Tiny Drops Read online

  I nod and drop Jesse’s hand so I can sit in the wheelchair.

  “That’s not really necessary, is it?” Jesse asks, standing to face the nurse.

  “Just relax, big brother. We’ll take great care of your little sis, and I can assure you, she’s probably not feeling up to walking,” he answers, as he begins to push me toward the back. “You’re welcome to come along.”

  “Have you ever been to the hospital before, Brice?” he asks, his tone light, kind.

  “I got stitches once, but that was just at the clinic over on Tieton Drive. The one across from Albertsons,” I answer, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. “Can we stop at the bathroom before we go to the room?”

  “Sure, you can collect a sample. They’re going to want to look at your blood and urine—it helps us figure out what’s going on. There are cups on the shelf and instructions on the wall for getting a clean catch.”

  “Okay,” I answer, unsure of what to say. It’s embarrassing to think about collecting my pee. “What do I do with it when I’m finished?” I question, my eyes on the floor as I struggle to stand.

  “I’m going to give you this sticker. It has your name and all of your information on it. Just put it on your cup and leave it behind the door in front of the toilet when you’re finished. If you need any help, pull the string beside the toilet, and I’ll be right in to help you.”

  I glance up at him, relaxing when I see the inner glow in his kind eyes. He does this all day long, every day. It’s normal for him to collect bodily fluids from people, even if it’s not normal for the people giving the sample. It’s normal for him. He reaches out and gives me the sticker before he helps me to my feet.

  I sway a bit as I get my balance. I’m glad we didn’t have to wait—that there was no Friday traffic for us. We lucked out with 2:00 a.m. Tuesday morning traffic.

  I find the cup and open the lid, setting it on the counter while I walk over to the toilet. I fill it and glance up at the little silver door in front of me. There is a sign on the front of it that says, How to obtain a clean catch. I quickly read through it. Oops. It says I’m supposed to start to pee in the toilet before I go in the cup, then finish in the toilet. Well, I got it half right. I finished in the toilet. I hope I didn’t mess it up too bad. It’s strange to learn there’s a certain way that you’re supposed to do something as simple as peeing in a cup.

  I open the door, and both Wayne and Jesse rush toward me. When they each slide an arm under mine and help guide me down into the chair, I’m grateful. This weakness is unlike anything that I’ve ever felt before. I want to close my eyes and let it overtake me.

  As soon as I’m settled, Wayne continues pushing the chair. This place is busy. There are people rushing every which way, each wearing their own set of vibrant colors and patterns. A bright contrast to the sterile gray walls. It’s noisy, too. For some reason, I always thought that hospitals were sort of like libraries—everyone’s meant to be quiet, use whispered sounds.

  I jump in my seat when I hear a loud, angry voice. “You people can’t keep me here!”

  “That’s nothing to worry about, kiddo. Sometimes people are brought in when they’re not mentally well. He’s harmless,” Wayne says.

  “Is it always this loud here?” Jesse asks, walking quickly beside Wayne.

  “This is a tame day,” Wayne answers, shaking his head. “You should see it on a multiple-code day. There’s no escaping the noise. It goes home with you, and you hear it in your sleep.” I shudder at the image his words paint and hope I won’t be here long enough to witness it.

  4

  DK What?

  “Ouch!” I yell out, covering my mouth with my hand. I didn’t mean to say anything; it just really hurt. This is the third time they’ve tried to start an IV, and it keeps going bad.

  Wayne glances up. “Sorry, kid. I know it hurts. But the good news is, this one looks like it’s going to hold.”

  I lean back and relax. “Thank God!”

  I watch as he pulls blood back from the line and passes it to the other guy who’s in the room. The room is really large, with a big, round light hanging down right above me. It feels weird—like I’m on display. Jesse is off to the side, pacing back and forth.

  “Jesse, just sit. Relax. You’re making me nervous,” I tell him, even though that’s really not fair. I’m sure this is tough for him. He’s had an aversion to hospitals ever since our dad passed. Dad was in and out of hospitals for months before it happened. I was really young and don’t remember a lot of it. But Jesse was twelve when Dad died.

  “Is there a phone I can use? I need to call my mom,” Jesse asks Wayne.

  “Right there on the wall.” Wayne nods toward the left.

  I look that way and see a white phone hanging on the wall.

  “Just dial 9 to get out,” he adds as he puts a clear bandage sort of thing over my hand with the IV. I stretch my hand, glancing down at it; I’ve never had an IV before.

  “Get a glucose, Eric,” Wayne says to the other man in the room.

  I feel a bit relieved hearing his name. I don’t like not knowing a person’s name. This is all so weird, and my head is foggy—like I can’t get my thoughts straight.

  Leaning back into the pillow, I rest my eyes.

  “Morning, Edna,” I hear Jesse say with a smile in his voice. He loves Edna. She’s the owner of Mel’s Diner, where my mom serves breakfast every day except Saturdays—that’s Mom’s one morning off. Edna gave her Saturdays because she’s her favorite. That, and she’s got a soft spot for Jesse and me. “I need to talk to my mom. Is she around?”

  I open my eyes and see him leaning against the wall. His expression doesn’t match the light, airy tone of his voice.

  “Sure,” he says. He looks over at me, his face relaxing when his eyes meet mine. He points at the phone before he holds it away, grabbing his ear lobe and pulling on it while shaking his head. Edna always yells when she’s on the phone—it’s hilarious in person, but has a way of making your inner ear vibrate when you’re the one on the other end of the line.

  “Hey, Mom,” he says, before turning his body the other way.

  “Brice? I’m Eric. I need to see one of your fingers, but before we do that, why don’t you help me out by telling me your last name and date of birth?”

  “Garrison, and my birthday is May 22, 1980.” I hold my weak hand out to him. It’s hard to hold up a finger, so I give them all to him. He can choose. I let my eyes drift back closed. I just want to sleep.

  “Ouch!” I yell for the second time. Looking down, I see him squeezing a drop of blood from my finger. “What’d you do that for?” I question, immediately throwing my other hand over my mouth. I can’t believe I just said that. “Sorry, you just surprised me.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I thought you knew what this was,” he responds. When I really look at him, I see the same kindness that I witnessed on Wayne’s face. “I’m checking your blood glucose level. This little machine will tell us what it is in just thirty seconds.”

  We sit and wait, both staring at the little machine. When the time is finally up, Eric’s eyebrows scrunch together.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him, my heart racing.

  “Looks like we’ll have to wait for the lab results,” he says with a tight smile, as he gets up and walks over to where Wayne is. I watch as they talk quietly to one another before they both leave the room.

  “Hey,” I feel a tug on my sock.

  “Get off,” I mumble, pulling my foot free as I roll onto my side. I’m so tired.

  “What did they say?”

  “Who?” I ask, rolling back over and pulling myself up onto the stretcher. No matter how many times I try to sit up on it, I keep sliding down.

  “The nurses,” Jesse huffs.

  “I don’t know. Eric—” I pause, wondering if he knows who I’m talking about, “—that’s the other guy that was in here. Anyway, he tried to take a test. He poked my finger.” I hold up my finger to
show him the wound. It already feels like there’s a tiny bruise there, and I keep bumping it. “But, the test didn’t work, so they said we’d have to wait for the results from the lab. What’d Mom say? Is she coming?” I try to swallow past the lump in my throat.

  “Of course, she’s coming, Brice. You should have told her how bad you were feeling,” he finishes, a hint of irritation in his voice.

  “I’ve barely seen her… I tried to tell her last night! You know, when I peed the bed. Did she tell you that this morning? Did she tell you that I peed the bed?” My voice is hoarse and I’m completely drained. I reach up to wipe a tear from my face. The attempt is futile; another one takes its place. “She told me to go back to bed, that we’d deal with it in the morning. Then I wake up to you. As usual. She didn’t even come check on me.”

  “She never would have left this morning if she had known how serious it was.”

  “Well, she would have known how serious it was if she’d listened.” The stream is continuous now, and I don’t know how to get it to stop.

  “You know that’s not fair. You know how tired she is. How hard she works,” Jesse says quietly, sitting on the edge of this monstrosity that I’ve been condemned to lie on. “She’s coming. We’ll figure this out together.”

  All I can do is shake my head. The tears have stolen my voice and locked it inside. I feel like if I try to speak, the scream that’s down deep in my belly will rise up faster than the words and escape before I can stop it.

  We sit quietly together. He picks up my foot and holds it in his lap. Both hands are wrapped firmly around it, as if he’s afraid that someone is going to come and steal my foot away. “So, they didn’t say anything before they left?” he questions again.

  My mouth is so dry. I haven’t had anything to drink, and I’m beyond thirsty. My tongue is fat and bloated. Not a part of me, but its own thing, the surface dry and cracked—like the ground beneath a puddle after the sun comes out and bakes the once-quenched earth.

  “Will you get me some water,” I whisper, my voice sounding as dry and cracked as my tongue feels.

  He drops my foot and walks over to the sink. I watch in a haze as he searches for a cup. I begin slipping down the gurney again, but I don’t have the energy to try to pull myself up. I wonder why they make the surface of these things so slick. I curl around myself and let my eyes close. I can’t keep them open any longer.

  “So, what’re you saying?”

  My mom’s voice stirs me from my sleep. How long has she been here?

  Opening my eyes, I’m shocked to see the amount of people in the room. I sit up quickly, pushing up with my heels, and let out a frustrated sigh as my body slowly slides back down. I feel a hand on my shoulder and am relieved when I look up into the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. Harrison. I feel the flutter that happens every time our eyes connect. Then I remember my hair and that little flutter is replaced with sheer panic. I can’t believe he’s seeing me like this. I resist the urge to reach up and smooth it. Then he might know what I’m thinking, and I don’t want him to ever know what I’m thinking. He can never find out how I feel about him; it’d be the most humiliating thing ever.

  Wait a minute. Why is he here? I hope this doesn’t mean that I’m dying or something. How long was I asleep for? My eyes scan the room quickly. My mom is off to the left talking to a woman I’ve never seen before. Is she the doctor?

  “Do they know what’s wrong with me yet?” I croak, the words dry and desperate.

  Everyone in the room stops. It’s as if I’ve hit the pause button with my question. My mom’s eyes connect with mine and I see that hers are dark pools of sadness. Oh God, maybe I am dying. “Say something,” I urge. Their silence is more frightening than anything they could possibly say.

  The silver-haired woman in purple scrubs, who’s speaking with my mother, recovers first. She makes her way over to me, her eyes full of quiet reassurance. “Hello, Brice. I’m Dr. Buck. I understand that you’ve been feeling unwell.” She pauses for me to say something, but all I can do is shake my head in affirmation. “Your lab results indicate that you have a condition called type 1 diabetes. This means that your pancreas—a large gland that hangs out behind your stomach—isn’t producing insulin anymore.” What? The words float around the room, sounding like a foreign language. “Because your body quit making insulin, it caused a buildup of glucose, or sugar, in your blood. It’s this buildup of sugar in your blood that’s making you feel so weak.”

  “I don’t eat much sugar.” Why did I say that? Everyone in this room that’s known me for more than a day knows how much I love chocolate. But still, I don’t eat that much of it. “I thought only old people who eat poorly get diabetes. That’s what my friend, Jayden’s, mom said when there was a commercial on TV about it.”

  “That’s a very common misconception. Type 1 diabetes is much different than type 2. People with type 2 diabetes still produce insulin, it’s just that the insulin isn’t as productive,” she pauses to give me a reassuring smile. “With proper diet and exercise, this condition can be reversed, since their pancreas still produces insulin. Making these changes can result in better productivity of their insulin.” Her mouth drifts down, and my heart begins to race. “Type 1 diabetes is an autoimmune disease. The antibodies in your system attacked the islet cells that produce the insulin and destroyed them. You will have this for the rest of your life.”

  I try to listen, but my mind is racing as fast as my heart. “Forever? I’m going to have this forever?”

  She smiles again, and a wave of nausea hits me as she continues her speech. “The good news is, there are ways to treat it, and with some proper education, we can prepare you to treat it at home on your own. Right now, there is so much excess glucose in your bloodstream, you are suffering from a condition called diabetic ketoacidosis—what we call DKA. This means that several of the chemical components of your blood are out of range. This causes the anion gap to open. We need to get that back where it should be, and I suspect that once we do, you will be feeling remarkably better than you have in a long time.”

  “How do we treat it?” I ask, remembering the painful little poke to my finger. I run my thumb over the spot, wincing when I touch the little bruise.

  I see her face fill with sympathy, and I hate it. Whatever I need to do, I’ll do it, but I don’t want people looking at me like that. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. If this thing is going to be mine, then I’m going to own it. I must have changed the look on my face, because the sympathy she wore just moments ago has been replaced with a small, knowing smile.

  “You will need to do insulin injections twice a day and check your glucose before and after meals. We’re going to keep you here for several days. We’ll have someone teach you how to properly draw up your insulin dosage and do the injections. You will also meet with someone who will teach you about your new diet.”

  She looks like a mom or a grandma. Not someone who should be delivering this life-altering news. I’m glad people can’t hear our thoughts because mine are screaming right now.

  “But for now, our main focus is going to be getting that gap closed and getting you feeling better. There will be plenty of time to learn in the next few days,” she says, effectively ending the conversation. She walks back over to my mother, leaving me to process everything she’s just told me.

  I don’t know what to think about any of this. How is it possible to be completely full of questions, and yet, not be able to pluck one of them free? I have things I want to ask but no idea where to begin. Maybe once the DK whatever goes away, I’ll be able to think clearly enough to come up with a coherent sentence.

  5

  Nothing and Everything Has Changed

  I lie back, letting myself sink into my bed. I think out of everything, it’s what I missed the most this last week. It feels so good to have a moment to myself. At the hospital, it never really felt like I was alone. Because even when there wasn’t someone in the room with me,
I could hear them right down the hall—talking and laughing. Telling each other stories about everything from patients to boys.

  I reach up, grab a corner of my comforter, and pull it to my nose, slowly inhaling the scent of pure sunshine. I don’t know what it is that my mom does differently, but when she does my laundry, it always smells amazing. Sitting up, I take in the rest of my room. The old blue swivel chair that sits in the corner and always has at least ten sweaters tossed across it is completely clear of everything…except a new throw pillow that’s shaped like a flower and a big, fluffy, purple blanket draped across the back. It’s also new.

  I haven’t had help cleaning my room since I was seven, and that had been Jesse. He got so frustrated with me because I wouldn’t stop playing while he was trying to help me clean. I remember it like it was yesterday. He threw down my She-Ra doll and screamed, “Figure it out for yourself,” slamming the door on his way out. I walked straight up to that doll and picked her up. She was exactly who I needed to rescue Barbie from the evil teddy bear who was running away with her. I figured it out in my own way. My room may not have gotten clean, but my imagination was always well fed.

  I sort of feel like she invaded my space, coming in here and cleaning everything when I wasn’t home. But my bed smells so lovely, I guess it evens out. Plus, I know this is how she shows her love. And the new things look really nice—like the perfect spot for reading. I love to read—anything and everything. The weirder the better. I don’t want to read something predictable; I like things that surprise me. I’ve been really into Christopher Pike lately. His writing is really out there. There’s nothing I love better than going into Waldenbooks at the mall and picking out a new book.

  Just the thought of it gets me feeling excited. Maybe if I have enough leftover babysitting money, I can talk Jesse into taking me down there this afternoon. If Mom will let me leave. Freedom is a thing of the past. I crave the feeling I get running my hand over the perfectly aligned spines, each one a promise of a new adventure—an escape from my strange new reality.