by Heidi Willis
"We've gotta give you a shot," I whisper.
She nods, but she's still flush with joy, and it don't seem to phase her.
"Check your blood first," I say, digging the meter out of my purse.
She does it like a pro while I'm putting the needle on the insulin pen. "It's 130."
I beam at her. "Thata girl! 130's a good number!" I find the sliding ruler that the hospital gave us that tells us how much insulin she should take. "One half unit to every twenty carbs. So forty grams is twice that, so one whole unit." I frown. "What about the other five grams?"
"Can't we just round?"
"Maybe. I guess. Do you think, Travis?"
"Why don't you just scrape off some of that icing," he says, licking yellow frosting off a fork.
"Okay. That sounds good." I give the insulin pen to Ashley and watch her dial it to one. She looks at me for approval. I nod, and she lifts her shirt, closes her eyes, and stabs her stomach, squeezing the top of the pen until all of the insulin is in.
She opens her eyes and smiles at me. "That's it?"
"I think so." I'm breathless. She hands me the pen and rushes out to find her friends. I look at Travis, who is grinning like a Cheshire. "We did it," I say.
"Yup."
For the briefest moment it feels like we've beaten life.
~~~~
At dinnertime she tests again and is within the spread Dr. Benton gave us. We measure out the rice and the green beans, which I substitute for the usual fried potatoes and okra, and round it off with chicken I've broiled instead of taken out of a box. She uses the calculator and the sliding scale to figure her insulin while Travis taps his fork on the table, watching his food get cold. I can tell we may need a better routine. Logan and Travis stare at the plate a little too long, as though I've gone California fruit and nuts on them, but I ask Ashley to bless it and we all dig in. We try to talk as though nothing is different, but there's a shift I can't name, and we mostly eat in silence.
I excuse Ashley from doing the dishes, and she goes to her room to practice the flute. Logan goes out to the garage, and Travis settles in his chair and turns on the ball game. I clean the kitchen. It's all so normal, but it don't feel that way. It's as if a stranger came into the house to live with us, and we're on our best behavior, waiting for it to leave.
Except I know this stranger will never leave.
At bedtime Ashley tests again. I stand over her, making sure she does it right, and we both gasp when the number blinks 332. Her eyes get wide. "Do I need to go back to the hospital?"
I call Dr. Benton, who gave us his cell phone number when we left and told us to call--day or night.
"What did you have for dinner?" He asks. I tell him, including the amounts of insulin. He does quick calculations in his head. "That sounds right. Did she eat anything this afternoon?"
My stomach sinks thinking about the cake and I almost lie, except I really need God on my side now, and lyin' ain't going to get us nowheres good, so I fess up. I tell him about Logan doing the math and making sure Ashley didn't eat more than 45 carbs. Then I remember that we checked before dinner and she was fine, so I add that the cake can't be the culprit.
"That's it," he says, to my dismay. "The fat in the icing, with all that Crisco, delays all the sugar from reaching the body fast. It probably hit about the same time dinner did. It's not unusual for things like cake to not add up right, also. You think that the sum of the carbs would equal the insulin needed, but for some reason it doesn't always do that. Sometimes, even though the numbers say one thing, the requirement is totally different."
"Does that mean she can't eat cake anymore?" Ashley is hanging on every word and I see sudden desperation.
"No. Of course not."
I pat Ashley's hand that is clawing me.
"It's a balance," he says. "And a lot of trial and error. Write down in the logbook what she ate and how much insulin she took and what her blood sugar was, and next time she eats it, give her a little more and see if that helps. For now, wait another hour and test again. It takes the insulin some time to fully run its course, too. Then correct according to the sliding scale you have."
I thank him and hang up. I look at the clock and wonder how to test in an hour if Ashley is ready for bed now.
She gives herself the other shot, the one she takes at bedtime, eating or no eating, and then goes up to bed. Logan's still in the garage pounding away at his music. I tell him it's time to put the drumsticks away and get ready for bed. On the way upstairs I pass Travis, still in his chair, snoring.
I haven't tucked Ashley in since she was eight, but tonight I sit on the edge of her bed while she arranges her stuffed animals beside her.
"I'm going to have to check your blood in an hour," I say.
"Like in the hospital?"
"Yes, but not all night. Just in an hour. And if it's still high I have to give you a shot."
"Okay." Her eyes are almost closing, and I wonder if this is part of being twelve, or part of being diabetic. I may never know. The two are now the same for us.
I want to kiss her but instead I tousle her hair. "I'll be back in an hour."
"Mom?" Her eyes flutter open. "What if I die in the night?"
"What?"
"If my blood sugar goes low, and no one knows it because I'm asleep, I could die, right?"
"That isn't going to happen, Ash."
"But what if it does?" She sounds like the little girl who used to be scared of flying monkeys coming out of her closet to whisk her off to the witch's castle.
"Would you feel better if I test every hour, just to make sure?"
"Would you?" Her lids are heavy again.
"Sure."
"Mom?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you stay with me for a little bit?"
I turn off the light and sit on the bed again. I hum the lullaby I sang to her every night when she was a baby.
"What song is that?"
"Hush Little Baby."
"I forget the words. Can you sing it?"
And so I sing.
"Hush little baby don't say a word;
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.
If that mockingbird don't sing,
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.
If that diamond ring turns brass,
Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass."
I sing slow, almost in a whisper, and I feel Ashley curl up in a ball, her legs pressed against mine.
"If that looking glass gets broke,
Mama's gonna buy you a billy goat.
If that billy goat won't pull,
Mama's gonna buy you a cart and bull."
I think about her as a baby, all wrinkly and pink, tufts of blond fuzz sticking out of the yellow blanket the hospital wrapped her in.
"If that cart and bull turn over,
Mama's gonna buy you a dog named Rover."
Her breath slows, and I notice for the first time the heavy sighing is gone.
"And if that dog named Rover won't bark,
Mama's gonna buy you a horse and cart.
And if that horse and cart fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town."
I hum a bit more and then stand to go. She reaches out and holds my hand. "The other one, Mama. Sing the other one."
I'd forgotten I used to sing a different one to her, also. It's been so long, it surprises me that she remembers. I lay my hand on her head and try to remember the words.
"Hush little baby, don't you cry;
Within your dreams you can touch the sky.
With you in my arms I feel whole,
Because you are my heart and soul."
She reaches up and squeezes my hand. "You'll check on me in an hour?"
"In an hour," I say and slip out of the room.
Travis nearly scares the bejeezus out of me, standing right outside the door. "I haven't heard you sing in a while."
I shrug. "We got no more babies." He looks
like he'd like to say something and then don't.
After he goes to bed, I slip out into the backyard with a cigarette and stare into the sky, which is all black and dotted with brilliant stars sharp as the pin-prick ends of a thousand needles, a sky completely unlike the landing pad at the hospital in Austin.
I breathe in the smoke and let it fill my lungs slow and hold it there a second or two before blowing out real slow. I watch the smoke circle up into the darkness and fade away on the breeze. I take another drag, and another, willing myself to not think about tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after, but just this minute, this next test, this moment when we are all home and safe. I squash the butt end into the flowerbeds and cover it with dirt.
I check Ashley's sugar before I go to bed. She barely stirs when I prick her with the needle and squeeze out a drop. She rolls over when I let go, before I can wipe the blood, and I see it smear across the pillow. It's down almost 50 points.
I set the alarm for an hour, but I can't get to sleep anyway. I think about the prescriptions we have to get filled tomorrow, and the grocery shopping, and Logan's ball game, and the church car wash. When I check her again it's under 200. It has gone down so fast I'm too scared to sleep again, and I lie on the floor next to her bed another hour and check again. It stabilizes at 160.
I finally crawl back into bed at four in the morning, and wonder how I used to nurse the kids when they were babies. I did this hour thing all the time, and I don't remember ever being this tired.
When I wake, Travis is already gone. Logan's locked in the bathroom, and Ashley is deeply asleep. I stand over her, not wanting to wake her because it's been such a tiring week, but wanting to make sure she's still alive. Unlike the last month, her breathing is quiet and light. I'm thankful for these little things.
~~~~
Chapter Ten
The second full day home is Sunday and tired or not, we all manage to haul ourselves out of bed and dress in Sunday best. Curious eyes follow us as we slip in a back pew a few minutes after the service begins. A few friends wave at Ashley and she waves back, obviously happy to be back. Logan whispers to Travis and then slides out to move up a few rows where his buddies are. Travis and Ashley pick up in the middle of the song easily, but I busy myself stowing my purse and finding a hymnal, even though the words are up clear as day on the screen behind the pulpit. When I finally can't postpone it anymore, I move my lips in time to the music, but I have no voice.
The truth is, although I was the one who told Travis we needed to come to church, I've just never taken to it the way the rest of the family has. I suppose it's natural for Ashley and Logan to feel comfortable here. They've never known anything else. Sunday after Sunday, since they was in diapers, we been here singing the same songs with the same people, year after year. The same groups of kids moved with them from nursery to preschool, graduating into the grade-school Sunday school classes, in AWANA and Girls in Action, and youth group. They done the same car washes year after year, went to the same summer camps, ate the same fried chicken and cornbread at the same picnics. It's no surprise they fit like red in a rainbow here.
I play the game, too. I bake my share of pot-luck dinners, and I learned where all the books of the Bible is. I nod like I understand when Pastor Joel speaks, and I pretend to write notes on the back of the bulletin and file them in my Bible to read later. Really, though, I'm writing grocery lists, 'cause I just don't get it all. The church is something of a social clique, and even after all these years I feel on the outside looking in.
I sing the songs, but I don't feel them the way Brenda and Yolanda do, who close their eyes and sway when the music gets loud and sometimes sing through tears. I read the words and just don't get why someone would cry over them. And then I fear God is going to strike me dead for not getting it.
It's not that I don't want to get it. Who wouldn't want to feel like there is some God out there who made the whole universe and still knows them, though they be a speck of dust, and loves them. I tried to pray a couple times that God would make it real to me like it is to them, but I feel like I am talking into space. I figure if there's a God up there he's probably just laughing at me. Or cussing me out for smoking, and maybe it's that one cigarette a night that's keeping him from talking to me. And I figure if I wanted him enough, I'd give it up, so maybe it serves me right.
Every time I walk through the church doors I'm a hypocrite, pretending to feel like God loves me, when I don't really even know if he's there. But I can't speak this to anyone, 'cause they all know God loves them. Even Travis, who coulda cared less when I first told him we should go to church.
I think God speaks to Travis because Travis sings like he means it. When everyone has their eyes closed for silent meditation, I peek over at him and his mouth is moving like he's talking without sound, and I think he's actually talking to God. I suspect he actually thinks God is listening.
Since we been coming, the service is always the same. Announcements, songs, prayers, offering, sermon, invitation. The invitation is the part at the end when the pastor invites those moved by the Spirit to come forward and pray for God to come live in their hearts and forgive their sins. I'd heard all that in the Lutheran church, except no one marched up any aisle in front of the whole congregation, so no one knew who was praying and who was just closing their eyes and thinking what to have for lunch.
One Sunday, not too long after we came to First Baptist, I felt Travis move next to me, a slight, uncomfortable kind of moving, and when the choir sang Just As I Am, on the second verse, he got up and walked all the way down that long aisle and right into the open arms of the pastor. And I sat all by myself in the pew, feeling the piercing stares of those around me, wondering what was going on.
Going forward meant you'd never been saved, and everyone figured we'd been saved long ago. I figured we had. We'd gone to church all our lives. Not Baptist, but Christian churches. We believed in Jesus and God and the Bible. Ain't that what saves you? But there was Travis, walking forward like the sinner repenting, and all eyes looked at me.
And after that Travis started reading the Bible, and getting interested in the men's group, and when he wasn't working Saturdays he went to prayer meetings. But he never said nothing to me about it, and I don't ask, 'cause I'm waiting for God to talk to me like that, too. Except he don't.
The sermon today is about faith in praying, and I feel like Pastor Joel is staring at me when he says God will give us anything we ask for if we ask believing in him, and I can't help but wonder if Ashley is asking God to take away her diabetes, and I hate myself for thinking it's never that easy.
After the service people crowd around Ashley like she's a celebrity, asking how she is and telling her how much they prayed for her. She takes the attention with grace, answering polite, and then skips off with the other girls out the back. Travis takes over the answering until Dot and Yolanda break up the group and turn the conversation to the pro-life demonstration this afternoon.
There's a potluck at the church but we go home to eat. It's simpler that way. For now. I figure as we get used to this, it'll be easier going out, but for now, home seems safer. We eat sandwiches, 30 carbs apiece, and carrots with ranch dressing. We can't do chips, but Travis discovers his pork rinds don't have no carbs in them so we munch on those instead. We skip dessert.
Travis and Logan beg off the pro-life rally this afternoon. I'd rather stay home myself, but Ashley pleads with me to go. The bus is leaving the church at two, so we barely make it there before it pulls out. Ash wants to go on the bus with the kids, but I want to take the car.
"I thought you were supposed to chaperone us. You can't do that from the car."
"Ms. Brenda said they got enough parents on the bus. They just need me at the march."
"Well, then you drive and I'll ride," she says, as though this is so logical I shoulda thought it myself.
"And let you go all by yourself?"
"No. I'll be with 45 of my closest friends."
/>
"And what happens if..." I don't know how to say it. "You know, if something happens?"
"It's Austin, Mom. It's forty minutes away. What can happen?"
Oh, let me list the things, I think.
"They're waiting, Mom." I look at the bus and curious eyes are looking down at our conversation. "You are so embarrassing me. It's not like I haven't traveled on the church bus a thousand times."
"But not with--" I start to say diabetes, but then I bite my tongue. I want her to feel normal, but I don't want to treat her that way.
"I have my meter." She opens her purse and pulls it out. "And jelly beans." We settled on jellybeans as emergency food because they're easy to count, one carb apiece, and easy to carry.
"Okay," I say, thinking this may be the biggest mistake I've ever made. "But I'm following behind and walking in the march with you." "Okay." She high tails it up the bus steps, and I watch her through the windows, waiting for her to wave at me. She don't even look back.
~~~~
The downtown in Austin is crowded for a Sunday afternoon. It takes a while to find parking, and I have to weave my way through blocks of marchers to find where folks from our church are gathering. When I find them, Pastor Joel and his humongously pregnant wife are giving instructions about the route we're gonna walk and where to meet up when it's over. When he offers to pray before we leave, everyone holds hands and bows their heads. I'd feel self-conscious but everyone downtown is from one church or another, so we ain't the only ones praying. He has to yell real loud to be heard over the commotion.
"Father God," he starts. "We know all life is precious to you. You have formed us in our mother's womb; you have created both our body, and the souls that inhabit them, and your word tells us they are precious to you. Before we are even born, all our days are written in your book."
