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A moment later, Ian’s phone rings, and he answers it immediately. His gaze goes to me as he says, “Hi, Mom. Yeah, she’s fine. Don’t worry. We were awake when the alarm went off. She’s drinking some apple juice.”
Whenever my glucose monitor alarm goes off, both Ian and my mom are notified. My poor mom was probably awakened from sleep by her phone screeching at her, which means my dad was awakened too. “Tell her I’m sorry. I should have been paying better attention.” I’m supposed to be checking my sugar levels regularly.
I hate worrying my parents. They both have high-pressure jobs, and I don’t want to add to their stress.
After reassuring our mom that I’m okay, Ian ends the call. “Do you want anything else?” he asks me.
“No, I’m okay.” I hand him the empty juice box, and he tosses it into the trashcan. “The juice should hold me over until breakfast.”
“You promise you’ll eat something then?”
I nod. “I promise.”
After a short while, Ian checks the glucose monitor once more. “Your sugar level is starting to go up.”
I notice he’s wearing a pair of flannel PJ bottoms and a T-shirt. Tyler’s wearing the same. I glance over at the sofa bed. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”
Ian leans close to kiss the top of my head. “It’s no problem. Try to go back to sleep.”
Ian and Tyler return to their makeshift bed. I roll over to face the wall and close my eyes, pretending to sleep.
You’re such a burden to your family.
I know.
* * *
That evening, my parents come to the hospital as soon as they get off work, still dressed in their professional attire. They both look exhausted, and I know I’m the cause. I hate being a burden to them. I wish they’d forget about me and go do their own thing, but I know that’s not an option. They’d never give up on me.
You don’t deserve them.
Shut up.
Since my parents are here for a couple of hours this evening, Ian and Tyler leave to have dinner. It’s become the routine—my parents take the evening shifts, babysitting me after they get off work so that Ian and Tyler can have a break. They’re afraid to leave me alone because they’re afraid I’ll hurt myself. I’m in a psych ward at the moment. There’s nothing sharp in my room. No belts or ties either. Nothing I could hurt myself with. At least I’m allowed to wear my own clothes—a pair of light gray flannel PJ bottoms and a white tank top.
You should hurt yourself. You’re a complete waste of everyone’s time.
Stop it.
You’re dragging them all down with you. Is that what you want? You selfish idiot.
Shut up!
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Mom asks as she sits down in the chair beside the bed. She’s dressed in a sapphire blue business suit and jacket with a tailored white blouse. Her blonde hair is shoulder-length, and she’s wearing a familiar gold heart-shaped locket on a chain around her neck. In the locket are pictures of me and Ian when we were young. She’s a great mom, and I hate the fact that she worries about me.
“I’m feeling better.” It’s not really true, but she’ll feel better if I say that.
“How have your levels been today?”
“Fine.” That’s true for the most part. I did eat three decent meals today, even though I had zero appetite. And I ate a few snacks when my blood sugar levels dropped.
Mom already knows what my levels have been all day. She has the Dexcom app on her phone, and it shows her the history of my glucose readings around the clock.
“When does your pump need to be changed?” she asks.
“Not until tomorrow.” I wear an Omnipod insulin pump. It usually lasts two to three days before I have to replace it.
“Make sure you’re eating well and checking your glucose level regularly.” She glances at my dinner tray, which is sitting on the bedside table.
