Sugar and Tears

Ron delicately paced around the outskirts of his daughter’s bedroom, gently running his calloused fingers through the colorful doodles of cute blue dogs scattered across the top of her white dresser. He was keeping his distance, yet ears glued to the sound of his sobbing child, while his wife consoled Emily on her bed which was overflowing with Disney princess pillows and an impressive collection of stuffed animals. He loved his daughter more than life itself, but when it came to situations like these, he knew that his wife was better suited to help navigate the churning and changing waters of adolescence.

Staying close by to offer Emily a safe-haven of protection if she were to need it, he continued to admire his daughter’s impressive artwork and smiled at the strong imagination she was gifted with. Considering his own capacity for imagination began and ended with crude stick figures, his heart blossomed with pride at the thought of the beauty his daughter was going to contribute to the world.

A few more steps brought Ron to the bookcase. Its dark mahogany shell peaked at just over six feet, dwarfing Ron by a couple of inches, and vibrantly showcased a vast array of literary knowledge. Scanning over the color-coated spines, he took in names such as Maurice Sendak, Dr. Seuss, Mary Pope Osborne, Jules Verne, J.K. Rowling and Stephen King. His wife always fought him on allowing Emily to read anything written by the King of Horror. She thought she was too young and not yet mentally prepared to read such terrible and violent words. Ron however always won the arguments by explaining how a visceral education of fiction as well as non-fiction was healthy for her imagination. Especially now that Emily was only a few months away from becoming a teenager, Ron saw that it was critical for Emily to understand that the world she was about to enter, the world she had spent twelve amazing years in, was not as safe nor kind as it seemed. Betsey despised his reasoning, but Emily’s talents at drawing and writing were too spectacular to do anything that may hinder their evolution. She also understood the importance of allowing her child to grow up in a natural progression of self-enlightenment. So she gritted her teeth, contributed to the cause, and Emily's collection of mystery, horror, and thrilling suspense quickly grew to commandeer two out of the five bookshelves.

Keeling down to the bottom shelf, Ron danced the tip of his pointer finger across the spines until he used that same finger to pluck out a thin book with a bright blue and yellow spine. The author was not as famous as the others, and its pages told no stories of nightmares or creatures that lurked in the dark. It was called Moon Dog, and it told the story of a goofy golden retriever that became Earth’s first canine astronaut. It was filled with wildly uplifting adventures set in incredible locations across the stars, teaching its young readers about the importance of embracing impossibilities and the bond between human and dog. It was one of Emily’s all time favorites. The deep creases in the spine proved it. She also really wanted to get a dog, specifically a red golden retriever like the one in her book, but her parents always said that they didn’t have enough space for a dog. Emily knew that their backyard wasn’t the biggest in the neighborhood, but it was a yard nonetheless. And it wasn’t about space for Emily. It was about the bond. Love. Going on adventures. You didn't need a yard for that. All you needed was a leash and a pouch filled with treats. Unfortunately, her logical argument had failed numerous times to win over her parents, but she was taught by her books to embrace impossibility and persevere. And that was exactly what she was going to do.

Using his thumb to flip through the pages, allowing the detailed sketches to momentarily transport him to an alien planet in a distant galaxy, his daughter cried out to him from across the room.

“Dad?”

Ron was jolted back to planet Earth, and swung around on his heels. Gently closing the book, making sure not to crumple any of the priceless pages, he approached his daughter’s bed and sat down at the foot of the mattress beside his wife. “Yes sweetie?”

Wiping tears away from her eyes with the backside of her hands, Emily whimpered out her important message. “Mom said we could get a dog.”

Ron looked at Betsey, who was smiling and quietly giggling and desperately trying not to make eye contact with her steadfast husband, then resumed his gaze upon his daughter.

“She also said we could watch Matilda tonight and bake chocolate chip cookies after dinner.”

Knowing that he needed to proceed cautiously, plus the fact that he was outnumbered two to one, and that it was a Saturday night, he focused in on the cookies. Tabling the dog discussion for later. “Why stop at just chocolate chip? How about we throw in some oatmeal raisin and macadamia?” Ron closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and rubbed his stomach to intensify the craving.

Emily laughed in disgust and frowned at the thought of herself chewing on a bland oatmeal raisin cookie. “You’re the only one who likes oatmeal raisin, dad. They’re gross.”

“Only one?” Ron said, lifting himself up off her bed while placing both of his hands onto his waist, imitating the pose of a superhero. “If I am the only one who still enjoys oatmeal raisin, then the world is in much greater danger than I thought.”

Ron paused for dramatic effect, staring far off beyond the window. Waiting to hear more giggles, he only received awkward glances and embarrassed stares.

“Why is he so weird?” Emily asked.

“I’ve been trying to figure that out for years,” Betsey said.

Ron put his hands down and tiptoed over to his daughter’s side. He leaned in, kissed her on the forehead, and whispered. “Weird is what makes your father a superhero.”

“Superheroes don’t eat oatmeal raisin cookies. Or macadamia,” Emily said.

Ron looked at his wife. “Come on, Bets. Help me out here.”

“Superheroes definitely don’t eat oatmeal raisin,” Betsey said, “But I did read somewhere that a few do enjoy a macadamia cookie from time to time.”

Ron noticed the sly wink and understood the assignment. He had his orders. Chocolate chip for Emily and Macadamia for his wife. He would spare them both the tragedy of filling the house with the aroma of warm oats and raisins and buy himself a private container the next time he went grocery shopping. He knew he was no longer needed so he made his exit. Before stepping out of the pink and purple bed chamber, he turned back and addressed the elephant in the room. “As for the dog. Your mother and I will discuss it later.”

Ron’s response to his daughter’s emotional decree was vague and open-ended, but it had enough power to plaster a massive smile across Emily’s reddened cheeks. Whether they would actually agree and get a dog or not, seeing his daughter’s face light up with so much joy consumed his heart with warmth. It was an anxious feeling that began making the hard decision to get a dog unavoidable.

Ron slightly closed Emily’s bedroom door, listening to his wife dive back into the adolescent conversation, walked down the hallway lined with framed paintings of various locations throughout the Mediterranean, then descended the staircase. He entered the kitchen, admiring the newly installed wood cabinets and marble countertops, and began prepping the rectangular table in the center of the room with all the necessary baking supplies.

Whistling a Taylor Swift song, Ron rummaged through the pantry and refrigerator and retrieved the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, vanilla bean extract, chocolate chips, macadamia nuts, and eggs. The recipes also required milk and butter but to keep them from going bad, he left them in the refrigerator until their assistance was needed. Satisfied with his baking station, he exited the kitchen and headed towards his office.

Sinking into his brown leather computer chair, he fidgeted the mouse to the desktop computer and entered in the date of his daughter’s birthday followed by the date of his wedding anniversary. Pinging to life, the screen unlocked and he double clicked the mail icon. As it loaded, his eyes wandered towards the bay windows behind the monitor and he took a moment to cherish the sight of a young hummingbird harvesting nectar from the honeysuckle he planted himself in raised planter boxes along their back deck.

Zipping away with a belly full of food, Ron returned his attention to the screen before him. Scrolling through the bundle of new emails, he clicked and opened the one he and Betsey had been waiting for.

The email was from a Dr. Jang and it was addressed to both he and his wife with a few other doctors CC’d. The subject line read: Emily Eleanor Powers - Blood Work Results. Ron hesitated. Mulling over the numerous possible positive and negative outcomes that were about to be revealed to him, he hovered the arrowhead cursor over the blue link in the body of the email.

For the past few months, Emily had begun complaining about how annoyingly tired she was. Even after getting a full nine hours of beauty rest, she still struggled to stay awake during her waking hours. She even fell asleep at the dinner table a few times. Her other symptoms included unexpected weight loss, cramping, headaches, and constant thirst. Ron had thought little of it, considering her highly active lifestyle of softball, dance, and cross-country. It was amazing that she somehow managed to still find time to create art during the gaps within her hectic schedule. So it was easy for Ron to attribute her symptoms as being a direct bodily response to the abuse she was giving it on a daily basis.

Betsey was easily swayed to agree with her husband, and tried to convince Emily to step away from softball for the summer to allow herself to heal. She was pushing her mind, soul, and body to their limits, and Betsey knew how dangerous that could be. She only decided to start playing because her best friend Leah talked her into it. The two of them were inseparable, and at times appeared to literally be fused at the hip. Volleyball was Emily’s sport. She was great at it and she knew it. Betsey had no doubts that if her daughter kept up at softball, she could one day play in the Olympics and win Gold for the USA. Softball was fun, but it was a distraction. Betsey didn’t know it yet, but Emily actually listened to her mother’s advice, picturing herself holding the heavy gold medal while standing at the top of a podium, and skipped out on softball tryouts.

The chain of events that brought Emily in to see her PCP happened after she woke up four nights in a row with multiple numb fingers. Being a strict back sleeper, and never waking up with her hands wedged beneath the weight of her body, Emily was sure that she was not sleeping in compromising positions to cause the numbness. Then on the fifth day, she got her period. Betsey knew something strange was going on because the timing was all wrong for such things to be happening.

So with all of her various symptoms causing anxiety between her parents, and the fact that Emily was closing in on thirteen, and that her body was undergoing some serious internal and external changes, her PCP wanted to do a blood test. It was the mere idea of there being something medically wrong with his daughter that crippled Ron more than anything.

Unable to avoid the inevitable, he clicked the blue link.

Diverting his browser to a separate tab, his daughter's MyChart profile consumed the screen. He quickly punched in his log in information and was soon staring at graphs, charts, and numerous lines of medical terminology. Scanning through the information, he found what he was looking for. Opening the page labeled, Blood Work, Ron held his breath as the data loaded.

Tuning out the world around him as he studied the charts and compared the numbers, he did not hear his wife enter the room nor call out his name. It wasn’t until her palm pressed against his left sweating shoulder that he finally acknowledged her presence. “I’m sorry Bets.”

“What’s going on?” Betsey asked, “You’re turning pale and your skin is clammy. Are you sick?”

Realizing how rough he must have looked and not wanting to frighten his wife anymore than she was about to be, he tried to compose himself by wiping away the sweat from his face with the bottom of his shirt. “The doctor emailed us back.”

Betsey averted her eyes to the screen, “Is that Emily’s MyChart?”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t expecting her results so quickly.”

As she mumbled the words to herself while reading through the intricate page of data, Ron noticed that she had fallen silent and still. He knew that she had finally stumbled across the same anomalies and abnormalities that he had.

“Those can’t be right,” Betsey said, “Look at her A1C. Normal range is between 4-6%, Hers is 10.1%. And her Triglycerides are off the charts.”

“They are, Bets. Here, read the rest of the email from Dr. Jang. She suggests scheduling an appointment with a lipid specialist.”

Betsey’s eyes read the words, her brain processed the sentences, and yet her heart refused to accept them. Something had to be wrong. Maybe they made a mistake and sent over the wrong patient's results. But she kept reading and was quickly reassured by the multiple doctors that these results were in fact accurate and they belonged to her daughter.

Ron minimized the ominous browser and opened a fresh google search page. He typed in the results of Emily’s bloodwork, as well as why she would be suffering from such abnormal cellular behavior, and after numerous searches and article skimming, he and Betsey kept noticing a common denominator.

Type1 Diabetes.

“How is this possible, Ron? She’s only twelve and has a healthy and active lifestyle.”

“I don’t know, but I think we should call Dr. Jang’s office right away and discuss this further with her.”

Betsey nodded in confused agreement, then stumbled over to the windows and watched as the juvenile hummingbird returned to the honeysuckle with its mother and began harvesting more nectar. “I don’t believe it.”

Ron rose from the chair and hugged his wife from behind, passionately latching his broad arms around her chest. Holding her tightly in a secure embrace of protection, as he’s done so many times before, he spoke softly as they both watched the small birds through teary eyes. “We will figure this out. We need to be strong for Emily. Stronger than we’ve ever been before. Her entire world is about to change. She needs to know that she has our unconditional support.”

Betsey slowly rotated within the clutches of her husband's arms and looked deep into his hazel eyes. “Her life did change forever. She’s becoming a woman, Ron. And she’s about to enter the dangerous world of adolescence. She can’t have diabetes. Not now.”

Ron didn’t know what to say, so he did the only thing he could. He pulled his wife deep into his chest and kissed the top of her head for six long seconds. As he transferred her stress and anxiety into his own body, the echo of Emily’s hungry footsteps skipping down the upstairs hall chilled them both. As she descended the stairs, Ron and Betsey wiped away each other's eyes and practiced their smiles.

They both knew that they needed to tell her, but the bad news as well as the phone call to the pediatrician could wait for now. At least until the morning. Dinner, Matilda, and baking cookies were the only things that mattered. The only difference now was that these batches were going to require a little less sugar than originally projected.

Hearing Emily dance and sing Sabrina Carpenter’s newest song, Ron closed out the browser on the computer, took his wife’s hand, and kissed it long and hard. Without speaking a single word, she knew what her husband was saying to her. Allowing her hand to slip free, Betsey exited the office and joined their daughter in the kitchen. Ron pulled out the brown leather computer chair from behind the desk, and turned it to face the blindness windows. He sat down, watched the hummingbirds harvest another petal, then dialed the pediatrician's phone number.