Tuesday, November 24, 2009


Last night as I got ready to give myself insulin, prick my finger and jump into bed, I paused. Before pressing the trigger to allow the sharp needle prick my finger I stopped. I really thought about what I had to do. Why I did it and how I felt about it?

It seems like everyday I do the same routine. I pull out my meter, a strip, I press the button and allow the needle to hit my finger tip and bleed. When it doesn't bleed enough, but I try it anyway, it tells me there is an error, I have to pick another finger and poke. Sometimes I have to milk my finger, massage it just to get enough blood. This is when my fingers go numb, they sting. I often get asked, "does it hurt?" I always say no.

My fingers are tough, marked with red dots. They are young but strong. Without testing there would be way to much guessing and I would eventually fall apart. My fingers are vital, they tell me truths and give me answers. My blood drips from these fingertips more than five times a day, by March 2010, at least 1825 times.

My fingers are more than pointers and ring holders, they are my life.


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