Page 15 of The Happiness Blueprint
KLARA
What is type 1 diabetes?
Google Search I’m Feeling Lucky
I was six years old and slumped across my mum’s lap like a restaurant napkin, her legs shaking under the weight of me.
“Oh God, Peter,” she cried.
“Just stay calm. She will be fine.” My dad’s voice sounded anything but sure.
“She’s not fine, can’t you see? This is not sleeping, this is unconsciousness!”
“Where the fuck is this driver going? Why are the sirens not on? My girl is in here dying, and they’re cruising along in silence.” Dad was the one shouting now.
“Don’t start. The ambulance staff are doing their job, they know what to do.” Mum attempted to calm him down—and herself. They took turns being the panicked one and the reassuring one. I wished with a six-year-old’s perspective that they would share the load and cooperate this well in day-to-day life, not just in emergencies.
I didn’t feel sick. Tired, yes. And pukey. The vomit sitting there like foul orange juice, asking me to bring it up but hiding when I tried to, leaving my stomach muscles cramped and fooled. I felt thirsty, as if I had run a mile on a hot beach and forgotten my drink. But I didn’t feel like I was dying. Was I dying?Really?I wished I could open my eyes and look around. I was sure that if I could look into Mum and Dad’s eyes, I would know the truth. Now I was left with just the soundtrack of the emergency, my eyelids too heavy to move.
“I didn’t understand what they were saying, what is wrong? Is she in a coma?” My mum was crying, that much I could tell. My head bounced on her legs as they shook.
It had started a few weeks earlier. I was suddenly finishing my water bottle in school, to Mum’s joy.I was finally staying hydrated!Then I started wetting the bed and continued to do so despite the promise of a present (God, I wanted that Barbie camper van so much I tried to hide my drenched sheets in the morning and pretend it never happened) if I went three nights without an accident. I got tired and moody and ran a temperature. My parents took me back and forth to the doctor’s, but all they got were different antibiotics for suspected strep throat.
Then one day I wouldn’t wake up, and they called the ambulance. They—a man and a woman—leaned over me on the sofa, and the female voice commented on my breath. “She smells fruity,” she said. “Let’s check her blood sugar,” the male voice replied. After they had squeezed a small drop of blood from my middle finger and the number had shown up on the screen of the device, they said, “You were right. Okay, let’s go.” Then everyone started to rush about. My mum’s voice was the loudest: “Where is her teddy? Get me my wallet! You stay with Saga! No, the neighbor is here already, thank God! Hurry up, Peter, get her a change of clothes. Some pajamas. I have her water bottle, yes! Love you, Saga. Byyye!”
My dad’s voice broke the tense silence inside the ambulance, attempting to explain what he himself didn’t quite understand.
“Maria, they said that her blood sugar was dangerously high. It’s basically turned her blood into syrup, and she is busy burning it all off. She is dehydrated, and if she doesn’t get fluid and insulin soon, her organs will start to shut down and then she will be in a coma. She needs insulin and fluid, and she needs it now.” His voice was different, without the usual strength; he sounded like a little boy, no more than my age. He collected himself and added, “Maria, love, I think Klara might have diabetes.”
The hospital stay was a blur of coloring books, reward stickers and lucky dips into the fantastic-surprise bravery box. There was reheated food on chunky tableware that smelled of school cafeteria and metal cans. I remember the loud click of the finger pricker when it pressed a tiny needle into my soft fingertip, giving me an opening big enough to squeeze a drop of blood out of.
I had Coco Pops for breakfast. We never got sugary cereal at home, only wholesome toasted bread and yogurt with granola muesli or a boiled egg. At least you could eat everything when you were diabetic. And it wasn’t my fault, or my parents’. And it is definitely not caused by too much sugar. It’s just something that happens in the body: the pancreas, a tiny, useful little gland, starts to shut down until it’s as useless as an appendix, and we have to inject insulin to compensate.
The thought occurred to me that this was a punishment for not doing my math homework: now I was stuck with numbers for life. Everything edible had a number: a slice of toast, 12 grams of carbohydrates; an ice cream bar, 18 grams; a banana, 20 grams.
Saga came to visit me. When the doctor did the rounds and asked ifshehad any questions, her first one wasWill my sister be okay?and the second one wasWill I also get diabetes?The doctor replied with anoand, guiltily, I felt my heart sink. I was alone now. Different. We were not the same after the hospital stay, the first time we had been separated for more than a night’s sleepover. When I was discharged, I had a burden that she didn’t and an experience that was only mine.
I hated the strain I put on my mum. The first seven days was just Mum and me learning how to deal with our new life, of her reading me books from the hospital library, of having my grandparents visit but not bringing sweets like they used to, when we were still afraid of me not being able to eat them. (Fact: diabeticscaneat sugar.)
“Do you want to try yourself?” The nurse asked on the third day at injection time. This was a relief. When the nurses bent over to inject my stomach, their hair was level with my chin, and when they looked up, their breath traveled toward me, forcing me to turn my head sideways. I had to hold my breath for the whole duration of the injection. Seventeen seconds on average. The nurse placed the insulin pen in my hand. “Pinch some skin between your index finger and thumb, then angle the needle and put it in slowly and steady. Keep it still and count to ten while you press the top of the injection pen. That’s it. Then pull it out. Good job!” I pulled the thin needle out and wiped a drop of fluid from the site, a hole so small it was barely visible. I hadn’t needed to hold my breath this time.
I looked over at Mum and the nurse. They were beaming like I was a superstar. The smell of insulin lingered, a chemical but sweet, soft, almost pleasant odor. It smells a bit like Band-Aids and a bit like new plastic shower curtains, or, when I got older and found new comparisons, the office printer ink.
I found that it hurt less when I did things myself. Finally, I was in control, as at least I knew where and when the pain would hit. The nurses all complimented me when I started to inject myself, and Mum’s pride was obvious. So this is what I had to do now? I learned that I got the most attention when I was tough. Kids wanted to see me press that drop of blood out, amazed at my bravery. Adults wanted to marvel at my ability to correctly guess the carbohydrate content on food items so they could pat me on the head and sayIsn’t she a little dictionary of nutritional information!So I gave them what they wanted.
I became tough and fearless. Or at least, I tried.
ALEX
Personal Calendar
• NEW TASK:Text a friend (Paul)
• NEW TASK:Return Mamma’s call(s)...
• NEW TASK:Add extra veggies to dinner (jalapeño not considered a veggie)
Mamma has sent a voice note. These were an initiative on my behalf to decrease the number of messages she was bombarding us with, especially memes. Inspirational quotes and animal babies—if they have been made, trust Mamma to forward them. Except, Mamma treats each sentence as a new voice note. Am now inundated with her stories of neighbors and local council gossip in chopped-up, two-second clips. Listen to the first and last out of the seven she has just sent, hoping that will give me the summary version, like reading the introduction and conclusion of a leaflet. Make out that she wants me to check my emails.
