Page 46 of Make Me Want it Too

He nods. “I just really don’t like blood. And needles.” He shudders as he says it.

“Well, they’re sort of unavoidable.”

“You’re amazing. I don’t think I’d be able to do it.”

“You’d figure it out if you had to.”

His throat bobs. “I don’t know, bro.”

I chuckle as I show him how to use the testing strip to get the glucose reading. “One-forty. A little high, but not bad. It’s usually a little high right after waking up. My target for where I feel best is usually one hundred to one-ten.”

I explain to him how each unit of insulin will lower my glucose levels by fifty and how I’ll also need a unit of insulin for every about fifteen grams of carbohydrates I eat, and then I do the math to figure out how much insulin I need to inject to get my glucose down to my target number based on how many carbs I’m estimating are in the breakfast he brought me.

I think his eyes glazed over about half-way through my explanation. But that’s okay.

I open the syringe and draw out the four units of insulin I calculated.

Wood has his eyes closed.

“Are you watching?”

“Yes.” He’s not.

I bite back a laugh. “I promise, this part doesn’t even hurt.” I lift my shirt up to my waist and fold the yoga pants down below my belly button. I clean it with the wipe then pick up the needle. “Here. See, you just pinch the skin right here and then stick the needle in at a little bit of an angle.”

Wood peeks one eye open, squinting with a scrunched up face, teeth clenched, and hands fisted into balls as he watches me stick the needle in, depress the plunger, and then pull it out.

“How many times a day do you have to do that?”

“I check my levels four to six times, usually. Depends on if I’m eating or snacking more, or if I exercise or if I just feel off, I’ll check it. I don’t always necessarily inject that many times a day.”

“Have you ever thought about getting one of those continuous pump things?”

He has been reading up.

“Yeah. I had one while I was in college, actually. They’re great, in general. I just didn’t like it, personally. I didn’t like having something attached to me all the time and my skin got irritated at the infusion site. So much so I was miserable all of senior year. It just wasn’t for me.”

I look over at him after I finish putting everything away and he looks ashen.

“Are you okay?”

He nods. “I need to talk about something besides blood and needles for a while.”

“How about we go eat?”

He shoots me double finger guns. “Yes.”

But he doesn’t eat even half of his plate by the time we have to leave for the east lawn. Wood pulls a rolled up yoga mat out of his duffle bag then asks if I’m ready to go.

“You have your own yoga mat?”

“Yeah. I do hot yoga every Thursday.”

Of course he does.

We walk down to the east lawn together. The sun hasn’t crested over the horizon yet, but the sky is a mixture of pink and pale yellow, just light enough to highlight the dew on the grass.

There’s a slight chill coming off the water, but it will be another hot August day soon enough.

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