Thursday - Sweet Rebellion
Oct. 26th, 2006 04:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking that my diabetes turns 29 years old this month, and I must eat some candy to celebrate. It's a tradition for me. Not a lot of candy, just something small. One single Smartie, to be exact.
Anyone reading this outside of the United States will think of a different candy then the one I have in mind. The Smarties over here are sweet-tart type pill-looking candies that come in a roll:
They diagnosed my condition in October of 1977, when I was 8 years old. I spent a week in the hospital, where they taught my parents and me how to take care manage my diabetes. I remember practicing giving my rag doll shots with real syringes, which were something I had never been allowed to play with before. On Halloween, I got to go home.
My parents must have discussed with each other how to handle the holiday. I had a little brother, so allowing him to trick-or-treat while I sat it out would not have gone over well. When evening fell, my brother and I donned our costumes and hit the streets of our neighborhood to troll for candy.
I had been told that diabetes had no cure and that I would no longer be allowed to eat anything with sugar in it, but I conveniently forgot all of that in the time I spent in the hospital. I figured that since they sent me home, I must be all better.
The first few house we hit were those of the neighbors who lived close by my family. They knew about my illness and annoyed me by giving my brother candy, but dropping healthy snacks like apples and oranges into by bag. After a few blocks these heavy, healthy items sank underneath the candy the less-informed neighbors gave me, making it look like I had twice as much loot as my brother. This caused other people to feel sorry for him and deliver double the treats into his bag that they put into my mine, much to my chagrin. Little did I know that the injustices of the evening had just begun.
The most important part of Halloween night was not the act of collecting candy. Rather, it was when we came home, flopped down on our bellies on the living room floor, emptied our collection bags into piles on the carpet and inventoried our stashes to see who made the best haul. Trades would be bartered (two boxes of raisin for a 3 Musketeers bar, for example), and finally my mother would allow us each to have just a few pieces of candy before we changed into our pajamas and went to bed.
That night, though, just as I was getting ready to flop down onto the living room rug, my mother confiscated my bag and told me that I couldn't keep any of it. My mouth dropped open, and I stared at her with the kind of hurt and outrage that only an 8 year old who has just had an entire bag of candy stolen from her can muster.
"But, but..."
She shook her head. "I'm sorry, you aren't allowed to eat any of this," she said. "You aren't allowed to eat sugar anymore, remember?" Looking back, I think that moment must have been much harder for her than it was for me, but at the time I thought she was mean.
"But there are apples, and puzzles, in there," I finally managed to sputter, "I can have those." I didn't even want the stupid apples, but they were better than nothing.
She allowed me to removed the fruit, a book of word puzzles and a few small toys from the bag. While I was at it, I managed to palm some candy - a single roll of Smarties, without her seeing it. She then took the bag away to hide it, and I never saw any of it again.
I hid the roll of Smarties in my closet, on the back of a shelf. There are about 18 Smarties in a roll, and for the next two and a half weeks I sneaked into my closet and ate one single Smartie every day until they were gone. But back then, before technology made it possible for people to test what their blood sugar was at any given time, doctors took a draconian approach and forbade all sugar, all the time, for children like me. I now know that there can be no more than a couple of calories in a piece of candy that small, and that any effect it can have on my blood sugar was negligible. I suspected it even then, but my parents put faith in what the doctors told them.
Still, despite what my doctors believed, sneaking those little bits of candy did me a world of good. I think I got more pleasure out of each one of those Smarties than my kid brother got out of his entire night's haul. They tasted like freedom to me. They tasted like normalcy. Each time I hid in my closet and popped a candy the size of an aspirin into my mouth, I felt triumphant.
This year, like every year, I will hand out little miniature chocolates (I buy candy that my husband will eat, in case not many children drop by). I also hand out little toys and novelties, on the off chance that some child will not be allowed too much or any sugar (Why not? It happened to me). I will also hand out Smarties. I have to; they are a tradition and besides, they taste just like freedom. What could be sweeter than that?
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ # ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Anyone reading this outside of the United States will think of a different candy then the one I have in mind. The Smarties over here are sweet-tart type pill-looking candies that come in a roll:
They diagnosed my condition in October of 1977, when I was 8 years old. I spent a week in the hospital, where they taught my parents and me how to take care manage my diabetes. I remember practicing giving my rag doll shots with real syringes, which were something I had never been allowed to play with before. On Halloween, I got to go home.
My parents must have discussed with each other how to handle the holiday. I had a little brother, so allowing him to trick-or-treat while I sat it out would not have gone over well. When evening fell, my brother and I donned our costumes and hit the streets of our neighborhood to troll for candy.
I had been told that diabetes had no cure and that I would no longer be allowed to eat anything with sugar in it, but I conveniently forgot all of that in the time I spent in the hospital. I figured that since they sent me home, I must be all better.
The first few house we hit were those of the neighbors who lived close by my family. They knew about my illness and annoyed me by giving my brother candy, but dropping healthy snacks like apples and oranges into by bag. After a few blocks these heavy, healthy items sank underneath the candy the less-informed neighbors gave me, making it look like I had twice as much loot as my brother. This caused other people to feel sorry for him and deliver double the treats into his bag that they put into my mine, much to my chagrin. Little did I know that the injustices of the evening had just begun.
The most important part of Halloween night was not the act of collecting candy. Rather, it was when we came home, flopped down on our bellies on the living room floor, emptied our collection bags into piles on the carpet and inventoried our stashes to see who made the best haul. Trades would be bartered (two boxes of raisin for a 3 Musketeers bar, for example), and finally my mother would allow us each to have just a few pieces of candy before we changed into our pajamas and went to bed.
That night, though, just as I was getting ready to flop down onto the living room rug, my mother confiscated my bag and told me that I couldn't keep any of it. My mouth dropped open, and I stared at her with the kind of hurt and outrage that only an 8 year old who has just had an entire bag of candy stolen from her can muster.
"But, but..."
She shook her head. "I'm sorry, you aren't allowed to eat any of this," she said. "You aren't allowed to eat sugar anymore, remember?" Looking back, I think that moment must have been much harder for her than it was for me, but at the time I thought she was mean.
"But there are apples, and puzzles, in there," I finally managed to sputter, "I can have those." I didn't even want the stupid apples, but they were better than nothing.
She allowed me to removed the fruit, a book of word puzzles and a few small toys from the bag. While I was at it, I managed to palm some candy - a single roll of Smarties, without her seeing it. She then took the bag away to hide it, and I never saw any of it again.
I hid the roll of Smarties in my closet, on the back of a shelf. There are about 18 Smarties in a roll, and for the next two and a half weeks I sneaked into my closet and ate one single Smartie every day until they were gone. But back then, before technology made it possible for people to test what their blood sugar was at any given time, doctors took a draconian approach and forbade all sugar, all the time, for children like me. I now know that there can be no more than a couple of calories in a piece of candy that small, and that any effect it can have on my blood sugar was negligible. I suspected it even then, but my parents put faith in what the doctors told them.
Still, despite what my doctors believed, sneaking those little bits of candy did me a world of good. I think I got more pleasure out of each one of those Smarties than my kid brother got out of his entire night's haul. They tasted like freedom to me. They tasted like normalcy. Each time I hid in my closet and popped a candy the size of an aspirin into my mouth, I felt triumphant.
This year, like every year, I will hand out little miniature chocolates (I buy candy that my husband will eat, in case not many children drop by). I also hand out little toys and novelties, on the off chance that some child will not be allowed too much or any sugar (Why not? It happened to me). I will also hand out Smarties. I have to; they are a tradition and besides, they taste just like freedom. What could be sweeter than that?
