The Offer(15)

He goes on, “And what she’s going through right now could be diabetic ketoacidosis. Do you know what ketones are, Ms. Price?”

“The stuff your body produces too much of when you’re on the Atkins Diet,” Steph fills in.

He raises a brow. “Yes. We’re going to have to take a urine test to look at her levels and for now we’ve got the IV full of electrolytes to rehydrate and stabilize her. But we may need to give her an insulin injection. And if we do, you’re going to have to give her injections every day for the rest of her life.”

I can’t breathe. Diabetes? “But no one in my family has it,” I blurt out. “She’s always eaten so well. There must be some mistake.”

“We’ll know for sure soon,” he says. “But type 1 has nothing to do with diet or history, not always. Her pancreas just doesn’t produce enough insulin. Just sit tight and I’ll be back.”

I don’t know how long he’s gone for. Ava is still breathing hard, though her eyes are closed. I keep talking to her to make sure she’s awake but she’s just too tired. The nurse assures me that her vitals are doing a bit better and she’s not in danger anymore, that we brought her in right on time. But still, panic and guilt weighs down on me like a damp, dark cloud.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I’m aware that Steph is here with me, dolled up to the nines and she’s missing her husband’s birthday party. But I’m also afraid to tell her she should go, afraid that she will, that I’ll be alone.

So I don’t say anything and she stays right by my side.

The night stretches on and on. The doctor comes back.

It’s bad news.





CHAPTER THREE


Nicola





Ava has Type 1 juvenile diabetes. It takes a moment to sink in and even though there is some relief that there is a name for what’s wrong with her, I realize that this damn name – diabetes – has a world of connotations.

A disease.

No cure.

My little girl.

Suddenly I’m filled with so much rage with my current doctor that he never suspected, that he never had her tested.

“She’s quite young,” the doctor says, catching the fire on my face. “Usually it happens from around eight to ten years old. She’s going to be fine and live a long healthy life as long as she gets her shots.”

“And how much do those cost?” I can’t believe I’m blurting that out.

He rubs his forehead. “If you aren’t insured, it’s about $300 for a month’s supply. That’s for the insulin. You’ll also need needles, an insulin pen when you’re on the go, and a blood sugar monitor.”

I can’t even fathom what the hospital bill is going to cost me, let alone $300 a month to keep Ava alive. Obviously there is no alternative – I’ll pay it. But I don’t know how, and that, that scares me more than anything.

Steph has her arm around me and she’s saying words of comfort, telling me she’ll help, but I could never let her do that. I can’t even comprehend anything right now.

The doctor injects Ava with insulin on her stomach, showing me how to do it. I force myself to concentrate, to break through the fog and pay attention. Ava doesn’t seem to notice, she just squirms a little but still appears to be asleep. Steph pays attention too, telling me she might have to do it one day if I can’t.

And then, maybe out of the kindness of his jaded heart, the doctor puts a vial of insulin and a package of needles into my hands and tells me this will do her well for a month. He also writes Ava a prescription and tells me I still need a monitor but he quickly shows me with the one he has how to use it to make sure her levels are normal. He adds that I can have a nurse or a diabetes educator to show me again how to do it all when we’re later settled at home, plus help with overhauling her diet.

It’s a lot to take in and I’m not sure how much that I do. I know I have to see Ava’s doctor and give him a piece of my mind and hope that he can explain again just what the hell I have to do.

Ava is kept under observation for a few more hours. Time goes slow under the night sky and especially under the glow of a hospital’s fluorescent lights.

Ava is starting to look like her healthy self, though. She’s still sleeping but her skin is a normal color and her breathing is normal. The nurse tells me she can go home with me in another hour.

I look at Steph who seems almost white with fatigue.

“Please go home,” I tell her. “I love you so much for being here, but I’ve got it now.”

She gives me a soft smile. “Okay. But only with your honest blessing.”

“It’s honest,” I tell her. “And tell Linden I’m sorry.”