Running on Insulin

Chapter 16

Samantha struggled to dose herself appropriately at lunch, but she did it. We coaxed her to set her pen to the right dose and reassured her it would be fine.

After lunch we drove to the therapist's office. Jenna said she'd go grab a coffee or something, asked Samantha if there was anything she needed at home that we didn't have, because she was going to get some groceries since we didn't have juice boxes and Samantha had mentioned they were good in case she went low at night.

Samantha asked for some diet sodas to have and sweetener if we didn't have much. Turns out the kid is as much a caffeine addict as we are.

I went into the office with Samantha and got her registered.

When the doctor came out and called her name, she clung to me.

"I'm sure this is unusual," I said, "but Samantha is really nervous about therapy. I've tried to reassure her that I'll be right here waiting, but would it be alright if I came in?  I won't say a word. I just want to make the experience a positive one for her," I said.

"It is unusual, but, I've read over what the hospital sent over and I'm alright with you coming in as long as you remain quiet," he turned to Samantha.  "Samantha, I don't usually allow parents in with my patients, and I'm making this exception for you. I want this to work for you, too. So we'll try it. But, just this one time, okay? And I promise, nothing you say in my office can be told to anyone without your permission unless I'm worried about your physical safety or the safety of others around you, okay?"

Samantha nodded, but had practically attached herself to me. I led her into the doctor's office. It wasn't what I was expecting. There were bean bag chairs and a really fluffy couch. There were shelves of toys and on a coffee table by the bean bag chairs, a chess set was set up.

"Samantha," the doctor said. "My name is Doctor David Freud. No relation to Sigmund. I checked. You can call me Dr David, Dr. Dave, Dr. Freud, Dave or Doc. Just don't call me late for dinner.  Now, you can choose where you want to sit. We've got the bean bags or the couch. Or the floor, if you'd like. If you like chess, we can play while we talk. Sometimes it's easier to talk when you have something else working your mind.

It's up to you."

Samantha pulled me over to the couch and made me sit down then sat down tightly beside me. She was sort of hiding behind me. I tried to remain part of the furniture. She had her arms wrapped around my left arm and was clinging on to me like her life depended on it.

"So, Samantha," the doctor said, pulling up a cozy looking chair. "I understand you've had quite a few days. My first question is, which I think I already know the answer to anyway, now that you're living with your foster parents, do you feel safer with them?"

Samantha looked up at me then at the doctor and nodded.

"Good. That's important. My goal here is to make sure you feel safe, both here and wherever you're hanging your hat.

Now. From what I've learned, you're diabetic, right?"

I felt her nod.

"And your dad was making you ration your medications, which caused some complications?"

Another nod.

"Okay. You're doing great. The doctors at the hospital told me you are having trouble properly dosing now because of the years your dad would not let you dose properly. What happened if you correctly dosed when you were with you dad?"

Samantha didn't speak. She looked at me and with her eyes. Pleaded for me to answer.

"I can't answer for you, Samantha," I said. "I know it's painful to discuss, but I'm just a piece of the furniture. You have to do the talking."

"Precisely. Thank you, Mr. Joseph," Doc said. "Samantha, I'm alright with your foster dad being in here with you, and he clearly understands the rules. But you need to be the one to answer. And if you don't want to talk, that's okay. I can ask you yes or no questions and you can answer that way.

Remember, I want you to be comfortable here. I won't force you to speak until you're comfortable doing so. But I do hope you'll speak. And I will ask that you at least answer with yes or no - verbally or not - until you're ready to use your voice, okay?"

Samantha nodded. My heart hurt for her. This was clearly harder for her than we'd realized it would be. I just hope she'll eventually be able to speak to the doctor without me in the room soon. Because she needs that kind of trust and outlet for things she might not be comfortable discussing with Jenna and I.

"So, what would happen if you used the right amount of insulin?" The doctor asked again.

Silence.

"Would he punish you?"

A nod.

"How would he punish you?"

Silence.

"Would he hit you?"

Nod.

"Has he ever hit you so that you wound up in the hospital?"

A nod.

"Has he ever done anything other than hit you?"

Silence. I wasn't sure what the doctor was asking, but I thought I knew.

"Samantha?  Has your father ever done anything besides hit you?  Has he ever done anything sexual towards you?"

She shook her head.

"He only ever hit me. Sometimes with a belt," she said, in a very small and quiet voice.

"Okay. Thank you for that. You're doing great.  You're very brave," the doctor said. "Why would your dad hit you?  I mean, what was the main reason?"

"Because I exist," she said. "And I'm expensive."

"What do you mean by that?"

Samantha took a deep, shaking breath.

"After my mom died, I got diagnosed with diabetes. My dad said it was my fault my mom died and my punishment was getting diabetes. And that diabetes medicines are expensive and now that my mom is gone I'm costing him that much more because I got diabetes and I'd better make my medicines last because they're expensive. If I used too much insulin, he'd hit me. If I had to go to the hospital, he'd hit me when the bill came. If I used too many test strips, he beat me. He took my monitor away at night and only let me test at lunch time and bed time. Never in the morning and never after I went to bed."

I was trying to keep it together. But hearing this was breaking my heart.

"Okay, that's great. You're doing great. How old were you when your mom passed?"

"Ten," Samantha said.

"How did she die?"

"She was shot," Samantha said. "In the head."

"Do you know who shot her?"

Samantha nodded. She gripped my arm tighter.

"Who shot her?"

Silence. Samantha was shaking as she clung to my arm.

"Samantha, you're safe here. Can you tell me who shot your mom?"

"My dad," she said, breaking down into sobs.