Tykes marching around the family room to the Oliver soundtrack: “Food glorious food . . . never before has a boy asked for more! . . . we don’t want to make no fuss” and then “pip pip cheerio but be back soon,” which reminds me that I haven’t taken my portable blood-sugar tester out with me since getting it from the pharmacist.
This has been ragging my mind for some time now, but not so much I’ve actually started packing. What’s with me? I donated blood for decades, monthly toward the end, so it’s not like I’m afraid of a few little pricks. Is it? Not afraid to break skin. Not troubled breaching the envelope, drawing a little red. Not me.
What if, subconsciously, I’m not the tough egg I think I am? I’ve found some spots on the fingertips are a little more sensitive than others, and sometimes I’ve noticed a small amount of bruising, but nothing so bad it’s slowed my typing, you’ll notice. The blood clots quickly. No red-stained strips of toilet paper trailing across the computer keyboard. So what’s bugging me?
I’m maxing about five tests a day, which isn’t enough, and I’m often late with the post-meal pricks. Two hours after the munchies I’m in another world. You know how it is in front of the computer; time buggers off at a rate would make Einstein’s head spin. Maybe in another dimension I nudge little paper test strips against tiny blood bubbles exactly 120 minutes after my Wheeties, but it’s in this dimension, here with you, I have diabetes. In my other dimensions, I’m skinny.
I should carry the kit with me at all times. It’s high-tech, made for travel through time and space. Comes with its own little nylon pack to hold all the bits and pieces. I carry a small Kleenex pack to clean up (also handy for wiping the nose and the weary brow.) I removed the spool from a square, dental-floss box and it’s perfect for safely storing used lances when on the move. Slips into a pocket on the outside of the kit. Kit has a little Velcro strap to loop through my belt. If I wore a belt. I’m strictly a braces man now, and anyway the kit bulges like a snub-nosed .038 in the waistband of an ill fitting suit. Ruins my whole profile. Wouldn’t want to end my international modelling career before it’s started.
And suppose I’m shy? Don’t want to invite stares or comments, like a breastfeeding mom in a public park. Don’t want some offended ex-bricklayer to sidle up and slap me with her purse. Who needs that? Not me. Maybe I’m not the tough egg I think I am.
