He takes a lancet and dips it into his finger. Blood flows, it looks so red. He feeds it to the machine, looks at the resulting number– 400. ‘It’s too high, time to take out the needle’ he tells me with a wry smile.
It breaks my heart seeing my dad inject himself with insulin everyday. He says it’s alright, but I tell him it’s not. It’s not right that it should happen to him. It’s not right. It’s not right.
‘It’s alright son.’ He repeats. ‘I’m fine.’ He says.
And it’s tragically funny because at a time when I should be comforting him, he was the one comforting me.