“My parents insist I marry a doctor.” she said.
I am well aware of the fact that her past relationship was with a decorated medical student in one of the premier universities in the country. I shook that thought out of my head. I understand the rational but my heart didn’t want to comprehend even a word.
“How much do you need per month for all this medication you have?” I asked, trying to steer away but not too far from the topic.
“It’s not just about the meds. I need to care of myself, all these needles, these tests.. they have made me mechanical” She clutched her bag and looked down.
Was there a cure for this? Are there different levels of this sickness? What about others? How come I never hear of this? Her sickness became pickings of my brain as did her beauty became my heart’s.
What did she mean by mechanical? did it all became a mundane routine for her? Does it not affect her anymore? It cannot be, her emotion flew when her mouth opened as she spoke the words she had long withdrawn. A sense of loss became security.
“Nawwar, you didn’t answer the question..” I slowly brought it back up.
“Some syringes last a few weeks, some come in packages of three, some in five.. I don’t know. Hundreds in a few months” She roughly guessed.
She was not the type who would ask. She would often just sit and listen but somehow this topic enlarged her expressed vocabulary. Did she not have anyone to talk to prior to this? I keep questioning and questioning. I didn’t want to ask her all this now, I’m still digesting all this myself and I’m not sure if I can receive more food for thought.
“Oh..” I couldn’t string a sentence.
She was graduating soon and I was still halfway into my tertiary studies. She was under a student loan and I am supported fully by my parents when it comes to academic expenses. Over supported, some might say. Economics or anything that involves the management of money is not my cup of tea, and right there and then I saw a future that I was scared of. I don’t even have change for toll!
“So, what actually is different about you, tell me?” I looked at her directly in the eye for a split second.
“I’m normal, really. You don’t have to worry. I just need to watch what I eat and be careful of my sugar levels.. Keep your eyes on the road.” She replied.
So many things to ask. What is a “high” and a “low” sugar level? Do I need to get her blood to test that? Can she feel all this going around in her body? I wonder how her blood runs, is it different from mine?
“I’ll learn.” I quietly said, trying to force a smile.
That discussion turned into an automated stroll in her small town. We shared and laughed. We talked about God, we talked about life. she returned back to her old self of appreciating few words and I was the one moved.
“Nawwar, your hands are shaking!” I panicked.
I thought it was only the vibrations from the hood of the can but when we stopped at the traffic light, but it was too abnormal to attribute it to that sole cause.
“Oh man, I’m just hypo.” She sighed.
“Sabar ya, kacak.” she took out a chocolate bar from a small compartment in her handbag.
For someone who is under hypoglycaemia, she’s awfully sweet and intensely calm. can I tell her not to eat the chocolate bar? In that moment of time I knew that not only do I know I love her, I wanted to love her.