Test Me

August 14, 2004

Diabetes is a balancing act. At any given time, your blood sugar can be either too high or too low. When it's too low, it causes you to feel weak and shaky, and you have to eat something quickly to bring it back in line before you pass out. But other things, like staying out all night, can cause you to feel the same way, and sometimes, it's impossible to tell without using a blood glucose test meter. I pulled the kit from my bag and began the quick process of testing.

"What's that?" she asked.

I explained what I was doing as I fit a tiny disposable strip into the top of a small machine.

"How does it work?" I removed a pen from the kit and held it up.

"See this?" I said. She nodded. "Well, I put this pen to my fingertip, and when I push this button on the side here, it pricks my finger."

"Ouch," she said as I clicked the pen and began to squeeze a tiny drop of blood from my pinky.

"It doesn't hurt," I said, and touched the blood to the end of the test strip. A few seconds later, I was done. I zipped up the kit and put it back in my bag.

"Well?" she asked. "How was it?"

"It's a little low," I said, and pulled a bottle of Coke from the same bag. The bottle hissed as I opened it, and some sprayed on my shirt. I absentmindedly wiped it while gulping the Coke.

"I thought diabetics couldn't have sugar," she said.

I pulled the bottle from my lips and told her, "It's complicated. Sometimes, like right now, I need it.” Then I took another long swallow.

"Will you test my blood sugar?" she asked.

"Sure. If you want me to. Just give me a minute." When the Coke kicked in, and I was back to normal, I pulled the test kit from my bag again and got prepared to test her. I put another test strip in the machine and cocked the pen. "Give me your finger," I said.

"I'm scared."

"Don't be. You'll hardly feel it."

She gave me her hand, and I touched the pen to her fingertip, but before I had the chance to prick her, she yanked her hand away. "Wait, wait, wait," she said. "I changed my mind."

"Baby." I taunted her.

"Okay, okay," she said and held out her hand again. She put her other hand over her eyes and said, "But I can't watch."

The pen has several settings for how deeply its sharp end penetrates your skin. I have it set to the deepest setting, because I've been doing it for so long that my fingertips are calloused. This girl's fingers were soft, pale, and white, and I should've set the pen for a shallow prick. But I forgot.

ZING!

"Ouch! Shit, fuck, Ow ow ow ow," she pulled her hand away and looked at the blood that was beginning to trickle down her finger. "You told me it wouldn't hurt. Fuck."

I realized what I'd done and apologized. "But c'mon, the hard part's over," I said. "Let me see your finger before it stops bleeding."

"Before it stops bleeding?" she scoffed. "It's never gonna stop bleeding!"

"C'mon, c'mon, give me your hand."

As soon as I touched the test strip to her fingertip, the machine began counting backwards from five. Four. Three. Two. One. "Well?" she asked, "What does it say?

"80."

"What's that mean?"

"Right on the money."

"I'm normal?"

“I wouldn’t say that, but your blood sugar is. Congratulations."

She held her finger close to her eyes and looked at it. She wiped it and squeezed it with her other hand. "It's still bleeding," she said.

"Well, stop squeezing it."

She continued looking at it for a few more minutes, then said, "We should make a blood pact or something."

“Good idea!”

But we couldn't think of anything to make a pact about, so we didn't.