(This will come out in parts, the first below...)
A Catch-22 appeared the day the nurse came in. It was her first visit, bringing with her some ten-years experience, dry and gnarled fingertips, and something else. She looked down at my chart after introductions and made a comment about my age. Then asking if I was a drinker. I told her I wasn’t and wasn’t planning on ever starting, but she didn’t hear that. She heard 20-year old, new diabetic. It was January 3rd and she had no idea what brought me to this hospital, what forced a diagnosis.
As she talked about the importance of not drinking to excess as a Type-1, I thought about where her head must be. What could have caused her to ignore my strong assurance that I didn’t drink and never would? Had she thought I was diagnosed after not waking up on January 1st soon after the New Year stuck? My face lying in a pile of vomit or a soiled carpet or rug, unable to be shaken to life. Perhaps she thought my friends had called my parents or dropped me on their front porch – holding down the horn in their embarrassed and panic-laden state of not quite sober – hoping they’d deal with me so the drunken, shaking car-full wouldn’t have to.
No such luck. My mother drove me to the hospital not two hours after being diagnosed by our families’ general practitioner, on New Year’s Eve. In fact, I had spent my New Years in a gown, attached to a saline drip watching an Aqua Teen Hunger Force Marathon.
The nurse interrupted my recollection to tell me that she and her husband liked to kick back when they got off work – like, “Regular Joes,” she told me – and have a beer or two but never more. She told me that was fine because she either took the carbs into consideration when she dialed up her pump or drank lite. I must have looked interested or smart-alecky because she continued, “hard liquor’s okay though.” She placed one hand on her hip, head turned to look up. Like a role model she said, “hard liquor doesn’t have the carbs beer has. Beer’s my preference, like I said, but if we’re at a party, I’ll drink some vodka or something.”
I wasn’t sure if the way I was sitting, my unshowered ripeness, or something else that suggested I was a partygoer. This was probably her regular spiel, I told myself. The script she stuck to when speaking with young people and teenagers. And her blasé stance more likely reflected her concentration on the message that needed to be addressed, “but make sure you don’t go too far. If you puke, you’re in trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
Friday, December 19, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
A slow death no one deserves (final draft)
“The siren would wake the whole building, as I would hold the door open for the paramedics, pouring into the apartment like the glucose gel I forced into his mouth earlier,” Lars said. “No effect.
“He promised me one packet would do the trick if he dropped, 10 units if he spiked, but nothing happened. He just lay there on the bathroom floor. The twitching stopped ten minutes ago. I think he’s in a coma, but I’m not sure. That’s why I called 9-1-1. And why they’re asking me questions about peanut butter and bread and orange juice. Why when he stopped shaking, I started to.”
“It can’t be that bad,” I tell Lars, “he wouldn’t let it get to that point.” But I can tell he doesn’t buy it. He can’t. He has too much empirical evidence to support fraternal worry and concern.
Like two days ago, having to wake him to eat food. News to me.
But why wouldn’t he bring something like that up? I’m his support system, I thought. The only one around here. The only person who can talk about endocrinologists and studies and articles in emails sent by our parents or from the Google news feed we both set up. I’ve mentioned the islet cell results from the U.K. and he just smiles and rolls his drooping eyes.
“I don’t think he has a choice. It just happens,” Lars muses. “It’s like his body has finally decided to end it. Out of pity or something.”
20-years will do that. But he’s always taken care of himself. I mean, beside the outpatient laser eye surgery in December he hasn’t shown any of the tell tale signs of a body giving up. No loss of feeling in the feet or hands. That can’t be it.
“I’m not supposed to tell you about this stuff,” Lars pauses. “Don’t tell him I told you.”
“Of course.”
“He…it’s happened five times since we moved in.”
“He’s dropped five times!”
“Yeah,” there’s another pause, “maybe Chicago just doesn’t agree with him.” He laughs uneasily.
He goes on with four other stories, including having to crawl in through a window to get to him as Lars forgot the keys and his phone in the apartment. He needs to get it out. Let someone who understands hear. But there’s not much I can do. I only dropped once, in Texas, and I don’t remember who called the ambulance or paramedics and who let them in. Or where my uncle came from. Or why my phone was across the room, on the floor, below a dent in the wall. He doesn’t need that story though, or other mildly entertaining/depressing medical mishaps. He just needs me to sit there, so I do.
“I feel like I'm waiting for Jeremy to die lately,” but he hasn’t yet.
But he might soon. And now I see it.
“He promised me one packet would do the trick if he dropped, 10 units if he spiked, but nothing happened. He just lay there on the bathroom floor. The twitching stopped ten minutes ago. I think he’s in a coma, but I’m not sure. That’s why I called 9-1-1. And why they’re asking me questions about peanut butter and bread and orange juice. Why when he stopped shaking, I started to.”
“It can’t be that bad,” I tell Lars, “he wouldn’t let it get to that point.” But I can tell he doesn’t buy it. He can’t. He has too much empirical evidence to support fraternal worry and concern.
Like two days ago, having to wake him to eat food. News to me.
But why wouldn’t he bring something like that up? I’m his support system, I thought. The only one around here. The only person who can talk about endocrinologists and studies and articles in emails sent by our parents or from the Google news feed we both set up. I’ve mentioned the islet cell results from the U.K. and he just smiles and rolls his drooping eyes.
“I don’t think he has a choice. It just happens,” Lars muses. “It’s like his body has finally decided to end it. Out of pity or something.”
20-years will do that. But he’s always taken care of himself. I mean, beside the outpatient laser eye surgery in December he hasn’t shown any of the tell tale signs of a body giving up. No loss of feeling in the feet or hands. That can’t be it.
“I’m not supposed to tell you about this stuff,” Lars pauses. “Don’t tell him I told you.”
“Of course.”
“He…it’s happened five times since we moved in.”
“He’s dropped five times!”
“Yeah,” there’s another pause, “maybe Chicago just doesn’t agree with him.” He laughs uneasily.
He goes on with four other stories, including having to crawl in through a window to get to him as Lars forgot the keys and his phone in the apartment. He needs to get it out. Let someone who understands hear. But there’s not much I can do. I only dropped once, in Texas, and I don’t remember who called the ambulance or paramedics and who let them in. Or where my uncle came from. Or why my phone was across the room, on the floor, below a dent in the wall. He doesn’t need that story though, or other mildly entertaining/depressing medical mishaps. He just needs me to sit there, so I do.
“I feel like I'm waiting for Jeremy to die lately,” but he hasn’t yet.
But he might soon. And now I see it.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Does it hurt?
Jeremy stands there and offers the common question. Then, explaining that “most people want you to say ‘it doesn’t hurt’ or ‘you get used to it.’ Even though it’s impossible to get used to, you’re sticking a needle in your stomach!” I just watch him. His smile and demeanor mask the consistent pain and annoyance. He’s had it for nearly twenty-years now. He’s entitled to a few tirades.
“I mean, does it hurt when you bleed? Of course it does,” he answers before anyone could respond. I start thinking back to the many responses I’ve given people when they’ve asked as he laughs, the cap to a syringe between his lips. He draws back the plunger and I remember my mother watching my first time in the hospital bed. I was 20, so they put me in the pediatric ward, a room away from a kid with breathing tubes in his nose and a shakiness as he walked, the wheels squeaking in synchronicity on the mobile IV and oxygen tubes. She stood there, half in wonder, half in terror. What had happened to her son?
She took responsibility. I never understood why, but, then again, I’ve never been a parent. Especially at the time I didn’t understand. I just wanted her to stop, so I told her it was nothing. The doctor stood next to my bed on the day I was to be discharged, the day I would have to give myself a shot. I had attempted to skirt the issue until then. Telling the nursing staff I wasn’t ready. I’m sure they understood somewhat. My life, after all, had just spun wildly out of control.
Jeremy yanked the syringe out from the bottle of his Lantus, the same kind I use at night. Flicking the side to concentrate the bubbles and discharge them. A couple drops slid down the metal delivery system and I remembered how my mom’s eyes welled up. I was holding the needle, hovering over the pinched fat on my thigh for a while. Must have been two minutes, easy. The doctor just kept smiling and watching my leg, my mother preparing to cup her hands over her mouth and cry, and me, in a state of disbelief. What was this? How did I get here? I looked over at my mother and realized it didn’t matter. She didn’t need her son to be an existentialist here; she needed me to do it. Do it and make it seem like it didn’t matter. Like it was nothing. So, I did.
Jeremy then sat down and pulled up his shirt, grasping some fat around his stomach. His skin was so smooth and incident-free I got a little jealous over his experience. I could think of no other reason why his stomach wasn’t riddled with bruises, red dots, and bubbles under the skin from burst blood vessels. These are the things I hide from my mother and show to few friends. It’s not easy to avoid the dome or trickle down of blood in your first few years. Now, 90% of the time I’m golden, but that 10%...there’s enough of a percentage there to give me pause. Enough sharp, consistent pain as I graze or get nearby a nerve. Enough mornings standing in front of the mirror at nearly matching, dull purple bruises. Just standing there, willing them to go away. Poking at them to see if they still hurt, they do until they disappear, or counting the dots that unnaturally freckle between the hairs.
Jeremy’s movement to his stomach was fluid, something I feel like I’ve gotten down as well in my quarter-of-the-time dealing with it. The nonchalant pinching and plunging and holding for an entire minute and removing isn’t an easy task, but it’s pedestrian for him. As the rest of us in the room allow him the courtesy to vent, I’m wondering if people perceive my own unwillingness to hide my “disease” to the world the way they look at Jeremy. Do they shrug it off? Are they used to it? Do they think it’s an act of defiance?
He recaps the syringe and sits it next to him on the couch, returning the vial of clear, stings your nostrils fluid to the bag at his feet. I then catch wind of the smell. The stereotypical medicine smell: sterile with an acute sting deep in the nostrils. Or like the green, roll-on bottle of Absorbing Jr. my dad would apply to his pre-arthritised joints and onto my knee when I thought that was the only physical problem I had.
“If you don’t say something like that they brace themselves like I’m going to reach over and stab them or something,” or that they feel the need to share in the experience, I think. They bite or try to swallow their bottom lip. It’s better to just comfort them, I think. Not let them worry. If people knew what it was like they’d coddle us. My mother specifically. So, Jeremy pushes back while I try and reassure those around me, those who care so much they gird themselves like I did before the first nurse pinched behind my arm. I’m not sure if that’s his standard response, but even if it were it would be understandable. Type-One diabetics have a right, I think, to get angry from time to time. We didn’t cause this. Didn’t not take care of ourselves. We’re just stuck with this thing that requires not only care of our own wellbeing but of those around us.
I sat there listening to him chuckle some more at the absurdity his life has become. Twenty-eight, diabetic, and at more frequent risk of spikes or drops in his blood sugar I wonder if his parents responded the way mine did. With guilt and my need to comfort them. And I remember the response I gave earlier that day to a friend who saw me inject for the first time, “sometimes, when you hit the wrong spot, it still does hurts. A lot.”
“I mean, does it hurt when you bleed? Of course it does,” he answers before anyone could respond. I start thinking back to the many responses I’ve given people when they’ve asked as he laughs, the cap to a syringe between his lips. He draws back the plunger and I remember my mother watching my first time in the hospital bed. I was 20, so they put me in the pediatric ward, a room away from a kid with breathing tubes in his nose and a shakiness as he walked, the wheels squeaking in synchronicity on the mobile IV and oxygen tubes. She stood there, half in wonder, half in terror. What had happened to her son?
She took responsibility. I never understood why, but, then again, I’ve never been a parent. Especially at the time I didn’t understand. I just wanted her to stop, so I told her it was nothing. The doctor stood next to my bed on the day I was to be discharged, the day I would have to give myself a shot. I had attempted to skirt the issue until then. Telling the nursing staff I wasn’t ready. I’m sure they understood somewhat. My life, after all, had just spun wildly out of control.
Jeremy yanked the syringe out from the bottle of his Lantus, the same kind I use at night. Flicking the side to concentrate the bubbles and discharge them. A couple drops slid down the metal delivery system and I remembered how my mom’s eyes welled up. I was holding the needle, hovering over the pinched fat on my thigh for a while. Must have been two minutes, easy. The doctor just kept smiling and watching my leg, my mother preparing to cup her hands over her mouth and cry, and me, in a state of disbelief. What was this? How did I get here? I looked over at my mother and realized it didn’t matter. She didn’t need her son to be an existentialist here; she needed me to do it. Do it and make it seem like it didn’t matter. Like it was nothing. So, I did.
Jeremy then sat down and pulled up his shirt, grasping some fat around his stomach. His skin was so smooth and incident-free I got a little jealous over his experience. I could think of no other reason why his stomach wasn’t riddled with bruises, red dots, and bubbles under the skin from burst blood vessels. These are the things I hide from my mother and show to few friends. It’s not easy to avoid the dome or trickle down of blood in your first few years. Now, 90% of the time I’m golden, but that 10%...there’s enough of a percentage there to give me pause. Enough sharp, consistent pain as I graze or get nearby a nerve. Enough mornings standing in front of the mirror at nearly matching, dull purple bruises. Just standing there, willing them to go away. Poking at them to see if they still hurt, they do until they disappear, or counting the dots that unnaturally freckle between the hairs.
Jeremy’s movement to his stomach was fluid, something I feel like I’ve gotten down as well in my quarter-of-the-time dealing with it. The nonchalant pinching and plunging and holding for an entire minute and removing isn’t an easy task, but it’s pedestrian for him. As the rest of us in the room allow him the courtesy to vent, I’m wondering if people perceive my own unwillingness to hide my “disease” to the world the way they look at Jeremy. Do they shrug it off? Are they used to it? Do they think it’s an act of defiance?
He recaps the syringe and sits it next to him on the couch, returning the vial of clear, stings your nostrils fluid to the bag at his feet. I then catch wind of the smell. The stereotypical medicine smell: sterile with an acute sting deep in the nostrils. Or like the green, roll-on bottle of Absorbing Jr. my dad would apply to his pre-arthritised joints and onto my knee when I thought that was the only physical problem I had.
“If you don’t say something like that they brace themselves like I’m going to reach over and stab them or something,” or that they feel the need to share in the experience, I think. They bite or try to swallow their bottom lip. It’s better to just comfort them, I think. Not let them worry. If people knew what it was like they’d coddle us. My mother specifically. So, Jeremy pushes back while I try and reassure those around me, those who care so much they gird themselves like I did before the first nurse pinched behind my arm. I’m not sure if that’s his standard response, but even if it were it would be understandable. Type-One diabetics have a right, I think, to get angry from time to time. We didn’t cause this. Didn’t not take care of ourselves. We’re just stuck with this thing that requires not only care of our own wellbeing but of those around us.
I sat there listening to him chuckle some more at the absurdity his life has become. Twenty-eight, diabetic, and at more frequent risk of spikes or drops in his blood sugar I wonder if his parents responded the way mine did. With guilt and my need to comfort them. And I remember the response I gave earlier that day to a friend who saw me inject for the first time, “sometimes, when you hit the wrong spot, it still does hurts. A lot.”
Thursday, April 3, 2008
An explanation...
I've decided to create this blog for several reasons. 1) Because I'd like to, eventually, turn this story into a memoir; 2) I feel like my experience can be informative to anyone who has had their lives shaken at its core or was recently diagnosed, or misdiagnosed, with Type-1 or Type-2 Diabetes; and 3)I need some money, and ad sense might be great.
So there it is. Basically, this site will serve as a way for me to recall and catalogue everything that has happened to me becoming a Type-1 Diabetic over the last five years, along with all the new developments in my ongoing effort to figure out what happened.
To be plain about it, I'll be talking about religion, person investigation and introspection, and the day-to-day life of a diabetic. Please feel free to comment whenever you'd like with your own stories.
So there it is. Basically, this site will serve as a way for me to recall and catalogue everything that has happened to me becoming a Type-1 Diabetic over the last five years, along with all the new developments in my ongoing effort to figure out what happened.
To be plain about it, I'll be talking about religion, person investigation and introspection, and the day-to-day life of a diabetic. Please feel free to comment whenever you'd like with your own stories.
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