Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“Your brother?” I asked.
“It’ll be like old times.”
Except, of course, it would be nothing like old times.
And we wouldn’t be hanging out in Los Angeles after either.
Instead, we’d be dragging our bloodied bodies back into Shady Valley…
CHAPTER TWO
Dylan
The lancet pricked the side of my finger, and I dropped it into the trash to reach for the test strip, letting it soak up the drop of blood before inserting it into the meter.
“I heard you, girl,” I called to the whining chocolate lab at my feet. “Alright. You were right,” I said to myself when my sugar came up low.
I should have noticed the sweaty and shaky sensation before she’d needed to warn me.
I tossed the test strip and walked through my kitchen to reach for my glucose tablets, only to remember I’d run out two days ago and hadn’t gone out to grab more.
With a sigh, I went into the fridge for half a cup of apple juice instead. Another thing I was almost out of.
But I had fresh dog food sitting waiting for her, so I dished that out, adding a few toppers to keep it interesting.
“I gotta get better about this shit, huh, Sugar?”
Yes.
I named my diabetic service dog Sugar.
Sometimes we have to lean into the whimsy when things get scary.
But I really did need to get better.
Or nut up and finally get myself a continuous glucose monitor.
In my defense, the whole testing, numbers, new diet, and having constant supplies of sugary stuff on hand was new to me.
I’d been under the impression that adults only developed diabetes from improper diet, genetics, or weight gain. None of which applied to me.
I guess I’d never had a reason to learn that wasn’t the case. Or that, hey, the type of diabetes I understood—where your body becomes resistant to or stops making insulin—was only one part of the picture.
Apparently, it turned out that Type 1 was an autoimmune condition that can be caused by any number of things, even in adulthood.
Like me.
Who just got a nasty virus once.
I thought nothing of it.
Got better.
And then… bam.
Everything went sideways.
I was so thirsty that I was drinking a gallon of water a day with no relief. I was peeing nonstop. I was exhausted no matter how much I slept. I was losing weight for no reason. And then my vision started to go funny, making my doctor-phobic ass finally make an appointment to see what the hell was going on.
I guess I’d been hoping for something simple. Like, hey, maybe you need an iron pill or eat a steak once a week or something.
Not a lifelong chronic illness I would have to manage all day, every day.
“When you’re done, I guess we can take a walk to the pharmacy, huh? Get me my tablets. And juice. Candy for my purse. Some diet soda. And maybe a new baby for you. Keep you occupied for a while. Because Mama has to go out tonight.”
I didn’t leave Sugar often.
It kind of defeated the purpose of having a diabetic alert dog to leave her home when you were going out. But there were just some things that you couldn’t bring your dog to do.
She wasn’t going to be happy about it.
But I hoped she was quiet enough not to bother the neighbors.
I didn’t plan to be gone that long.
And I was going to test before I left.
Bring everything I’d need to correct with me.
“Ugh,” I grumbled as I stalked to my bathroom.
I knew it wasn’t helping anything, but I couldn’t rationalize with my anger about the whole situation sometimes.
It was just really fucking frustrating that my body wasn’t working like it used to. That I had to watch, had to monitor, had to second-guess everything I wanted to do because what if my sugar went too high or too low?
I was used to my body doing what it was supposed to, with pushing through discomfort if I was busy.
But I couldn’t do that anymore.
If I wasn’t careful, highs or lows could get downright dangerous. I had to be hyperaware of my body sensations. I had to stop when they were telling me something. I had to test, to correct, to test again.
It felt like it was getting in the way.
Especially on important nights like this.
Nights when I had to be away from home for long periods, when I couldn’t carry a whole bag full of supplies with me. When things could get messy and dangerous. And prolong testing.
I sighed, pushing those thoughts away, then reached into the shower to turn on the water.
I moved in front of the mirror, reminding myself that I was adjusting, that things were getting a little better. I’d even put a little weight back on. I could see it in my cheeks. They’d become sunken before I’d gotten diagnosed.
I looked like me again.