Malingering. It's such a funny word. Phonetically, it sounds as if it could be said in any style or manner and still sound as ridiculous as when said by someone speaking perfect, annunciated Standard Academic English. Try it with a little Southern drawl, or maybe a nice Cockney slur. I ran across this word when studying up for the GRE (a test where you learn a lot of nonsense words that no one uses anymore). In the dictionary it is listed as: to exaggerate or feign illness in order to escape duty or work. Sound familiar, all you diabetic lazies? This particular word caught my attention, not only because it sounded so inanely obsequious to a 19th Century tone, but also because I recognized it as something I have done in my own life many, many times. The title of this series of stories holds two qualities that I would like to share with you. The first, you already know. It titles the grouping and gives them a common ground with which to work within. The second, which may be obvious to those of you that scrutinize literature as much as I do, shows my own willingness to commit these tomes to a certain level, where if not concretely then certainly forwardly, I tell the reader that these stories are just another way to avoid work or duty. In fact, my life to this point has been a series of stalls and procrastinations that have prevented me from pursuing my passions and desires. But also, in a way, I am blazing ahead, hoping that these anecdotes and musings on all things unhealthy, can help at least one person get out of the habit of malingering, or that is to say, deliberately placing their illness ahead of their life. Remember people, existence precedes essence.
It was junior high. I was still newly diagnosed, somewhat, being at around 3 years. I learned quickly that people put sympathy, and if they can empathy, into my situation. Now, the educational system in America is broken. Broken in many different ways, but mostly in that kids just aren't wanting to learn anymore. Their desire and curiosity is taken away by mundane curriculum and TV and video games, not to mention that faith put into students, especially young ones, has lessened to a point where basic tasks such as multiplication and reading have become hit or miss for many kids. This is sad. But, as a young student, I saw the opportunity to use diabetes to my advantage because of this weakened state in many different forms. Teachers now are afraid of lawsuits and whether they will be hired back after standardized test scores come back (these tests, especially in Texas, do not test kids, it simply makes them regurgitate information they've seen for many years. It is less of a benchmark as they want it to be, and more like a take-home test, open book, open notes, open questions). So with all this in mind, teachers are willing to do anything to please the student, rather than it being the other way around. I recently saw a test that was administered during the early 1850s. I had no idea for half the answers. Granted some of the questions were irrelevant in our times, but still the other 200 questions were, simply put, difficult. Well above the standards of todays education system. I digress.
It was 7th grade-- not exactly my shiniest, brightest year. In the morning, I had football class, which usually consisted of running and doing footbally type things, then I pressed on to second period, where I was taking pre-algebra. Looking back, I should have understood the basics of algebra the year before, when I first took pre-algebra, but I was much too depressed to be worrying about things like Mathematics. I mean, my life was crumbling around me, right? Anyway, this class was again difficult for me to bear, and I struggled mightily. One day, my teacher confronted me after class and asked if I was doing alright. I answered, unconvincingly, that I was fine.
Truth was: I was fine. After football was when I had the best control of my blood sugar and insulin levels, so I was always ready to go when it came time for algebra, but there was just something missing at that point. She informed me that if I didn't get my grades up, I would have to stay behind in math again, and take pre-algebra again in 8th grade. This idea didn't phase me at the time, but looking back, because I did end up taking it again in 8th grade, I probably should have put forth a little more effort. I told her that I would try to get a hold on things, and she would see a difference in my work. A few weeks passed with no improvement to my grades and she approached me again, this time before class started. Again, she asked if everything was alright, and I answered yes. She said that she would have to inform the guidance counselors that I was under-performing in this upper level class and that I should be put in a more remedial class for the rest of the year. For some reason, this got through to me. I knew what remedial meant. That's where most of the football players spent their time. They learned how to count and put numbers together to make bigger numbers, and the like, so I was mortified at this proposition. Just as she was about to start class for the day, I ran to the front of the classroom and told her I had something going on, and that we should speak outside, The classroom was in what is called a T-building, a classroom detached from the main building of the school. It was like a trailer home, but on that day it was windy and cold, so I tried to make it quick. I told her that my blood sugar after football had been out of whack and it was definitely affecting my performance in the classroom. She asked if it was affecting any of my other classes, to which I answered, somewhat truthfully (because I was under-performing in all my classes), that it had been affecting me not only in school, but outside of school as well. At that point in my life, I had become a shy, introvert that made snide remarks every once in a while. Sometimes they made people laugh, while other times I could feel them cringe at my pessimistic credulity. She nodded a few times and looked to the ground while grinding her teeth, and then said something along the lines of, "Get a doctor's note or some type of documentation, and I'll let you slide." Much to my relief, I had been documenting my nearly perfect blood sugars after class each morning. But, they needed a little altering to coincide with my story. So, that night I went home and took a pen to my logbook and set out the next morning with proof that diabetes really had been ruining my life.
As it turns out, that little white lie actually helped me turn my grades enough to pass the class, though I still did not get into algebra the next year. For the rest of the year, I received special examinations and got to take them after school, where things were more controlled and less obtrusive to my unruly blood sugar habits. I also received special homework assignments that were allowed to be turned in two days after they were assigned rather than the typical one. And if I still wasn't feeling well at my after-school tests, I could simply reschedule the time for another day and go about my business as usual. I did this a few times so I could go home to play Goldeneye on my Nintendo 64. Ridiculous?
While this case of malingering worked out, and I didn't get caught in my own lie, or have to show actual proof from a doctor, this was not always the case. In fact, in the next installment of this series, you get to find out what happens when malingering backfires. How exciting!