“Nope.” I shake my head and hand the carrot back to my mother.

“Let’s try an onion.” She saunters over to the refrigerator as if nothing’s wrong—as if I’m not in the midst of losing one of my key senses. “Here.”

I spit carrot bits into the sink. A month ago, I would have refused the onion. Now, I’m desperate to taste something.

I take the onion into my hands and bite down like it’s an apple. My face illuminates as my tongue swims through the bitter sourness of the vegetable. I triumphantly nod at my mother whilst I spit the onion into the sink; I’ve never been so happy to taste something so horrible.

“So you can taste the strong stuff,” she notes, resting her elbows upon the kitchen counter.

“Barely.”

“Well, I still think it’s ageusia,” she claims professionally. “Sometimes it’s a side effect of diabetes.”

“Can you give me that diagnosis?”

“No, but Eva can. You can come with me to the hospital and I’ll take you to her.”

I nod. If my mother, a nurse, isn’t worried, then I shouldn’t be either. There must be some version of a cure.

I’ve struggled with my type two diabetes for a while. It’s brought me other side effects that have made my days ever so much harder, and to not be able to taste is just another log on the fire. But, losing a sense makes me more upset than my constant blurred vision and never-ending thirst for water does.

“We’ll get you all fixed up,” she says before she exits the kitchen. And after a silence, she calls behind her:

“If Eva can’t fix you, then I’ll be worried.”