Blood Sugar(27)
CHAPTER 18
SUGAR
When Jason called me two days after I had met him at the lamp store, to make a date, I suggested we meet at a café near me on Espa?ola Way that had great sangria. He said he couldn’t drink sangria. I assumed that meant he was in recovery. I was open to dating someone sober, but I knew with it came a lot of added baggage. If he didn’t drink, did it mean going to bars was off-limits entirely? How about clubs or parties? Could I have a glass of wine in front of him? Was he a violent drunk? Was that why he stopped drinking? And how many times had he relapsed? Was he the child of an alcoholic haunted by an abusive past? My mind spun with problems, almost ending the relationship before it even had a chance to begin.
As we continued to chat on the phone, I soon learned Jason wasn’t sober at all. Hooray! He was a type 1 diabetic, and he couldn’t drink sangria not because he was a recovering alcoholic, but because there was way too much sugar in the fruit-filled wine. He stuck to dirty vodka martinis with olives. The fat in the olives, he explained, helped to slow down the absorption of the sugar in the vodka, which was low in comparison to wine, beer, and the brown liquors. “Huh,” I said. “Okay. How about the Delano? They make great martinis.”
I knew nothing about diabetes, other than some vague facts I picked up from barely paying attention to the pharma commercials constantly running, and action movies that sometimes had a diabetic hostage who was going to die if he didn’t get insulin! I did know that people with diabetes needed to check their blood by pricking their finger, and that people with type 2 diabetes were often overweight. And that was the extent of my knowledge on the matter.
Jason’s relationship with sugar was even more complicated than my past relationship with salt. Sugar could kill him slowly but was needed to keep him alive in the moment. Sugar was constantly on his mind and in his pocket. And those action movies usually got it all wrong. A low blood sugar could lead to death in minutes. That’s when the diabetic needs sugar immediately. A soda. Fruit juice. Jelly beans. Gummy bears. Candy bars and cookies are not ideal, because the fat in them slows down the absorption of the sugar so desperately and urgently needed. A high blood sugar wreaks havoc on the body and can lead to death, but it can take weeks or even months to fully shut down. That is when the type 1 diabetic needs insulin, since his or her own pancreas is broken and unable to produce any. But that need for insulin isn’t life or death in the moment, like the movies would have you believe.
It’s a constant balancing act. Every flight of stairs, every common cold, every extra bite of mashed potatoes has to be accounted for to keep a type 1’s blood sugar at a healthy level. Around 150, let’s say. A healthy nondiabetic hovers around 90 before eating. Little did I realize on my very first date with Jason that his chronic disease was far more complicated, time-consuming, and frightening than him being a recovering alcoholic ever would have been.
CHAPTER 19
PSYCHOPATHS
There was a great need for mental health professionals in the public sector, so I had several options as a volunteer psych intern. After review, I picked the Miami Dade Juvenile Detention Center. Always fascinated by my own young brain, I had taken several advanced classes in childhood development and was excited to work with delinquent teens.
I knew that the teenage brain is not fully formed, the frontal lobes not yet connected. Therefore a clear understanding between cause and effect cannot be wholly processed by a teenager, which can make their behavior seem reckless and erratic. That’s why teens so often drag race, or shoplift, or experiment with cocaine in a Denny’s parking lot. Teens are also driven by their own impulsive wants and needs, which translates back to them as basic survival instinct. Stealing that lip gloss you covet feels like a matter of life or death. Having sex with that girl and never calling her again is part of the survival-of-the-species imperative. This basic misguided survival instinct coupled with most teens seeing the world around them through the narrow lens of their own limited experience makes it harder for them to be compassionate. In essence, teenagers are like little psychopaths. Running around, making bad decisions, without a thought of how those decisions will affect themselves or others.
Knowing this about the brain brings up interesting dilemmas when it comes to teens being tried as adults in a court of law. How can they be held accountable if their own brains aren’t finished growing? But how can they not be, if they coldly gun down an entire family just to steal a Rolex watch and Fendi purse?
My new supervisor, Joyce Brody, strongly felt teens should never be tried as adults, no matter the severity of their crimes. She certainly would not have blamed me for shoving a peanut down Richard Vale’s throat. She fervently believed teenagers should be rehabilitated, not demonized, which was why she devoted all her time to working at the juvenile detention center. Joyce was the kind of woman who usually had more than one pencil stuck in the messy gray nest-like bun on top of her head. She was frazzled and overworked and so dedicated one had to wonder what in her own life she was running from. I couldn’t believe that she wasn’t already burned out and retired, perhaps running an artisanal yarn shop in Vermont.
I knew I would learn a lot from Joyce, but I didn’t want to emulate her. I wanted to do good, but I did not want all children to feel like my own children. At that time, Mr. Cat was plenty. Investing as much as she did in everyone else was an ulcer or heart attack or thinning hair waiting to happen. Living like that would suck the identity out of you until all you had was the impossible yet endless need to make others whole.