High Carb

I am sick of thinking about carbohydrates, but they are always thinking of me. I cannot leave them bereft under my balcony, voices cracking. We have known each other too long.

They are thinking of me in the pediatric unit, where I am diagnosed with type 1 diabetes at age nine. The pediatric unit is the only place you can find half cans of Diet Dr. Phabulous. This will be the first of many “free foods.” The endocrinologist releases me to consume all the cucumbers I desire, even the briny scamps who fraternize with sandwiches. Remember the law of pickles: yes to dill, no to bread-and-butter. I may command a sovereign nation of cabbage shreds and No Sugar Added gelatins. “NSA” is my visa everywhere. Carbohydrates come to me in dreams of gingersnaps past. They apply for asylum in my pocket. They remind me that 15 of them will revive me in the event of hypoglycemia. I carry Life Savers. The gummy ones go down easily but do not work as fast, due to some old treaty between the carbohydrates and the gelatins.

They are thinking of me at birthday parties. By age 10, I am steady en pointe, eyes fixed on the celebrant and not the fondant. I smile so wide at the cake eaters, my cheekbones ache. I thank the teacher for remembering diet cola. No one else drinks NSA. She pulls out the same two-liter bottle all year, so by October, its bubbles have abdicated. From the playground, carbohydrates press their mouths to the window. They look like my pet catfish, stuck on “oh.” I turn back to the birthday child and smile while he eats the first letter of his own name.

They are thinking of me at Jesus’s party. I glue googly eyes on candy canes and suspend them from evergreen branches. My mother takes me to Lord and Taylor for a Christmas sweater every year, because carbohydrates cannot see red. They are not sure if it is me, disguised in wool angels. I blow my cover after dinner. My nose wrinkles. I do not like the smell of coffee. It prophesizes of pies and Italian nougat. I pass them counterclockwise. My cousins’ Isles of Langerhans have never experienced a hurricane. I am the only type 1 diabetic in our line. We have researched unto the ends of the twigs.

They are thinking of me when my mother prays for guidance. Carbohydrates conscript other mothers for campaign ads. Their children eat all things. They “cover it” with insulin, a mercy seat wide enough for strudel. They count carbohydrates, and the book of numbers reads easy. We try. We massage algebra into pizza. I wake remembering how it yielded to my front teeth. I wake under siege. My blood glucose is 500. It is not worth garlic knots. Another mother reports that her daughter promised to scrape the icing off the cake. She came home over 800. Once you open the door, carbohydrates do not stay in the foyer. My mother knows better than to even wave at them out the window. She commands almond flour into dough and leans her full weight into cookie cutters shaped like elves and aliens. I label my tin “NO SUGAR ADDED” so the cousins don’t eat my aliens on the way to their pies.

They are thinking of me when I think I have outrun them. Fifteen years of free foods deposits me in divinity school. The teaching assistant in Systematic Theology wears a red T-shirt reading, “I Love Carbs.” Sourdough stands in for liberation. Carbohydrates corner me at chapel and ask if anyone remembers how much Mary Magdalene weighed. The choir director brings apples from his own orchard. I am running high and say no. He asks if I am one of those Keto dieters. He thought insulin pumps made dietary restrictions obsolete. He has been talking to the carbohydrates. I repeat my practiced press release. “I have a complicated relationship with food.” It is at least 49 percent of the reason I am in seminary. Don’t quote me, because I am bad at math. He gives me the solo in Just As I Am. The carbohydrates tell me it’s a pity thing. I tell them to hold my Dr. Phabulous. I have a hymn to sing.