I Am Grant’s Pancreas

I lay like a banana slug behind Grant Maher’s stomach. Well, like a banana slug except that I am not yellow, and I’m larger than a banana slug. But I’m really shaped like one. I am a pinkish white, lobed mass weighing about a pound, connected by a duct to Grant’s gut and hooked by arteries and veins into his blood supply. Stretchy-tough connective tissue holds me in place, and Grant’s lower rib cage and thick abdominal wall shield me from trauma, which is a good thing because the enzymes and hormones that I make are essential to his health and life.
I ceaselessly pump pancreatic juice through my pancreatic duct into Grant’s duodenum, where it mixes with chyme, the soupy liquid that exits from the stomach after the gastric acids have started to break down the protein in Grant’s food. The pancreatic juices contain the enzymes amylase and lipase that continue the digestion process, breaking down carbohydrates and fats. I also secrete insulin into Grant’s bloodstream, regulating the metabolism of glucose throughout his body, but listen, this ain’t no friggin’ biology lesson here. I want to talk about Grant’s idiotic behavior.
Grant is of Irish extraction, see, and he tends to drink too much. I don’t know the exact brand names of the liquors that he pumps into his gut, but all of them contain plenty of ethanol alcohol, and that causes trouble down here. Alcohol, taken in large amounts over time, will cause me to start digesting myself, and that would double Grant up with pain and put him in jeopardy of his life. So why does he do that shit? Is he a moron? Plus, the stomach (a good friend of mine) takes a hit from alcohol too, overproducing acidic gastric juice, which then fizzes up into Grant’s esophagus and burns it. As a consequence Grant has to take a pill for his gastro-esophageal reflux disease, or GERD. And his brain loses neurons, too. The drinking behavior is a crime.
And then there is Grant’s diet. He loves greasy food. Why does he love that shit so much? Is he from Greece? Hell, he’s a little Celtic guy, so he should stick to his boiled potatoes and cabbage –but no, it’s Thai food one night, tofu the next, sushi the next, Mexican the next, so there’s no regularity. The only sure thing is that he’ll always gravitate towards the greasiest and/or oiliest foods on the menu. The result is that I’m probably the hardest working pancreas in the western USA. I have to whip my secretory cells into a frenzy of production every time he eats a greasy meal and then washes it down with liquor, which has been a daily occurrence for quite some time now. Grant could very well wear me out, and then where would we be? Up a creek, that’s where.
But lately there have been small signs of sanity. He doesn’t stay up all night anymore at that jail job. He’s been doing sit-ups here and there, and walking more. I think he feels his age coming on, and he’s starting to ponder his own frailty, and that’s a good thing. I’ve been screaming at him “don’t you see yourself when you look in the mirror, old man?” You see, it has taken Grant a long time to grow up, and he’s still basically a four-year-old boy most of the time. Well, keep your youthful mind-set, chum, but remember that your cellular chattel, your grip on the planet, your legacy from nature, is mortal. Take care of me, Grant, and I’ll let you frolic on this world for quite a few more summers. Burn me, and we both go down. There, that’s what I wanted to say.