Today I’m supposed to write about a time I lashed out at someone because of frustration from my diabetes. Although I’m sure I did my share of lashing out as an adolescent, I don’t remember it being about diabetes. The one thing I would take back, however, is the time I told my grandfather that I didn’t want him to give me my shot.
My grandfather loved to give me my insulin injections. He would tell me about how he gave his three daughters (my mother and two aunts) their allergy shots when they were kids. He would pinch my arm with gusto and poke the needle in fast. It made him feel important – like he had a role in my health. Even though we never really talked about my diabetes, he always had a sugar-free chocolate bar for me and some diet soda in the basement refrigerator. He cared in an unspoken way.
At some point I hit an age where I just had to be completely independent (in EVERYTHING). And that one day, when Grandpa went to give me shot, I told him no. He tried to act like it didn’t bother him, but I could tell he was hurt. And I would take that back if I could. I would let him give me my shot every day if I could. In fact, I don’t know if he ever gave me my shot again after that. That is definitely something I regret.