Essays

The other night Miles, my 7 year old, was rummaging through our junk drawer looking for spare change. He has a piggy bank and is saving money for Gormitis, his latest obsession, and knows his dad frequently drops change into this drawer. The drawer is a mess, full of pencils, coupons, keys, change, small toys, batteries and diabetes supplies. the drawer opens out of the island in the center of the kitchen where the boys sit to eat. On top of the island is where I keep my “shot bag,” a small zippered bag that contains my blood testing machine, strips and lipstick (for fun). So I keep my syringes and test strips in the junk drawer because it is easily accessible. It’s never been a problem until now.

Miles is a curious boy, I should establish that first. He is a day dreamer and a talker and has a vivid imagination and while he was rummaging through the drawer, he picked up the bag of syringes and began to mess with them. It didn’t take long before he figured out how to take the top off the syringe. Meanwhile, the rest of us were in the livingroom watching tv and reading the paper. Suddenly I heard a yelp from the kitchen. Miles had stabbed himself in the finger with my syringe.