(picture taken in Morocco, 2013) 

Before I was instructed to inject hypodermic needles into my own tender skin, the nurse let me practice on oranges.

With my left thumb and forefinger, I pinched an inch of the fruit’s flesh, and with my right, slid the thin needle into its pulp, pressed down the plunger, and injected two units of saline. After three more rounds of practice, the nurse gently took the oranges away. She handed me a fresh, orange-capped syringe. I shifted in my hospital bed so that my gangly, pre-teen legs were straight out in front of me.

Soon, I’d learn that there are various places a person with diabetes can inject insulin: upper arm, stomach, hips. My first spot was my upper left thigh. Trembling, I pinched my flesh, like I had the fruit. Determined to do what I must to save my own life. My hospital room smelled like citrus all night.

 

“I feel like this is the diabetes camp I never got to go to,” I said to Marina and Peter in our hotel room Tuesday night,¬†weaving conversation in and out of diabetes, arcing over, through, beyond, circling back.

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