Posted under Blog
One day, my father sat me down at the kitchen table and explained the A1c Test he had to take to me. Since he had diabetes, he constantly had to monitor the amount of glucose in his blood. He ate a special diet, one that predictably cut down on sugar, exercised as much as he could between going to work and having an actual home life. Now he was showing as me as he pricked his finger with something called a lancet and dripped a little blood onto a test strip, which his monitor then read for its glucose amount. All of that was pretty interesting, not captivating or anything, don’t get me wrong, but it helped me understand a little bit more about my father. Besides, I felt relieved. For some reason, I’d been certain that he was sitting me down to have a talk about sex with me. And, really, I didn’t need it. I’d learned all I needed from sex education class from the nun who taught it and then I really learned all I needed to know from old issues of Playboy my friend has. I haven’t told my father any of that but nor do I ever expect I will.