Needles A Memoir of Growing Up With Diabetes

Chapter One: Needles I know about needles. My sister leaves them everywhere. I fill her syringes with water, transforming them into mini-water guns. I have diabetic Barbie dolls and cook meals for imaginary diabetic friends. I watch my sister give herself shots, and when she throws the syringe into the bathroom garbage can, I grab it. Looking out for my parents, I sit cross-legged on the tiled floor, remove the orange cap from the syringe, and set the point against the skin on my leg. I long to insert the needle into my body. I don't think about how it will feel, but rather how it will look, protruding from my thigh.It seems like a natural thing, to give shots. My own pancreas works, but I love playing with the needles. I line my stuffed animals across my bed and shoot each of them with a syringe full of water before dinner. I tell them it will only hurt for a second, and they don't have any choice. They need to have insulin in their furry bodies if they want to eat. I understand the rules about when they have to get their shots, and I wrap my fingers around their arms and legs and push the needle deep. Then I feed them.My older brother and I have water fights with Denise's needles after school. I dig through the bathroom trash can and pull out her syringes. The orange caps stand out against the crumpled, white tissues. I carefully pull the top off, dip the plastic tube into a sink full of water, and pull the plunger back. With three or four tucked in the pocket of my T-shirt, I surprise Brian watching television in the living room. The stream of water spurts from the end of the syringe onto his face and hair. He reaches out his chubby hand and grabs the empty syringe, throws it to the floor. Then he runs to the bathroom and locks the door behind him, pulls more syringes from the garbage can, and fills those up.When he emerges, I douse him again. We try to see who can get the other one wetter. I always win; I can run faster. And I have been playing with the needles for years, popping the caps off and pushing the plunger down. I squirt him twice in the time it takes him to hit me once. I know how to keep bubbles out of the syringes too. With a tap of my finger, I can get the pockets of air to the top, push them out, and be armed with a loaded syringe. Brian isn't careful enough when he draws the water from the sink, and when he points his weapon at me, only a few drops dribble out at the end. The expression on his round face is always one of disappointment. Like he should be able to get it right by now. He narrows his eyes at the empty syringe in his hand and bites his bottom lip. I give him a moment to fully realize his mistake, and then I pull the spare from my pocket and squirt water into his eye.Sometimes I hide my sister's needles in my backpack and take them to school with me. My friends gather along the fence in the corner of the playground, and I pull them out. The girls carefully take the needles from my hand and remove the caps. They examine the metal points with an expression of wonder and lower their bodies onto the grass. We take turns being the doctor, diagnosing rare diseases, giving our advice, and administering the injections. Pretend shots. We always push the caps back on before pressing the syringe against each other's arms.We are discreet and never get caught by the teachers. I tell my friends it's just a game anyway. We can't get in trouble because we aren't doing anything wrong. I remind them that my older sister takes her needles everywhere. She keeps them in her purse next to two vials of insulin. Even if a teacher sees us, we won't get detention. But we still keep an eye out for the grownups and sit with our backs to the other kids playing on the swings. When the bell rings, I slip the syringes into the deep pocket of my baggy corduroys and head back to class.All the kids know I have the needles. When older kids ask to see one, I tell them to meet me onSimon and Schuster Staff is the author of 'Needles A Memoir of Growing Up With Diabetes', published 2000 under ISBN 9780684856544 and ISBN 0684856549.