Skip to main content

Detention Hall


One by one, they trickle in.  Each one sent here for different infractions. No one says a word.  They each keep to themselves.

One young female scrapes her chair in defiance.  She throws her notebook on the table and grunts as she drops her weight onto the seat.  She looks about the room daring anyone to make eye contact, daring anyone to say anything.

A male yanks the classroom door open and saunters in.  He is followed by a female half his size. She struggles with a backpack, but he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.  He walks over to two empty chairs and plops down.  She perches in the seat next to him. He snarls something at her and she nods.  He snarls again and she places a hand on his arm and attempts a smile. He glares at everyone in the room.

The instructor adjusts an overhead.  She moves stacks of folders from one place to another. The students are confined here for twelve hours and then they will be gone, nothing more. She goes over the agenda, and the only time she directs her eyes at anything is when she uses a laser pointer on the overhead presentation.

Her cavalier attitude causes one person to snicker and another to make a face. Two or three students look at each other for the first time and smile.  The coldness in the room starts to melt.  

The sixteen adults are newly-diagnosed diabetics and are here to learn about their disease and how to manage it. They are frightened and seek some compassion.  So what if they can’t have a spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down, but what about a little tenderness?

The young woman with the attitude is embarrassed to be diabetic. She hasn’t told her family; only her husband knows. The big man with the little wife cries like a baby.  He's afraid. Some of the students are angry at themselves. Most want to blame someone, anyone, for their condition.

Besides the physiological aspect of this disease, all want to discuss why they feel this way.  They want someone to care.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Dating Challenged

I stink at dating – always have.I sputter.I hyperventilate.I fail miserably every time. I blame a pathetically underdeveloped gene that got little use before I married in my early twenties, then atrophied, gathering dust and rust, until I became single again in my fifties. I decided to use this defect to my advantage when I needed to do some investigative reporting a few years back.While on a newspaper writing assignment on Boomer-aged dating, I sacrificed my dignity and my vanity for the sake of the story (and I got several).

Thank goodness, HoneyBunch saved me from all this when we married.  (He comes up with the best dates.) I’ve decided I will “show you mine if you show me yours.”I will swap dating horror stories with you, but you have to promise to play along. The trick here is to tell about your worst date in 25 words or less.You must keep it clean and you cannot name names. Our little contest will run only this week and before my next blogger posting. Me first: The facts:My mom f…

Happy Breastday to Me!

I gave myself a very special birthday present this year – I had surgery. Before you think it was to increase, decrease, or “lift” something, let me tell you it was not cosmetic (though I could probably use a few nips and tucks at my age; the infinite number of creams I buy OTC are not working their promised magic). About four or five months ago, I discovered a hard lump about the size of a large marble in my left armpit.  I had been feeling small pangs of pain in my left chest for several months, but I figured it was just my turn to dance with heart disease.  Everyone in my immediate family is diabetic and suffers from strokes or heart attacks, so I thought – here we go; my turn. I was going to tell my internist about the pangs during my next visit, so imagine my surprise when I discovered the lump. The Drama Queen in me immediately manifested herself – cancer, I thought.  I have cancer. I searched some more and found that the texture on the left side of my left breast felt different t…

Grandma’s Dining Table

Twenty five years ago my first husband and I bought a new home with four bedrooms and three baths, but my favorite part of the house was the enormous room you walked into from the front door. It had no dividing wall but the design was to use half of it as a formal living and the other half as a formal dining. From the beginning I decided to make it into one huge dining room that would catch the eye when everyone walked in through the front door of my home.   My three children were very young, but I envisioned them grown and married. We counted five at the time, but one day we would grow to eight, maybe more if we factored in grandchildren, so I bought a table that sat a family of twelve.  My husband thought it silly to look that far ahead and convinced me to buy only ten chairs. The room looked magnificent – the long, majestic table, the ten chairs, the buffet, a couple of real ficus, and a few other nice pieces of furniture – I was pleased. The table lasted longer than the marriage, a…