Abraham Morris had developed diabetes just after his forty-ninth birthday.
“A mild case,” Dr. Sideko said as unconcernedly as if he had been diagnosing a hangnail or an ingrown body hair. “Should be no trouble at all controlling it.”
For the next eighteen years, Abe Morris religiously followed the prescription for Diabinese. And for eighteen years, the medication did in fact control the disease.
When Abe turned sixty-seven, however, the new doctor in California recommended that he change medication.
“The diabetes has worsened slightly,” he said, his youthful face twisted into what he no doubt considered an appropriate expression of concern for the health of his old-timer patient. Abe snorted to himself and caught himself thinking whippersnapper, a word his grandfather had always applied to wet-behind-the-ears doctors that thought they knew everything. “We could go to insulin,” the kid continued.
We, Abraham thought contemptuously. Yeah, right. You and me shooting up together, sliding needles into our thighs on cue. Junkies in tandem. Junkies on parade. We. Right.
“But I think this will work just as well.” The kid-disguised-as-a-doctor handed Abe a prescription for a different drug, Glucotrol, that would take care of everything. He promised.