Leah walks past her mother and gets the vial of insulin out of the refrigerator. After she draws the right number of units, her mother lifts her shirt and Leah makes the injection into a small roll of pinched fat on her stomach right between two small bruises. “You could do this yourself,” she says. “You ought to. They showed you how.”
Seeing the number in front of me was, I suppose, another moment where I had to accept a truth. Then, if that weren’t enough confirmation already, the nurse left the room and in a little while the doctor came barging in the door and said unceremoniously, “Yep, you’re diabetic.”