“It will be a couple of days until the test results come in,” Dr. Mangigian continued. “And if that is the case, we’ll start you on treatments. With diet, exercise, and proper insulin intake, diabetes is totally manageable.”
I didn’t really do “managing” when it came to my body. As long as it let me fit into my jeans and have orgasms and sleep every once in a while, I let it do its thing. But hypoglycemic? Pancreas? I couldn’t even point to my pancreas. All this time, I thought my gut was my friend, and instead it was trying to kill me. “Any needles?”
The doctor laughed. Mom and I didn’t. “Occasionally. You may just have to monitor. And as I said, we still don’t know.”
“But it’s diabetes. That’s likely what it is?” Mom asked, her voice faint.
The doctor nodded. Mom squeezed my hand.
“The nurse will be back in to check on you and get your insurance information, and we’ll go from there.”
My throat seized. I didn’t have insurance. My true form. I was so stupid. “I might have to pay out of pocket.”
Mom sighed. “Just have the nurse give me the paperwork. I’ll cover this.”
I sat up in the bed, still dizzy. “No, Mom.”
“It’s okay, Cass. You’re not insured. What other option do we have?”
“No!” She still cut coupons. She was still paying off her leased Corolla on janitorial wages. She couldn’t afford an ambulance and an emergency room visit any more than I could. “No,” I repeated.
The doctor cleared her throat. “I’ll give you a minute.” She left.
“I’ve got the money,” I said to the ceiling. I wondered if Mom could tell I was lying. There was my final paycheck from the firm, and the money from tonight’s gig, but my share wouldn’t be nearly enough. It was supposed to go toward a studio session anyway. I lay back and closed my eyes. My insides were boiling. My body ran me now. As the tears rolled down, I could feel Mom reach over and wipe them away.
