Monkey

The little monkey stared back at me as if I was evil incarnate. Well, I guess from his point of view, I sort of was. I mean, I was the one jabbing his thigh with some painful pointed object. And I was the one holding him down, and I was the one that had procured him in the first place.

"Don't worry, little guy," I crooned under my breath. "This won't hurt for very long. Its only a little poke, and then you're free."

I winced a little at that. He wouldn't really be free, just...free of the needle. He would be returned to his cage, and watched carefully over the next three days. As always, I felt guilty poking and prodding a small defenseless creature. But I rationalized it, as all scientists do, I suppose. It was for the good of science, of medicine, of lots of things. I had been doing this several years now, and I knew all the lines. They never worked, though. I always felt a pang when I introduced some disease or antibiotic or foreign substance into a small body. Its not like the animal could TELL me that what I was doing hurt, or made it ill, or whatever reaction I ‘hoped’ for. Honestly, all I hoped for were answers.

"Come on, little guy, respond to this medication. Please respond to it." I realized that my plea was more of a prayer. My team and I had caused a diabetic reaction in him earlier that day, and I was hoping against hope that his body would give us the answer we sought. Well, for that matter, I would settle for AN answer, not THE answer. Any answer, any key to this puzzle we worked on day in and day out. Anything that would help us move forward. Anything.

I straightened up and released George, watching him scamper into the relative safety of his cage. I dimly heard the phone ring in the office, but was too absorbed to pay it much attention. Until the intercom buzzed, and Stella's disembodied voice echoed through the room. The urgency was apparent to all of us.

"Doc, its the school. Joey is low. Dangerously low. I told them he needs to start with a juice, and that you were on your way."

I don't remember changing out of my lab clothes as I raced to the school. While most of my mind was occupied with my seven-year-old son, I couldn't help but wonder...and pray some more....that George was doing his job, and that soon we would have more answers to this threat we lived with constantly.

Juvenile diabetes was a fickle mistress, as was proven day in and day out as I watched Joey fight battles no child should ever have to. My mind and heart ached for him, wishing I could protect him from this unseen aggressor. Always wondering if there was more I could be doing. He was my hero, this small child. The things he suffered on a daily basis would make grown men squirm. And yet, for the most part, Joey was a normal kid, doing kid-things and enjoying life. Even when diabetes tried to up the ante, Joey was his cheerful and loving self. It was as if he dared the disease to rear its head, knowing that he would beat it in the end. If I had only part of the courage my young son did, nothing would ever bother me.