all sweet and sour. I stare up at the ceiling, at the Seven Sisters. The tiny dark spots are all fuzzy. So fuzzy that I canât even count them. I blink to get the sleep out of my eyes. No difference. I sit up and rub my eyes. Everything is out of focus. Can nearsightedness really come on that fast? Maybe I need glasses. Maybe Iâm going blind.
I remember that I havenât checked my blood sugar since yesterday morning. Could I be having an insulin reaction? I find my meter in my coat pocket. I prick my finger and squeeze out a drop of red, then apply it to the sensor strip. The meter counts down, then beeps.
The display reads 494.
Four. Nine. Four.
For a moment I simply stare, confused. I have never before seen such a reading.
Four hundred ninety-four milligrams of glucose per deciliter of whole blood. Normal is more like 100, or 120. No wonder I feel like crap.
Fish says I should keep my morning blood sugars under 140.
âIs that what you do?â I ask.
âI try,â Fish replies.
I wonder what he would say if he saw
this
number. Probably have me in the hospital in no time. I go into robotmode and get a fresh syringe and the bottle of fast-acting insulin from my purse. How much will I need to bring myself back to the land of the living? I have no idea, but I figure a lot. I load thirty units into the syringe, pinch up a mound of belly fat, and shove the needle all the way in. I depress the plunger.
There. Now all I have to do is wait for the insulin and the glucose to shake hands.
Still in robot mode, I motor down the hall to the bathroom and undress and climb into the shower.
Four ninety-four. How did it get so high? Did I forget an insulin injection? I try to remember my evening shot. I remember my dad waking me up, yelling at me. Then eating my momâs greasy potatoes⦠did I take my shot? Canât remember. Then drinking lattes at the Bean. Then the partyâa sip of beer, a glass of wine⦠and on the way home, Gummi Bears. Even if I had remembered to take my shot before dinner, my blood sugar would have skyrocketed. What was I thinking going so long without testing? Especially after the wine and Gummi Bears. Stupid stupid stupid. I turn off the water and towel dry.
Stupid girl. What would Fish say?
âLucy, you donât get another body. You only live once.â
âIâm a Buddhist,â I say. âWe come back.â
Fish shakes his head. âLucy, Lucy, Lucyâ¦â
Am I suffering from ketoacidosis? I try to remember the symptoms. Nausea, pain, vomiting, labored breathing, long sharp teeth, tremendous thirst, fear of crucifixes, eternal un-lifeâ¦
Maybe my bottle of insulin went bad. I return to my room and do another blood test.
439.
Thatâs good. Itâs coming down. The insulin is working. Icheck the clock. 7:21 . Ten minutes to catch my bus. My life is ruled by digital displays.
I dress. Hmmm. Shall I wear black, or black?
I choose black.
As I am pulling on a pair of black jeans my eye catches the chrysalis hanging over my desk. I take a closer look. Itâs darker now, like the skin of a ripe avocado. I can see the shadow of striped wings through translucent green. The gold dots are brighter.
I think that something will be happening soon.
Going to school when Iâm sick is a lot like going to school when Iâm not. The major difference is that usually when Mr. BoreAss talks chemistry it makes my head go numb. Today, he makes my head pound. In fact, it feels like a bunch of insane, invisible dentists are drilling tiny holes in my skull, all of them making that dentist drill sound that is all Es:
EEEEeeEeEEeEeeeeeeeeEEEeEEEeeEEEeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEâ¦
âLucy?â
I look up.
âAre you all right?â BoreAssâs eyes are boring into me. What did I do? Was I making dentist-drill sounds? Have I turned into a bat? Did I remember to get dressed before I came to school? Everyone in the classroom is looking at
I remember that I havenât checked my blood sugar since yesterday morning. Could I be having an insulin reaction? I find my meter in my coat pocket. I prick my finger and squeeze out a drop of red, then apply it to the sensor strip. The meter counts down, then beeps.
The display reads 494.
Four. Nine. Four.
For a moment I simply stare, confused. I have never before seen such a reading.
Four hundred ninety-four milligrams of glucose per deciliter of whole blood. Normal is more like 100, or 120. No wonder I feel like crap.
Fish says I should keep my morning blood sugars under 140.
âIs that what you do?â I ask.
âI try,â Fish replies.
I wonder what he would say if he saw
this
number. Probably have me in the hospital in no time. I go into robotmode and get a fresh syringe and the bottle of fast-acting insulin from my purse. How much will I need to bring myself back to the land of the living? I have no idea, but I figure a lot. I load thirty units into the syringe, pinch up a mound of belly fat, and shove the needle all the way in. I depress the plunger.
There. Now all I have to do is wait for the insulin and the glucose to shake hands.
Still in robot mode, I motor down the hall to the bathroom and undress and climb into the shower.
Four ninety-four. How did it get so high? Did I forget an insulin injection? I try to remember my evening shot. I remember my dad waking me up, yelling at me. Then eating my momâs greasy potatoes⦠did I take my shot? Canât remember. Then drinking lattes at the Bean. Then the partyâa sip of beer, a glass of wine⦠and on the way home, Gummi Bears. Even if I had remembered to take my shot before dinner, my blood sugar would have skyrocketed. What was I thinking going so long without testing? Especially after the wine and Gummi Bears. Stupid stupid stupid. I turn off the water and towel dry.
Stupid girl. What would Fish say?
âLucy, you donât get another body. You only live once.â
âIâm a Buddhist,â I say. âWe come back.â
Fish shakes his head. âLucy, Lucy, Lucyâ¦â
Am I suffering from ketoacidosis? I try to remember the symptoms. Nausea, pain, vomiting, labored breathing, long sharp teeth, tremendous thirst, fear of crucifixes, eternal un-lifeâ¦
Maybe my bottle of insulin went bad. I return to my room and do another blood test.
439.
Thatâs good. Itâs coming down. The insulin is working. Icheck the clock. 7:21 . Ten minutes to catch my bus. My life is ruled by digital displays.
I dress. Hmmm. Shall I wear black, or black?
I choose black.
As I am pulling on a pair of black jeans my eye catches the chrysalis hanging over my desk. I take a closer look. Itâs darker now, like the skin of a ripe avocado. I can see the shadow of striped wings through translucent green. The gold dots are brighter.
I think that something will be happening soon.
Going to school when Iâm sick is a lot like going to school when Iâm not. The major difference is that usually when Mr. BoreAss talks chemistry it makes my head go numb. Today, he makes my head pound. In fact, it feels like a bunch of insane, invisible dentists are drilling tiny holes in my skull, all of them making that dentist drill sound that is all Es:
EEEEeeEeEEeEeeeeeeeeEEEeEEEeeEEEeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEâ¦
âLucy?â
I look up.
âAre you all right?â BoreAssâs eyes are boring into me. What did I do? Was I making dentist-drill sounds? Have I turned into a bat? Did I remember to get dressed before I came to school? Everyone in the classroom is looking at
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