The first time you go to the hospital, there is much to learn. I don’t mean how to knock the bubbles out of your insulin syringe, although this is useful information.
I mean the definition of “grits,” a giggly noun that presents itself for your consideration every morning. The cafeteria will make it for you if you circle it. Your father says it is Cream of Wheat with a Southern accent.
I mean the resurrection of your mother’s accent, which had long been composted under suburban daffodils. When your mother announced that she would be staying in your hospital room overnight, every night, the head nurse hesitated. Now you know what hundred-proof Brooklyn sounds like. You like it very much.
I mean the sadism of your endocrinologist, who has Paul Simon’s eyes and is small enough to kiss on the head. That might make him cross, since you are only nine. Also, his red toupee does not appear to be securely attached. You like Dr. Pipo, but you do not like his decree that you inject water into your grandfather’s bicep. You insist you are ready to stab yourself. You have practiced on clementines and plush cats. You are forced to impale your grandfather, and he laughs and calls you “Princess.”
I mean the friendship of the medical students, leggy angels who clot around your bed. You insist they address your I.V. as “Irving Victor.” They sign your autograph dog, fall asleep behind your door, and smuggle you skyscrapers of sugar-free Jell‑O, which you have just learned is a “free food.” You toast each other, your mother, and Dr. Pipo with the funny half-cans of Shasta. One of the medical students calls Shasta “poor man’s cola,” and you and he agree that someday you will start a band with this name.
I mean the hydraulics on the wheelchair, and the fact that you will never eat another graham cracker without smelling alcohol wipes in the back of your throat.
This frees you up for higher education the second time you go to the hospital. This is an elective expedition. Last time you were in ketoacidosis, but now you are pink, and eleven, and proud to be a pioneer. Dr. Pipo sent you to a real psychiatrist to confirm that you are ready for an insulin pump. You and Gretchen made each other laugh. She said she wished you could hang out more often, but that you were going to be fine. She said to “take no flak.” Your father calls you the bionic woman. The Dutch Guild at church crochets you a pocket cross.
You will learn how to fill your reservoir, program your basal rates, and ride with a sidekick who looks like a pager. The pump has been sent to save your kidneys.
You will learn that St. Agnes is a Catholic hospital, which means they will send you a nun. This is not as frightening as you expect. You talk about poetry and tea. When she leaves, your mother informs you that no one on earth is holier than you are.
You will learn that a nurse named Paula gives insulin too early, even though you insist you have been doing it yourself for two years. You don’t want to make Paula feel bad. Your blood glucose cannonballs. You learn that your mother has brought loaves of bread and peanut butter. Your mother talks to Dr. Pipo. You don’t see Paula again.
You learn that a man named Keith Haring did the drawings on the walls in this pediatric ward, and you wish you could thank him. His round-headed people curl around each other like elbow macaroni. They are moving together to music you can hear. They are yellow and purple and fully alive. Someone says Keith Haring died of AIDS. You dream about him, and hope God will let you give him a hug as soon as you get to heaven.
You learn that Mary J. Blige is going to be a superstar, because a nurse named Kate would bet one billion dollars on this. Remember that name: Mary J. Blige. She’s Kate’s friend. They go back to nursery school. She just signed a record deal. Remember that name. Kate gives you a cassette and always gives insulin on time. You learn the song “Real Love” by heart and hope Mary J. Blige will be a superstar.
You learn that sometimes you see things happening while they are still happening. After two days of studying basal rates and bolus calculations, Dr. Pipo says you are ready to start pumping. You solemnify the waning day. This is the last time you will put on pajamas without a pump. This is the last time you will watch Family Ties without a pump. This is the last time you will talk to your grandparents without a pump.
You learn that every hospital serves “grits.”
You learn that other parents cry more. The boy across the hall is ten, and he’s a pioneer, too. His parents ask you to tell them what you know. They say you are so calm. You wonder if you should tell them that your mother is a psychologist. You wonder if they took the boy to a real psychiatrist. They ask you to program something on the boy’s pump. Your mother calls Dr. Pipo in her Brooklyn voice.
You learn that all the crosses on the walls have Jesus dead on them here. Your mother says the crucifixion and the resurrection are equally important, but we have a choice as to whether we focus on life or death.
You learn that the needle in your belly sometimes hurts so much it wakes you up. They call it a “bent needle,” which is uncreative. If you bite your own teeth, you do not cry as you snake it under your skin. You enjoy that the giant, smooth band-aid is called a “Poly-Skin,” and you pretend you are half-girl, half-sea-lion.
You learn that your class has made you cards, and you string them on the wall like ivy. Nathan writes that he is praying for you. Jen writes that “the school day has no colors” when you are gone. Pete writes that everyone will think you are a doctor since your pump looks like a pager. He went to the library to read about it. You realize your pump needs a name and settle on Marcia Bainbridge. Dr. Pipo says he never met an aristocratic medical device.
You learn that your mother will not let you watch Jerry Springer, no matter how many hours a day he is available on hospital television.
You learn that everyone talks about “hospital smell.” They are apologetic, but you think the lemon-cafeteria-alcohol-wipe bouquet is friendly. You have not met a single mean person. Your mother is five feet away. Chefs are making grits for anyone who wants them. You toast your life.
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Angela Townsend is the Development Director at Tabby’s Place: a Cat Sanctuary. She graduated from Princeton Seminary and Vassar College. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Chautauqua, CutBank, Lake Effect, Paris Lit Up, The Penn Review, Pleiades, The Razor, and Terrain.org, among others. Angie has lived with Type 1 diabetes for 33 years, laughs with her poet mother every morning, and loves life affectionately.