Plastic Bag Lunch Girl

I was what my mother always called a "special child" because I have special dietary needs and special physical restrictions--I have type 1 diabetes.

My mother attended preschool with me so that she could make sure I ate all the right foods--plain pancakes without syrup, cereal with exactly four ounces of milk, one hard-boiled egg--and essentially that nothing bad would happen to me. She sometimes even napped with the class during nap-time.

I don't remember much from kindergarten, but starting from first grade, I was on my own for lunch. My mother could no longer be by my side for the entire day, every day. So, every day during lunch, I would go to the nurse's office to check my blood sugar and have the nurse give me insulin (since I had not yet learned to do it myself). Then, I would impatiently wait for my mother to arrive with my lunch.

I don't remember what job she had at the time, but every day, she would stop doing whatever she was doing in the middle of the day so that she could go home and cook a fresh, healthy lunch for me, and walk it down to me at school. No matter what she was doing, she would just drop it and rush to the market to buy fresh tilapia and vegetables, go home and steam the fish and broil the vegetables, all just to make sure that I did not have to eat the school lunches because they were, according to her, very unhealthy and therefore unsuitable for my diet. Often, she would not even have the time to eat the food herself. All that effort just for me.

I would get really mad whenever she got to the nurse's office late. I never said "thank you". I always felt bitter that she wouldn't let me just eat with my peers. The bitterness soon became embarrassment, when I realized how many kids went into the nurse's office during lunch time (since playtime was included). Whenever I saw somebody I thought I knew, I would surreptitiously duck and slide down in my seat, hoping that he or she wouldn't see me eating alone in the cot-room in the nurse's office and subsequently ask why. I didn't want to tell people; I didn't want them to know; I didn't want to feel more left out than I already did.

Sometimes, one of the playground supervisor ladies would come and sit and eat with me. I remember she smelled really weird, so I didn't prefer to eat with her, although conversations with her were quite pleasant from time to time. She often told me how good my lunches were compared to her plain sandwiches (really, just sandwiches every time), and how lucky I was that my mom could cook and deliver a fresh lunch to me every day.

Other times, one of the fourth-grade teachers would come and eat with me. He usually had just sandwiches too. I recall distinctly one day, when my mom had made my favorite noodles with salmon and other ingredients, he sauntered in the way I know only he does, and exclaimed, "It smells fishy in here!" Subsequently, I told him my noodles had fish. But other than that comment, he would usually say something along the lines of "Oh, that smells good..."

I saw and got acquainted with quite a few teachers from eating in that room. I wonder if any of them knew who I was or why I was there...

One day in first grade, it was raining, so lunch was supposed to take place in the multipurpose room. After I finished eating, I went out there (as I usually went back outside to join my friends in playtime after eating), expecting there to be activities of some sort, but nobody was there. My class was gone, and I went upstairs to my classroom. After knocking on the door several times, I panicked and wondered where everybody was. Pacing back and forth, I thought and thought, and eventually just started crying. Evidently, everybody had gone somewhere else to play and had congregated as a class after. I hadn't known. That day, I was furious and kept thinking that if I were normal, I would have been eating lunch with them and playing with them, and therefore would never have thought I was lost. I would not have had to cry. I would not have to eat lunch without my friends in the nurse's office every day. If I were normal.

Fourth grade, I met a girl who actually knew what diabetes was because one of her family members had it too. She found out about my condition because she was one of quite a few classmates who had spotted me in the nurse's office eating lunch, and asked me why. I think I became a bit more open to "revealing my secret" because I realized that I'm not the only one in the world who has it. And it shouldn't really be a secret, because nobody disliked me for it.

One day after lunch, I was sauntering down the administration hallway to throw away my plastic trash bag with the take-out food box (and fish sauce, napkins, and fork and spoon) outside. Swinging the bag back and forth like I usually do, I suddenly had an epiphany: I was the plastic bag lunch girl. Every day, I had a fresh lunch delivered to me in a plastic bag. I began to wonder if people had ever thought of that nickname for me. I didn't dislike it. I found it comfortingly distinguishing and unique.

Although I had come up with a cool nickname for myself, I still sometimes felt embarrassed because I still had to eat lunch by myself--though I wasn't minding it as much as before anymore.

I think I tried school lunch just once, probably in fifth grade. I didn't like it, although I truly appreciated that my mother had finally let me try it.

But yes, the day that I nicknamed myself the plastic bag lunch girl, I also told myself that I would remember it for a long time and that I would write about this someday (and become famous for it, but at the moment, I highly doubt that will happen).

more stories to come...