex, I need to know that you have protected yourself. And, you should also know that just because you have done it, doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it.”

Oh please.

“Okay.”

“So are you???”

“No, I am not having sex.” At the moment.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s bound to come up at some point. Please Deen, before you do, please talk to me. I know I’m your Mom, and it’s not easy, but please promise you will come to me first.”

“I promise.” My fingers are crossed so it doesn’t count.

“Good, and I think I’m going to have to talk to your dad about this.”

“Seriously?!?! Mom, come on! I told you I would talk to you first. Can we just keep it between us, please? I am begging you. Please???”

“Well, I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you. “ Oh my God. It’s enough that mom is talking to me about this. But dad?!? I think my head would literally explode from embarrassment.