We are delighted to present the winning entry from Reality Check's first ever writing competition


Theme: Dumb Things People Say.

It was a gloriously overcast summer afternoon, just the kind to sprinkle pissy little raindrops on your window—the kind that make giant smears when you turn your wipers on. Perfect weather for reading, perfect weather for sleeping, not-so-perfect weather for cruising up I-95 on your way back to the humdrum world from Vacationland Paradise. Nonetheless, that is what my sister’s boyfriend and I were doing, though the burden was at least lightened by interesting and witty conversation. This was the first time I’d ever been alone with him, much less engaged in conversation regarding anything deeper than the weather and the general life-sucking nature of the working world

Quentin yelled a few more frustrated palliatives into his dying phone, then slapped the darn thing shut. I rolled my eyes in his direction. “So, does your mother actually know her future kids-in-laws’ real names, or is this some sort of secret kind of James Bond code?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “Your sister has three siblings. My mom has a hard time telling you all apart, so there’s The Brother, The Little Sister, and... well, you.”

“Me.”

He nodded.

“Diabetic Sister.”

“Well, that’s your distinguishing characteristic.”

Now don’t get me wrong. My diabetes is out, loud, and awful proud of it. But this was something I had yet to encounter; sure, I’m diabetic, and I’m a sister, but... DIABETIC Sister? My distinguishing characteristic?

I chose to ignore quell the rising tide of irritation and dig a little deeper into the psyche of this poor, deluded soul. I wouldn’t make an issue of anything until I found out what this guy knew and where he’d gotten his info. It looked like we were going to have plenty of time for an Inquisition, too; as we came up on the state border, the traffic slowed to a dead crawl and the highway became a festive Christmas-tree string of red brake lights. We lurched to a halt, and I put the car in park, knowing that we were in it for the long haul this time. I wondered whether I would ever be able to break through the traffic jam of his mind. Wandering through the pissing rain of his ignorance, I figured right now I’d at least have time to take a shot.

“So... um, ok. Tell me, what do you know about diabetes, anyway? Do you know anyone who has it?”

He told me on one uncle who had lost a leg, and another who was on dialysis. People who were really sick. People who were dying. People who were dead.

“So what, in your opinion, should a diabetic look like?”

He rambled on for awhile about his uncles, his overweight cousins, people passing out on various episodes of Law and Order, and all the people from the foundation of the world who had ever died from overdoses of Chee-tos, Fruit Roll-Ups and Twinkies. The basic impression of the Diabetic World? “I’d just always had this impression that diabetes meant nothing but horrible disability.”

“Ok, Quentin, tell me: if you had just met me today, would you have thought that I was a diabetic?”

He paused for a moment. “Well... no.”

I grinned. “So what you’re saying is I’m the first diabetic you’ve ever met who still has all legs, eyes, and kidneys still intact?”
He nodded sheepishly. “The impression I’d had after hearing all about you from Rachel was that you were in constant danger of keeling over dead right in front of me, like you could be standing there talking and in two seconds you’d be on the floor, dead. I didn’t think you’d be able to do anything at all, your diabetes is that serious.”

I made a mental note to crucify my older sister with a fork the next time I saw her. I could already see a forecast of stupidity showers, partly cloudy mental clarity and occasional thunderbolts of sheer denseness. This did not help my prospects of getting through the informational traffic jam anytime soon... or the real one, for that matter. I decided to try a different tack.

“Quentin,” I said, “let’s get something straight. Diabetes is a huge part of my life. You have to know a lot to keep up with this disease. But what I want more than anything is for people to see me as more than just a disease. That’s not to say I want them to ignore it—it’s there, it’s serious, and it’s not going away, but—well, think of it this way. Remember back when you were first dating my sister, and she kept introducing you to her friends as ‘my friend Quentin’? Remember how frustrated that made you feel?”

“Sure!” he blurted, “I mean, that was just so irritating—”

“Wait a minute,” I gently interrupted. “Let me guess: the reason you felt so frustrated was not because you’re not her friend—I mean, you two are still friends, what couple isn’t friends on some level? But you wanted the world to realize that there was a larger dimension to your relationship and interactions beyond that, right?”

I could see a look of comprehension slowly beginning to dawn on his face. I continued: “That’s what it’s like for me—sure, diabetes is a big part of my life, but for anyone to think that my life is nothing but diabetes is to completely shortchange it, to miss the deeper aspects of what my life is and who I am. It would be like Rachel continuing to refer to you as her ‘friend’ even after you’d put the ring on her finger. Sure, you’re still her friend—but God forbid that was all she ever called you!

The dear boy, God bless him, made the quantum leap long before I’d actually reached my point. “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, “I can’t believe I’ve gone all week long calling you ‘the diabetic sister.’ That must have been sooo offensive—I am so terribly sorry. I had no idea—could you ever forgive me?”

Despite the pissing rain and the iron-gray clouds overhead, I felt a ray of angelic sunshine practically melt through the roof of my car. I also felt a tear or two welling up in my eyes.

“Quentin... you know what? For the longest time I used to wonder why it was me that got this. I finally decided that if I had to be the one to have it, then the one thing I’d hope for is that everyone who knew me would be able to say, ‘I know a diabetic, and she’s pretty cool.’ If I dispelled someone’s misconceptions about this thing, then I’ve done some diabetic in the future a favor by making his life easier when he comes in contact with someone I’ve influenced. Something bad happened to me, but not just in spite of it— because of it — I would have done someone some good.”

Quentin was silent for a few moments.

“Well,” he finally responded, “you’ve certainly done it for me.”

And as we sat there on I-95, as the rain pissed on, I knew: that was all the thanks I needed.