ninanevermore | Tuesday – Not a Clean Shot

Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about a conversation that my husband and I have from time to time. It always begins with Jeff asking, "Why do you do that?!"

"Do what?" I invariably ask back. I want to make sure I am explaining the correct bad behavior before I answer, because I do a lot of things wrong. I kick my shoes off in the middle of the floor. I fail to refold the newspaper after I've finished reading it. I don't always screw the lids back onto jars after I am finished with them. This last one is a particular problem for Jeff, who picks up jars by their lids. After years of living with me, you think he would know better.

"That!" He points to the syringe in my hand. Now I know what he is referring to, but I play dumb because it's fun to tease him.

"The shot? I'm diabetic. I though I already mentioned to you. Sorry. By the way, I give myself shots every day. If that bothers you, try not to watch."

"But you give them through your clothes! How much trouble would it be to lift up your shirt before you give the shot? God only knows what kind of germs you're getting along with the insulin."

I shrug. "I've been giving shots through my clothes for a long time, honey. No problems so far."

"No far, but for how long? If what you're doing is okay, why don't they give you shots that way at the doctor's office? They always make you roll up your sleeve, then they clean the spot with alcohol, and then they give the shot. That's the safe, clean, hygienic way to do it."

"I'll tell you what, sweetie. If you ever have to take shots, and you want to go through all that trouble, I won't give you any grief. The first few thousand or so shots I gave myself, I did all that stuff, too. Then I got bored."

When Jeff and I first met, I still went though all the steps that they taught me at the hospital when I was a child. I would very neatly and deliberately open an alcohol swab, clean off the insulin bottle, select a patch of skin that didn't already have a bruise on it, clean off that patch, fill the syringe, give the shot, and then wipe the flesh down again with the alcohol swab. Then I met other young diabetics in college who had long ago abandoned all these precautions, and I decided to follow their lead.

The main reason I give shots though my clothes, though, is that it draws less attention to myself. When I am out in public (I take a shot before every meal), I can pull my insulin pen out of my purse, dial my dose, and stick it in my thigh without anyone even realizing what I am doing. Some people in my life know about the diabetes, others don't.

At my new job (which I've had for 3 months), no one knows about it yet. I don't like to mention the diabetes until people have known me for at least 6 months. After that amount of time, they have already begun to think of me as a person and are used to seeing me eat the same foods that other people eat. The revelation that I am a diabetic will just be another interesting fact about me when it come out. If I tell people about the diabetes when we first meet, however, they tend to see me as a disease first and foremost, and they get overly (and annoyingly) interested in what I eat.

The worst part is when someone starts to offer me a piece of cake, then pulls it back away and say, "Oh! I'm sorry! You can't have this, can you?" This makes everyone else in the room stop and look toward me. I hate that. When this happens, I have no choice but to reach for the piece of cake and then eat in front of all them, even if it is something I hate, like carrot cake with walnuts in it.* The truth is, I can take an extra shot to compensate for eating a sugary treat if I want it bad enough, and to no ill effect. I usually decline a piece of cake for the same reason a lot of other women do – because it's fattening.

So since I give shots through my work clothes, I also give them though my jean and nightgowns. I give them though silk and I give them though denim. The needles are so thin that they slip easily though the weave of most fabrics without snagging. I suppose I could adjust my routine when Jeff is looking, to make him happy. But if I were to that, then he would expect me to start screwing the lids back onto jars instead of balancing them loosely on top of the threads, or to refold the newspaper when I'm done reading it. As far as I'm concerned, it's just not worth the trouble.

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* I only like carrot cake without walnuts. The same goes for brownies.

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