It's funny how much we take for granted, really.
Like my diabetes.
Two nights ago, my pump unhooked in the night. What that means is, the needle that drove it into my skin was useless because the plastic part couldn't hold on. I was sick. I was hot. I was throwing up nearly all night, throwing up past having anything left in my stomach. It didn't matter, didn't do any good. I still couldn't sleep, so I just laid down on my bathroom floor--cool, freshening, and sickening that I was there, that it was really me and there was nothing else I could do but wait for insulin to kick in--and tried to listen to all the advice I've gotten when I try and talk to people about this. Words from very wise, wise people run through my head:
"Come on. It could be brain cancer. Imagine if you were *really* dying. You could have been born dead. Could never have lived. Well, you have to take insulin, but what if you needed an iv, instead? What if you could never see the sky?"
It doesn't help. I still throw up, and I cry like nobody's business because it should help. Good advice should make the pain go away, but it doesn't.
It doesn't stop until four a.m. I go to bed. I'm too hot too sleep, I toss and turn--alarm sets off at six. Time to "get up"...
I'm too sick to go to school and miss the cast list. I sputter my words because my brain won't function; it's still sick. My hands shake, my eyes won't stay open because my body is tired as much as my mind is. Everything hurts. Learn the Law of Sin, Payton! Learn how a star functions!
I'm sick for the third time by the hour mom rescues me from myself.
Mrs. Brock says, "Bad day, huh?" I think about my night. Could be brain cancer, I remind myself. "There've been worse," I say.
I sleep for six hours.
Next day. Get my script and folder. Manage to upset Schultz. Katie's hurt and Kate is hurt and I can't help either and I want to cry for them. My heart hurts.
So I hang out with Finley, wait for the Pops concert. My friends, they are in band, so why not see it? My sister, too. I'm excited for the music. I'm excited for that special fifth grade portion where I lean to the person next to me and go, "God! My ears ARE BLEEDING!"
The fun's in hoping the person next to you isn't a fifth grade parent, I suppose. Is that wicked?
While waiting, Finley takes me to Kentucky fried Chicken/ Taco Bell. He's standing in line to order and my pump... stops working. The buttons made to order start clicking down and down and down and up and up and up, and within seconds, my life stops. I have no choice. I have no order. No dinner for you, Payton. Time to go home. IMMEDIATELY.
I call mini-med. Okay, they'll send me a new pump. Great. Meanwhile... shots.
It is astounding that a small, small thing--made to save my life--gives me so much pause.
http://www.health.com/health/static/hw/media/medical/hw/h9991451_001.jpg
Here's a diagram. Simple, isn't it? Plunger, cap, needle, barrel. Four parts. Save your life. In fact, when I was a little girl, they gave me a teddy bear. Charlie, (Or Charleena, depending on whether or not your particular bear had a skirt) had bright colored patches all over him. Elbow, buttock, legs, arms, stomach....
The bear was always, always happy when he had remembered to give himself an ''insulin injection''. The bear didn't cry. The bear didn't struggle. The bear didn't hide. His facial expression didn't even change.
I did all of those things.
What else would a little girl do? Mom answers people who ask with saying, "The next time you look at your little girl, imagine her saying, 'Mommy, please don't hurt me. Mommy, please don't hurt me anymore.' "
But hey... I could have cancer.
Now, my pump's dead. I have to use the shot. I don't know the carbohydrate ratio. Finley googles it since no one in the house has really looked at it since I was eight. Of course, he's right. He draws it up... and I have to give it to myself. Intermission of the concert involves me waiting for Finley to draw my insulin--his expression so hopeful that he has it right, but he's scared, the way he looks at me, like his heart hurts..... mm. Guess he knows a little of what I feel after all--and then I go into the bathroom. I calmly untie my sweater, let it fall on the dirty floor. I uncap the syringe....
Cap. Needle. Barrel. Plunger.
It only stings a moment, but I remember.... And then it does sting. It stabs me in the heart like it's terrible, and god, I want to scream, I want to throw that fucking piece of plastic into a fire and leave it there.
I stick it in my skin. I push the life inside. I cap it. There's a little girl eating a cookie in the bathroom--probably snuck it from the table--and I say, "How's the cookie?" And she smiles and says, "Good!"
She has no idea how good it sounds. None. But I can't have it unless I do that again... Cap. Needle. Barrel. Plunger.
I walk out to Finley. I hand him the syringe. He keeps saying, "How did it go?" And when I start to cry--because I can't not cry, I honestly couldn't if I wanted to--he says, "Did it hurt?"
Yes, it did hurt. It stung and now I think it might be killing any lack of demoralization I've ever had, ever. My mother had to do hundreds of these to tiny CHILDREN...
Children I now can't have.
This hurts me. Not just the Children thing...the everything. It's tearing me apart in a way I can't describe, and I don't know how to let go of it. I hate it. I hate everything. I just want to bury myself in a hole and not come out for a long, long time.
After I embarrass myself sobbing onto Finley's new shirt, he pokes me with his chin gently.
"You have a visitor."
Sarah Knox. Opens her arms, gives me a hug. "Hey, hun. Everything all right?"
"My pump died," I say, wiping my eyes and smiling--Sarah likes smiles--"so I have to use these for awhile." I lift up the syringe. Dead, now. Discarded as easily as my ability to snark down a cookie whenever I wanted one... Useless.
"Ah, well," she says, "You're fine."
And I remind myself: It could be worse. It could be Alzheimer's... Amnesia... Cancer.... D.I.D...
We take our seats at the concert. Eighth grade band plays Phantom of the Opera... my heart wraps around "All I ask of you." I mouth the words:
"You'll hold me and you'll hide me...."
Finley takes my hand, after telling me why I don't deserve this, how strong and brave I was for this one stupid little shot--after all, I remind myself, I've had thousands--and I realize Sarah was right:
I am "fine."
I still feel awful. I feel hurt and poisoned and wrong...
After the concert, I see Kate with Dan. I know he's Dan from his eyes. Little children parade around in white shirts, but all I see are that white reflected across his eyes, eyes which glow with a forbidden sunlight that chills me in a way that causes fear. When he smiles at her, I think I should almost want to hit him. I shake, I try to get angry, and my heart hurts for Katie.
Dan... I want my friend to be happy, but I don't think he loves Kate. I can see love like I feel it, and I had neither happen with him near her. Dan needs her for something. I can tell. I can sense.... I know. Something's... broken, in him.
But my heart hurts for him, too. I can't help it... because I'm an idiot. Why does he need--? I stop that train of thought.
I eat dinner. Ramen. Another shot.
It could be worse. I could have cancer.
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