The sweet sharp smell
of rubbing alcohol
no longer evokes
doctors' offices and hospitals --
the little square swabs
have become as much a part
of our landscape
as cheerios and baby wipes.
Some things I've stopped calculating:
the shots . . . twice a day times
a year and more . . .
the finger-pricks
that leave the swabs bloodstained
multiplying til I'm dizzy.
We've filled as many
gallon juice jugs
with your medical-sharps-waste
to match your three years.
Other math must still be done daily:
correction factors . . .
Insulin-to-carb ratios --
I wish I could as easily
divide your pain
your disappointment.
Even the small hurts
I'd make smaller.
I prick and you flinch.
And I want to flinch.
Let the diabetes win for one day
as I stop playing pancreas
so I don't have to be the one
to do the math
find the magic number
balancing your life one meal at a time.
Needle poised before
your perfect, round, toddler belly:
"We're turning your tummy
into swiss cheese" I joke.
You laugh and I poke.
This one didn't hurt -- too much --
but still my mind is racing
doing the math
dividing
Divide.
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