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This is one of the contributions to:DIABETES ESSAY AND POEM COMPETITION 2009
Ah, Diabetes.
If you haven’t been personally affected by the disease in one way or another, then obviously the few things that will spring to your mind at the mention of the of the word are sick person; chronic disease; incurable ailment. Or maybe not. But overall what I’m trying to say is that you will think about it in a sort of hazy, vague form; something that you know exists but will obviously never, ever happen to you.
Funny how life has a way of undoing our most cemented certainties in a blink.
So for me, this very distant ailment, which had only featured previously in my life as yet another irritating chapter in my biology test, made its grand entrance little about three years ago. By the way, I do not have Diabetes.
This is not going to be a story about my struggle with it; for those who do suffer from it, maybe you will not relate to me. Maybe you will see that what I have to say doesn’t appropriately convey the full of truth of what having Diabetes is like. The frustration; the self control; the strength. But maybe you will be able to take a peek, if only a little one, at something like what was going on the mind or minds of whomever was with those in those first moments . At the beginning. Now.
Right, going off the tangent.
So, three years ago. Long story short, we moved from a country in South America called Venezuela to here, Reading.
Moving from literally one end to the world to the other is quite surprisingly taxing, for those of you who didn’t know. We were tired, irritated – and insecure. I remember the dark, bruise-like shadows under my mom’s eyes; my reflection in the mirror, looking wan and ashen. And my brother…
Looking back, I’m always assaulted with a feeling of frustration at how we didn’t notice it earlier.
You see, my brother had always been recognised by the bright, sleek mop of dark hair he had inherited from my mom, his plump figure and his skin the colour of pale honey.
And yet, previous to the move, he started looking decidedly gaunt: His dark hair wasn’t so lustrous; he seemed to be becoming leaner.
Maybe it was just a sort of unconscious wilful self deception- maybe it was just that we would have never been able to even entertain the idea that something so momentous would happen. All I know was that we shrugged and attributed these changes as part of him growing up, and the rest to the sad parting of him with many of his favourite toys, which we were convinced he valued as much as any real person.
Oh, a morsel of advice: regret over things you did or said is neither atonement for what you did nor useful. I’m telling you this because the churning feeling in my stomach I used to get whenever I used to remember how we used to laugh at my little brother’s croaks and moans of debility, thinking he was just being as dramatic as always, is not the most pleasant of feelings.
So, we came, and by the time we decided to go to the nearest McDonalds to take a lungful of fresh air and feel the watery sun of an early April, he didn’t get better. He had become even thinner, and his skin had acquired a sickly yellow tint to it. He also seemed to be spending more time in the bathroom than in any other room in the house.
My grandfather, who had flown over to help, suggested we take him to the doctor soon afterwards.
Even if he hadn’t, the fact that my little brother vomited the entire contents of his meal as soon as he stepped out of the fast food joint was enough. It had been a sunny day, I remember. Deceptively mild, with the cool breeze rustling the leaves of blooming trees in a cacophony of murmured secrets. I never did believe in pathetic fallacy.
It was certainly not the kind of day I would have conjured when thinking of the day when a nurse would come up patiently and explain, her voice calm and reassuring, her eyes kind and sorrowful, that my little brother had Diabetes type 1 and no, it couldn’t be cured and was something he would have to live with for the rest of his life.
I remember standing there, looking at the nurse, feeling like the words had just bounced of my comprehension. My hands, I remember, were fiddling idly with the zipper of my jacket; up and down, up and down. The same pathway my heart was running, from my stomach to my throat, and vice versa.
I freely admit that the details of those days are hazy and faded in patches, like the corners of an old, worn photograph. But the image of my brother being wheeled out of the room is something that will forever, I think, be seared into my memory.
We just all stood there, frozen.
My little brother sagged completely against the chair, like a puppet with its strings cut. The wheeling chair, though not particularly big, seemed to swallow the fragile little body greedily. I don’t know why just then, but only then was I slapped into reality: My little brother had diabetes. It took something like the image of his limp hair, matted with sweat; and his cheekbones jutting out sharply from his face, like razor blades, to finally drive the fact home.
Like I said, the details of that period are blurred, with some blanks interspaced in between. However, I remember my first impression of the children’s ward where my brother was rushed in. First was the colour: it seemed like every shade of the rainbow was splashed liberally everywhere. Then there was the quiet bustle of nurses in their white outfits that matched the sterile smell of the ward, but with smiles as vibrant and warm as the brightly painted murals on the walls. And finally, the covalent sounds of both heart-wrenching cries and ringing laughter of children, giving the atmosphere that particular bitter-sweet taste that only children in a hospital can make.
Whenever I come back to that ward, I can look at the effusion of colour and feel how it keeps at bay whatever cold fear had settled in the pit of my stomach. But at that time, seeing my brother on the starch bed, his countenance the same colour as the sheets, I can vaguely recall the impression of seeing the colours seeming almost garish; overwhelming. The yellows, the turquoise, the pinks; all of them seemed to pierce my weary eyes like javelins. But even though my eyes had felt both hurt and tired, it couldn’t compare to what I felt when my brother had to start to be fed through an intravenous (IV) drip.
Recalling the screams and sobs of my little brother at it, and his crippling, accusing cries of “You promised they wouldn’t hurt me again- You promised it would be the last time!” I can safely say that I wouldn’t wish something like that to my worst enemy.
After that affair was over, a nurse with a voice that seemed spun to be clear and reassuring both came to explain how to inject insulin into my little brother.
Wrung out, I blanked most of her lecture, somewhat perversely content in the knowledge that it was entirely either my mom’s or my dad’s responsibility. Then I felt something gently nudging my hand, and looking down realised that the nurse was pushing the pad and the insulin pen towards me, patiently asking me to try.
I panicked.
Clearly seeing my blind anxiety, the lot fell towards my dad. My hands turned clammy just at the sight of the pen and my mom, though gripping my brother’s hand tightly at all times, could never bring herself to face him while he was being injected.
Even though at first my brother only seemed to display a weary resignation to the whole procedure, he seemed to grow into a kind of thoughtful curiosity, until he quietly asked the doctor to do a blood test on his own on a blustery day.
My shock was only rivalled by the burst of pride. I seriously felt like a parent who beholds his toddler walking for the first time. I gave my first genuine smile then. I was surprised at how long it seemed that it had happened; and even more at how liberating and free it made me feel.
From then on, I can only relate how much my brother enjoyed the rest of his stay at the hospital by saying that, when we came back home, and threatened that if he didn’t follow his diet he would go back to the hospital, he would only reply grumpily, “Well, the hospital was better than here!” Although our hotel was pretty and airy, I had to concede he was right in a way: I mean, mobile TV with sky cable; a private playstation with a whole load of games; Movies; nurses who fawned over them 24/7 – they treated the kids like royalty. To this day he has never protested when he has to visit the hospital for a check up.
The months that followed were… not easy. Honestly speaking, one of the most minute and surprisingly exasperating problems was the creative marathon everyday to think of what meals to give my little brother and what snacks to buy. In the beginning we would have to call- half hysterically- my mom, if even the tiniest of problems had arisen about his menu. Even more surprisingly, as time trudged forward, we somehow instinctively learned how to handle it and found ourselves eased into the role.
Two very important things happened before my dad had to leave.
The first was the very first time I had to actively, directly say “No, you cannot eat that” when my brother then had wanted to eat a second cupcake. Even if my voice was firm, my insides seemed to tear at the withering glare my brother threw venomously at me.
“Why can’t I?” he asked forcefully.
“Hey,” I began wearily, not really knowing how to put it gently and clearly. So I settled for being blunt “ Because you have diabetes, and you know what that means. So please-”
He ground to his teeth “Why Do I have to have diabetes?”
I was stumped. I couldn’t answer.
The cupboard’s door shut with a crashing bang, but it didn’t equal the storming look of anger, frustration and moreover, hurt that he hurled at me. Bearing the brunt of that attack was not easy.
Doing the right things for the people you care about can be hard. I guess that our consolation is to remember that we are doing, even though we don’t want to, because in the end it’s what will truly help them.
The second and most important event was when I injected my brother for the very first time.
I remember boredly forcing my brain to absorb some useless kernel of knowledge about chemistry, when my dad calmly called me over. Whilst he was carefully explaining away the procedure I had watched dozens of times already, I could only think about how it felt like they trusted me with my brother’s entire well being. What if I do something wrong? What if I accidentally hurt him?
I spluttered “I can’t – I’m not ready; I-I mean, my – I ca-” when my dad handed the pen firmly into my clammy hands. I felt like someone had trusted a scalpel into my hands and told me to perform a triple lobotomy then and there.
So I pushed the needle in, and when I took it out, a single, bright bead of blood followed.
“It’s blood!” I half-shrieked, half- sobbed, as though I had stabbed him with a six-inch knife.
My dad did something I would have never thought of: He got up, came with a wet piece of cotton, and gently guiding my hand, and wiped the blood off. My little brother lowered his shirt and bounced off the couch, stating to nobody in particular that he was just so hungry; leaving me stupefied at his careless resilience.
Ironically, it was that experience that taught me best how to inject him. Each new day didn’t diminish the sense of having his life in my hands, but with each day I grew a little bit more secure; less terrified. I remember someone asking me if I minded doing the injections. I remember calmly looking into their eyes and composedly lying “No, it’s okay”. But in view of all he sacrificed, my own little sacrifice paled next to all the things my brother endured with a scowl and his feet planted firmly on the ground.
So winters passes in this way. Seeing how well he has coped with this whole thing makes me feel regret and insurmountable pride. He is still a kid and he still likes candy. And although things don’t just get easy, time certainly soften its effect on our lives until things are less complicated. Somehow, it just blends into a pattern when suddenly diabetes is just as natural as breathing, and it’s not alien and frightening anymore. Sometimes I guess that when life gives us lemons, we can only make lemonade.