Never Been Loved(10)

He grabs my hand and squeezes my palm. I squeeze back, hating myself that I’ve treated him so badly these last three years. I don’t know how else to be.

“And I’m s’posed to say: ‘in-su-lin de-pen-dent di-uh-be-tic’, right?”

“Exactly, buddy.”

Quiet, then, “Can I have a bubble gum because I remembered?”

Don’t I feel like I’m giving a puppy a treat. I clear my throat and ignore the incessant buzzing of my phone after I strap him into the car and drive out of the indoor parking lot. “Sure thing.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

Daddy. Dad. I don’t deserve the title. I really don’t.

“Daddy, where are we going?”

I strangle the steering wheel and my knuckles crack. I hate this. Matty has a fucking phobia when it comes to hospitals and doctors. He doesn’t like how they poke and prod at him, no matter how much I explain that it’s all for his own good. My chest burns like someone’s taken a blowtorch to it, or decided to set up shop welding muscle and bone together.

“We’re going to see Dr. Saunders, Matty. After we’re done that, I’ll get you five bubble gums, all right?”

No use. He starts wailing like I’ve gone and told him he’s going to die tomorrow. Settling into a very noisy drive, I fiddle with the radio, hoping to find something to soothe him. Nothing helps, and after half an hour, I’m ready to beg someone for a gun so I can blow my brains out.

After parking, I go to unbuckle his car seat, get a few sucker-punches from feet and hands as Matty tries not to leave the car like his life depends on it. I have to tickle his ribs to get him to let go of the door frame, and haul him over my shoulder like he’s a water barrel instead of a four-year-old kid.

“Daddy, please! Please! I don’t want to go! I’ll be good, I’ll be good!” Enough to crack even my black heart wide open. I close my arms around his body, feeling his little one fight off the shakes like he’s a junkie going through withdrawal.

“You’re going to be fine. I promise. We’re just going to see the doctor and everything will be all right.”

“I don’t want to go away. I don’t want to!” He howls into my chest, and the sound is so awful, I want to drop him and run away from the noise.

“I’m going to be with you the whole time, kid. I promise. Just stop making yourself sick,” I say, but he doesn’t hear me. He keeps crying, clawing into my hoodie and shirt like he wants to get inside my body and hide from whatever evil the hospital holds for him.

After checking in, I fight a forty minute battle trying to get him to calm down. A spastic four-year-old who does not want to be where you need him to be is a tough thing to control. Especially with all the other mothers in attendance that seem to know exactly what they’re doing as they sit there, casting judgements on me for my shit parenting skills.

I’d flip them all off if I didn’t need two hands to restrain Matty in my arms and keep him from bolting.

He doesn’t stop crying the whole time, only picking up his hysteria as we walk into the examination room. The walls are sterile white, and I heft him up onto the bench covered with the requisite paper sheet. Classy.

Doctor Saunders is a sweetheart, and she doesn’t look at me like I don’t know what I’m doing, even though we both know it’s true. Her eyes are compassionate and understanding.

“Matty! How are you today?” Doc Saunders is in her late fifties with strawberry blonde hair that I’m sure is dyed, and she’s as tall as I am. She could kick my ass if my sugar was low enough, and I try to take the hit to my ego like a man.

Matty sniffles, and hyperventilates, looking at me with accusation in his eyes. I feel like a shit already, kid, don’t need to add any more, thanks.

“I don’t want to be h- here...”

“I know, sweetie, but let’s get this quick and over with, okay?” Doc Saunders says and manages to calm him down enough with her magic touch that she gets what she wants from him, and goes through her routine.

I watch without seeing, the fuzziness in my brain pissing me off and making my heart stumble in its beats. Sugar’s going down. Awesome. Stuffing my hand in my pocket, I open a toffee and stick it in my mouth, sucking on the sugar and hoping I’ll be all right sometime soon.

“And you? How are you, Hunter?”

Busted. I swallow some toffee-flavoured saliva, and try to get my head in the game. She was asking me a question. Simple enough. “I’ve been better. And you?” I don’t really give a fuck how she’s doing, but manners are manners.

“I’m really good, thank you. Now, Matty here is doing well. How are his sugars doing?”