test strip out and throws it
into a red biohazard container. "Normally, yes. That's very bad.
But it hasn't been that long since the medics started the insulin.
She's come down almost three hundred points, and that's
exceptionally good. Eventually, we'll get it stabilized around 100.
Then, the trick is to keep it there."
"How do I do that?" Ashley is examining her
finger.
"With insulin shots." She stops examining and looks
up at the same time that Travis and I lean forward.
"Shots?"
"Yes. Testing is only part of the job of the
pancreas. The other job is giving your body the insulin it needs to
cover the glucose in the blood, or, in the case of a diabetic, the
glucose they are about to eat."
"What about pills?" I ask.
"You can't take insulin in a pill," he says. "Insulin
can't be absorbed by the stomach."
"I see them on the commercials all the time," I
say.
"They aren't for type 1. That medication is for type
2. It helps the body use the insulin it is already making. But
Ashley isn't making any."
"Do I have to get a shot every day?" Ashley is like a
rabbit looking down a shotgun barrel.
"Several times a day. And let's be clear here,
Ashley. This isn't your parents' job. They should watch you
carefully, and help you out, but it's your body, and your life, and
you need to be the one in control of it. That means testing your
own blood, and giving yourself shots."
She couldn't have reacted with more horror if he'd
just cut open his own chest and handed her his bloody heart. "I
can't give myself a shot!"
Travis backs her up. "She really can't. Don't none of
us like needles none, but it took two of us to hold her down for
vaccinations when she was a young'un."
I hit him on the arm, but the doctor ignores him.
"You can and you will. And before you leave this
hospital, it will already seem like no big deal." Neither Travis
nor Ashley looks like they believed him.
He puts aside the meter and begins laying out papers
on the bed, motioning for Travis and me to scoot closer. "Before we
hand you a syringe, though, all of you have to understand how
insulin works. It's a tightrope you have to walk carefully. Too
little, you'll be back here." He looks gravely at us. "Too much,
and she'll be dead."
~~~~
The nutritionist comes later with her stack of
Xeroxed pyramid charts and fake plastic food. She explains that we
need to measure everything out now, and know exactly how many
carbohydrates are in each serving. Lean meat doesn't require
insulin, but we should only eat four ounces, the size of a pack of
cards, or the palm of my hand. We need to cut back on beef and
other fatty meats. We have to worry about fat, because heart
attacks occur at much higher rates among diabetics. Only a half a
cup of mashed potatoes or a half-cup of rice, fifteen carbs. One
cup of strawberries, fifteen carbs. One ounce of chips, fifteen
carbs. Suddenly the entire pantry is reduced to cups and ounces and
measurements of fifteen carbs.
"Do I really have to count how many Doritos I eat?"
Ashley asks.
"It's important that you measure everything you eat
before you eat it. That way you'll know how much insulin you need
to cover it. If you're still hungry later, you can eat more, and
take more insulin for it. The days of sitting on the couch eating
chips out of the bag are over, I'm afraid."
She doesn't look afraid at all. Ashley, on the other
hand, is getting paler, and her eyes keep closing.
"Are you tired?" I'm hoping she is so the doctors
will leave us alone to digest all this information, which I don't
think has any carbs.
She manages a "hmm," and a sigh, but don't open her
eyes.
"I'll come back tomorrow, " the nutritionist is
saying as she picks up her toy food. "I'll leave these pamphlets
for you to look over. Here is a book that lists the nutrition facts
about food sold at popular restaurants. You should keep that one in
the car with you. And these other pamphlets--" She puts them on the
pile of pamphlets Dr. Benton left us and stands
into a red biohazard container. "Normally, yes. That's very bad.
But it hasn't been that long since the medics started the insulin.
She's come down almost three hundred points, and that's
exceptionally good. Eventually, we'll get it stabilized around 100.
Then, the trick is to keep it there."
"How do I do that?" Ashley is examining her
finger.
"With insulin shots." She stops examining and looks
up at the same time that Travis and I lean forward.
"Shots?"
"Yes. Testing is only part of the job of the
pancreas. The other job is giving your body the insulin it needs to
cover the glucose in the blood, or, in the case of a diabetic, the
glucose they are about to eat."
"What about pills?" I ask.
"You can't take insulin in a pill," he says. "Insulin
can't be absorbed by the stomach."
"I see them on the commercials all the time," I
say.
"They aren't for type 1. That medication is for type
2. It helps the body use the insulin it is already making. But
Ashley isn't making any."
"Do I have to get a shot every day?" Ashley is like a
rabbit looking down a shotgun barrel.
"Several times a day. And let's be clear here,
Ashley. This isn't your parents' job. They should watch you
carefully, and help you out, but it's your body, and your life, and
you need to be the one in control of it. That means testing your
own blood, and giving yourself shots."
She couldn't have reacted with more horror if he'd
just cut open his own chest and handed her his bloody heart. "I
can't give myself a shot!"
Travis backs her up. "She really can't. Don't none of
us like needles none, but it took two of us to hold her down for
vaccinations when she was a young'un."
I hit him on the arm, but the doctor ignores him.
"You can and you will. And before you leave this
hospital, it will already seem like no big deal." Neither Travis
nor Ashley looks like they believed him.
He puts aside the meter and begins laying out papers
on the bed, motioning for Travis and me to scoot closer. "Before we
hand you a syringe, though, all of you have to understand how
insulin works. It's a tightrope you have to walk carefully. Too
little, you'll be back here." He looks gravely at us. "Too much,
and she'll be dead."
~~~~
The nutritionist comes later with her stack of
Xeroxed pyramid charts and fake plastic food. She explains that we
need to measure everything out now, and know exactly how many
carbohydrates are in each serving. Lean meat doesn't require
insulin, but we should only eat four ounces, the size of a pack of
cards, or the palm of my hand. We need to cut back on beef and
other fatty meats. We have to worry about fat, because heart
attacks occur at much higher rates among diabetics. Only a half a
cup of mashed potatoes or a half-cup of rice, fifteen carbs. One
cup of strawberries, fifteen carbs. One ounce of chips, fifteen
carbs. Suddenly the entire pantry is reduced to cups and ounces and
measurements of fifteen carbs.
"Do I really have to count how many Doritos I eat?"
Ashley asks.
"It's important that you measure everything you eat
before you eat it. That way you'll know how much insulin you need
to cover it. If you're still hungry later, you can eat more, and
take more insulin for it. The days of sitting on the couch eating
chips out of the bag are over, I'm afraid."
She doesn't look afraid at all. Ashley, on the other
hand, is getting paler, and her eyes keep closing.
"Are you tired?" I'm hoping she is so the doctors
will leave us alone to digest all this information, which I don't
think has any carbs.
She manages a "hmm," and a sigh, but don't open her
eyes.
"I'll come back tomorrow, " the nutritionist is
saying as she picks up her toy food. "I'll leave these pamphlets
for you to look over. Here is a book that lists the nutrition facts
about food sold at popular restaurants. You should keep that one in
the car with you. And these other pamphlets--" She puts them on the
pile of pamphlets Dr. Benton left us and stands
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