Life, Uninterrupted, with Kerri
Follow Kerri as she proves there's more to life than diabetes.

“What is your blood sugar, Kerri?”

I didn’t want to look at her, because I knew she’d be mad. She wasn’t asking because she wanted to know, but because she already knew.

“Muhmm meigh meh,” I replied, keeping my eyes down in defiance.

“Say again, please?” I didn’t need to look at her to know that her hands were on her hips and her eyes were sharp with daggers.

“Two eighty five.”

When I was a young girl with diabetes, I wanted to do all of the right things. I really did. I tried to follow the rules that were set out by my endocrinologist and by my parents, but sometimes I made a conscious decision to screw up. I don’t know why. I really wanted to do all of the right things, but sometimes I simply didn’t.

And sometimes I was a jerk about it. 

My mother was furious at me that afternoon. I was about nine years old, and I remember the discussion distinctly. She found the cupcake wrappers in the garbage can in my room, and she made me test my blood sugar in front of her. 

“Did you eat those cupcakes, Kerri?”

Insolent, indignant little mess that I was, I lied, bold-faced, to my mother. 

“No! No, Mom, I definitely did NOT eat those cupcakes. I didn’t.” 

“Are you sure?” She had the wrappers in her hand at this point. I’m pretty sure I had a ring of chocolate around my mouth as I answered her. Oh, and let’s not forget that my blood sugar was ringing in at the edge of 300 mg/dL.

“I’m positive. I didn’t eat them.”

Even though I did. I clearly did. I remember eating them just moments before she came home from work. I’d had those cupcakes squirreled away since my ride home on the school bus, and I devoured them in secret, in my room.   I didn’t test first. I didn’t take an injection for them. I pretended, for five minutes, that my diabetes didn’t exist, but then spent the next hour being reminded that it did.

“What is your blood sugar, Kerri?”

I didn’t want to look at her, because I knew she’d be mad. She wasn’t asking because she wanted to know, but because she already knew.

“Muhmm meigh meh,” I replied, keeping my eyes down in defiance.

“Say again, please?” I didn’t need to look at her to know that her hands were on her hips and her eyes were sharp with daggers.

“Two eighty five.”

When I was a young girl with diabetes, I wanted to do all of the right things. I really did. I tried to follow the rules that were set out by my endocrinologist and by my parents, but sometimes I made a conscious decision to screw up. I don’t know why. I really wanted to do all of the right things, but sometimes I simply didn’t.

And sometimes I was a jerk about it. 

My mother was furious at me that afternoon. I was about nine years old, and I remember the discussion distinctly. She found the cupcake wrappers in the garbage can in my room, and she made me test my blood sugar in front of her. 

“Did you eat those cupcakes, Kerri?”

Insolent, indignant little mess that I was, I lied, bold-faced, to my mother. 

“No! No, Mom, I definitely did NOT eat those cupcakes. I didn’t.” 

“Are you sure?” She had the wrappers in her hand at this point. I’m pretty sure I had a ring of chocolate around my mouth as I answered her. Oh, and let’s not forget that my blood sugar was ringing in at the edge of 300 mg/dL.

“I’m positive. I didn’t eat them.”

Even though I did. I clearly did. I remember eating them just moments before she came home from work. I’d had those cupcakes squirreled away since my ride home on the school bus, and I devoured them in secret, in my room.   I didn’t test first. I didn’t take an injection for them. I pretended, for five minutes, that my diabetes didn’t exist, but then spent the next hour being reminded that it did.

My mom was mad – so mad – not because my blood sugar was high, or even that I ate the cupcakes. She was furious because I lied to her about it. And now, as an adult with a better understanding of diabetes and parenting and my mother, I realized how hard she worked to keep me healthy and safe. And how hard it was for her to calculate the right sliding-scale dose for all of my lies.

“We can figure out how to eat cupcakes, but you can’t lie. If you’re going to eat something like that, or you want to eat something like that, we can find the right insulin dose and then you’ll have cupcakes and not be 300. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“No more lying.”

“I won’t, Mom. And I’m sorry.”

She hugged me. I hugged her back. My mother always had my back, even when I was struggling to find the balance between the responsibility of diabetes and the influence of childhood immaturity.

Which is why, now twenty-three years later, I’ll finally admit the truth she already knew: Mom, I ate the cupcakes.   

Even though you knew, you knew … you always knew.