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Worry

Guilt

Envy

Anger

Fear

***

In a funny way, I’ve become quite adept at side-stepping these big abstractions. I used to worry in a kind of hectic, random way. About everything. Now — well now that there’s so much to worry about, I tend to let most things go.

I used to feel guilty about every moment that was my own. Every moment I wasn’t living and breathing diabetes. I used to feel guilty for not having diabetes. Well, life is too short.

I used to feel the sour pull of pure envy when I saw families — young lads, parents, children, out eating what they wanted, talking about the traveling they will do, the nights they spent sleeping on friends’ floors, sleeping in their clothes, a night on the town etc — and thought that will never be us, can never be us anymore. Now I turn away from it. You deal with what you’ve been dealt.

And anger of course is never far from the door. I can feel it prowling. Often. Walking back and forth out there. But my energy is better spent elsewhere. It has burned everything there was to burn.

As for fear. The hardest for me. Primal. At its worst, I don’t want to go out. Don’t want my family to go out. Wake sick, afraid that this arbitrary bad luck will strike us — in so many ways, again and again.

I’m wondering if the fear is always closest to the surface. Last week M woke in the night, desperately thirsty, going back and forth to the bathroom, cupping water in her hands to drink. In the morning, she confessed that she then could not sleep for fear of the big D. Later, E bled her slim finger and tested her. The relief in the room was tangible when the number came up: 5.1 mmols. You’re fine, he said. He said, and smiled. You can’t be anything but fine. And gently laid her hand back on the table.

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E returned in fine fettle on Sunday — less odorous than anticipated! — though the suitcase was a sight (and smell) to behold, of course. His duty on the last day was cleaning the chemical toilet… Oh dear. But he seemed to get through it okay. His sister had made him a smashing welcome home banner, which he acknowledged with real affection and appreciation. And within minutes he had managed to download his camera, shift everything to a memory stick and then onto a slide show on the television….

O-kaaaay. I didn’t even know you could do that.

Sigh.

He had taken a shedload of pictures, and narrated us through. Some really beautiful shots, and some great history, environmental concerns, and shots of wild horses (taken even in the rain!) for his sister. Bless! Will try to get him to do a guest post…

Several things to note from all this. Well, lots, but I have to be contained. Time is of the essence today.

1) the staff were brilliant. As were the sixth formers. On the first night, E had a tough time. He felt very sick, disorganised and probably panicky. One of the teachers moved out of his bedroom, and T & E moved in. The teacher slept on the table for the rest of the week.

2) everyone stopped when either boy went low. One of E’s misgivings was that he would be left behind when hypo, even though he knew someone would always be with him. But in the event everyone just stopped. No fuss. E said that everyone just used the chance to talk. To tell their life stories, he said.

3) it’s clear that E hasn’t lost the ‘give it a go’ quiet confidence he has had for several years now. Apparently he tried everything, and did everything. Even things that some others wouldn’t or couldn’t. There was one small activity: threading the needle, I think it was. They foot-holded up the inside of some rock, then through the top… Lordy. He did it. He said people pulled him through at the end, but he did it. Only a few did. I can’t help but wonder if his success is also about allowing others to help, trusting teamwork in the end. Interesting…

4) coming down Snowdon, E took quite a tumble and really bashed his knee. He felt dizzy and breathless.  The guide was straight over, making sure, as E said, that he ‘could move everything’. E said he could walk on it, and up he got. But what I want to say is that two or three more times in the next half hour or so, the guide asked how he was. That’s good care.

***

Those are some of the tangible things. But of course there are so many intangible lifts that come from an experience like this.

1) He wants to keep walking.

2) He knows he can manage extreme situations. He knows what he would do differently next time.

3) WE know he can manage extreme situations. We know others can be trusted.

4) Diabetes didn’t stop him.

5) Diabetes didn’t stop him.

6) Diabetes didn’t stop him.

7) And all that this implies.

***

Something has shifted. Some kind of small attic window has been opened. And beyond it, is sky.

Well, after reaching the summit to Tryfan two days ago, yesterday the boys in Wales apparently bog-walked (ewww! E reports bog water over his boots), taking measurements or some such — and then swam. Which I reckon was sorely needed, after several walks and no running water (ewww!).

Number wise he was okay all day, though a little high, but in the evening things went seriously awry. For whatever reason (too much free carb? too low a temp? the set becoming non-viable? — probably all three), at 6.30pm we got a message that he was 24 mmols (over twice as high as the high end of what we were all aiming for while he was away) and feeling rotten.

It was dark by then, and they have no electricity. E had been trying to change his set (due a new one) on his own, with a torch, ill from being high, and stressed to the max. And wouldn’t you know it, for the first time since changing over to sil sets, his pump read NO DELIVERY.

A number of things then cascaded into wrongness. E was holding up, but only just holding on.

OH talked him through. Minute by minute, several phone calls, clear instructions. Try a new tube. Then a new cartridge. We gritted our teeth as E described all his pump equipment strewn around his bed in half-darkness. Talk about stress!

Tell someone, I texted him, in some desperation. They will be sad to know you are struggling.

He was still 21 mmols, despite a huge correction.

All of us had forgotten that he remained on a low temp from earlier in the day.

At last the new set was in with insulin that looked viable. But E was terribly shaken, still high, and of course would not be able to join the others for dinner (it’s unsafe to eat when that high for obvious reasons: more glucose stacks into the blood).

When E is that high — and I think this is a common reaction — he becomes emotional and muddled. He has to make a supreme effort to exert his considerable strength of mind and intelligence to trying to gain control, to understand sequences. The added stress of being away, in the dark, and on his own, meant that for a short time, it was a losing battle for him.

This end, we were losing our own battles too. OH was preparing himself to drive six hours and go get him. I was wrestling with useless tears. Daughter M, once again, had wisely set herself up for dinner in front of the box.

At last OH convinced E to go to a teacher. Who phoned within minutes. She had taken control quickly. Found things he’d lost. Sat him down to wait. Established how long he’d been high.

We tried to explain how he’d be feeling. We said it should get better. By this point we’d set a high temp, and anticipated him coming down fast. She’d saved some food for him. If he’s not down in a couple of hours, OH began — we’ll drive him to the hospital, the teacher said.

Probably not, OH said. They won’t know what to do either.

And this is true. Don’t even get me started on what medics don’t know. How they will remove pumps. How they will run both glucose and insulin in simultaneously (completely counter-productive). How they might think that 2 mmols is fine (when it’s mega-hypo), or that 6 mmols is too low (when it’s within range). Or that, so long as the person is feeling okay, 18 mmols is not bad (three times as high as you want). I’m sorry all you medics out there, but these are true stories. The training for hospital diabetes treatment must be seriously deficient, and is entirely crisis-oriented. By hook or by crook, diabetics survive hospital intervention. But so often it is ridiculously and even near-dangerously cack-handed.

Anyway. E had some carb free food: cheese, ham, cucumber, and immediately began to feel better. In 20 minutes his level was 17 mmols. He ate. In another hour, he was way down to 9 mmols. By this point the high temp was off. He had to have some free carb or he would crash. In another hour he was, yes, low at 3.8 mmols. Some juice, and more free carb.

Like a yo-yo. Poor lad. He set a 70% temp to reflect the exercise of the day, and we all agreed he could make it without night testing. Crisis over.

Only guess where they are headed today: SNOWDON. The highest mountain in Wales.

He must be shattered. Up until nearly 1 am. A walk lasting many hours in front of him.

We’ve barely heard from him this morning — a rush getting out, apparently. I’m fearful that last night will hang over him, tempt him into insecurity, into double-guessing his judgement. He’s SO good at all this. He’s great. We keep telling him.

A little prayer then: let last night go. Start the new day. Trust your instincts. Know that you are strong, and can do anything.

Just a word here to say that living with Type 1 and getting out into the world and doing challenging things requires it. Lots of it: grit.

E and we have been in good text contact over the last two days. Lots of ups and downs. The cottage is disorganised and dirty. He wants his space and a sense of structure and control (a bit control freakish, like lots of well controlled diabetics, one suspects!). Can’t have that. A bit of a struggle.

I forgot to pack the scales. Don’t even go there.

So lots of estimating. A little added stress.

So far he’s had two mornings of heavy walking accompanied by almost constant dragging the bottom — floating around 4 mmols, with occasional hypos — for hours. He’s on 0% temp, eg no background insulin, and eating loads of food without insulin: cakes, cereal bars, sweets, juice, chocolate, sandwiches…

Then last night he had to negotiate raising the temp a bit to account for higher numbers in the afternoon — 12 mmols for too long to leave. 

Managed everything perfectly though: 60% temp all night, waking on 7 mmols.

Wow.

So today he undercarbs breakfast in an attempt to start his walk higher, and spikes way high (20 mmols). Under corrects but anyway dips low again all morning. He tells us they are taking a mountain guide and going out to climb a mountain with a rope. I send back a whoo whoo enjoy it kind of message, but feel myself  battling the urge to check my phone all the way through class…

Discover that this is what he’s climbing. I can barely bring myself to look!

And then this: constantly around 4 (he writes) and having tons of carb. But having the time of me life at the moment.

Bursting with pride. I’m at work, loads to do. But I’m about to walk upstairs and find someone just to say this to: anything is possible.

Well that was an incredibly quick but somehow slow and full few days! Heavens.

E left for Wales this morning, wary of bringing too much with him and therefore seeming different. I squeezed apple juices, fruit pastilles and extra diabetes kit into every crevice. Upon arrival, at least two other boys had much more stuff. Phew! He’d given us all our hugs before leaving the house. At the school it was a wave and a ‘bye’ in his nearly-deep voice, up the minibus steps, and they’re off.

Sniff!

Another boy with T1 is going this week too: E and T have been getting to know each other — first by hearsay, then by proximity — over the last year or so. They are both music bods, and though they have very different diabetes regimes and needs, they get on. This week when E was feeling wobbly about it all, he kept reminding himself that T would be there. They could look out for each other. And more to the point, understand something about what the other may be going through, even if it’s only a version of what the other feels.

I confess to feeling relieved myself about this good fortune. To the point that as they pulled out, I saw that E and T were sitting next to each other. They’ll catch each other’s hypos, I thought.

A bit silly, I know.

***

It will not surprise anyone to know that it took me (and E) over four hours yesterday to pack him up, going through everything again and again, situating it so he’ll remember what’s where. This, and the hours I put into pre-ordering sets and reservoirs, extra insulin, lancets and strips… and getting him the normal stuff (somehow thought one pair of jeans wouldn’t do, duh!): trousers, fleece, walking socks, base layers… Fortunately, perhaps unlike some of the boys going, E is used to hiking. We have a picture of him sitting on top of the first mountain he climbed rather than was carried up, the Lakes below and behind him, at age four, smiling his head off.

For this trip, I really hope he takes a lot of pictures! 12 boys (including sixth formers). It will be a scream. Imagine the state of the air on the bus back…

***

It’s been a week of oddly used time too, whole patches of stretched out stuff mixed with manic hours.

Now that I know what happened I can tell you the following: on Friday I lost the kittens. Well, three of them. I had lowered the barrier in the sitting room, and out they flooded. We’ve been having a hard time with little poos in corners, and I figured maybe Cleo wanted to show them HER litter tray in the bathroom (which she did, immediately, to be fair). Anyway they were having such a good time, all of them racing around the house and Cleo very happy, that I went upstairs to do my emails.

Fifteen minutes later I came down, and could only see poor Artemis, wandering around the place meeping piteously.

Cleo wanted to go outside, unconcerned.

So, I looked for the others. And looked and looked. With a torch. Moved the washing machine. Emptied bags. Took the suitcases out from the under the spare room bed. Absolutely everywhere I could think of. For an hour and a half.

Cleo came in. Artemis cried. Cleo fed her and did not call the others.

She’s given up on them! She’s saving her only kitten!

I went outside and called and called. I could not imagine how they would have pressed themselves through the bricks to get there. But anything, at this point, seemed possible.

I phoned R. We decided it did not yet qualify as an emergency. He advised me to have a drink.

I went outside again, Cleo following. Oh lord, she thinks they’re out here too!

I went back in. And lo there was Archie, stretching his way around the sitting room. Toad, I thought.

The chocolate twins Athena and Eudora were no where to be found. But I figured if he was safe, they were too, probably still sleeping wherever. I went out to get E some trousers!

I had to be out until about 6.30pm, R under clear instructions to get home as soon as he could. At 5.30 I got a text: four fluffy kittens present and correct in the sitting room.

Argh!

***

So last night I heard a meeping in the sitting room. We were all there, sitting around. Looked under the sofa, where it seemed to be coming from.

Just in time to see a white kitten emerge from INSIDE the underneath of the sofa, just DROP DOWN and shake herself off.

Crumbs!

No wonder I couldn’t find them!

I could have wrung their necks. Except that they are so cute.

And a few minutes ago, I peeped under the sofa again. A grey tail hanging down.

Honestly.

***

Here is the vid as promised, now quite old. I’ve taken another one today of them playing with a wastebasket, which I’ll put up.

Time is not really on my side at the moment. But E just texted to say he’s 5.4mmols and all well. How grateful I am for modern communication… And for having a lovely young man for a son.

I’m willing to accept that there may be such a thing as being too alert to your cat. So let me state that right off.

However, the last few days with Cleo and the kittens have been utterly fascinating, and make me realise (all over again) how all animals have to negotiate — whether instinctively or deliberately — the development and independence of their offspring. How we may think one thing, but encourage another. How we may wave goodbye and then burst into tears. Etc.

Here’s the thing: two nights ago I was up for four hours trying to settle the kittens with Cleo. She had suddenly taken it into her head that they needed moving. They weren’t safe. Perhaps it was simply that the other basket was too small — which it was. They were like sardines in there.

Anyway, that evening I twice came to the door of the playroom to find her next to a baby with a wet scruff. I deduced (!) that she was trying to move them, and if the scratching UNDER our bed earlier had been anything to go by, she was planning to take them there, where they could not be even slightly contained… Sigh. So I shut the door. At 4am she would not be quiet. She called and called and called and called. She got out and ate. Came back and called. Searched and searched for someplace to put them.

Sigh. I was struck by an idea. I righted a box we had in the room, put a blue blanket in it, and moved the kittens in. I know she likes the blanket. The kittens were HUNGRY. She climbed in and fed. Phew, I thought. Went back to bed. 5am.

Within the hour she was crying again, clearly trying to tell me something. She was out of the box. She didn’t like it. She kept looking from the kittens to me and back again, like do something!

I had another idea. It was an open box, though a table ran along 2 feet above it. I knew, for some reason, that she wanted more privacy. So I took another fleece, and pegged it to the table (under the guinea pig cage, mind you…stay with me), and draped it like a tent around the box.

Hmm….she checked it out. She quite liked it. She purred. She climbed in. And the deed was done.

Now, what’s been interesting from this is that the move to the bigger box meant that for another day the kittens didn’t venture out. They had more room, and maybe didn’t need to. They kind of poked their heads out of the end, then most of the time Cleo would make noises and literally yank them back: your bottom needs cleaning. Etc.

She wasn’t ready for them to go. And they probably weren’t quite ready to go.

Because last evening and today, she’s done something completely different. She has gone into the room and called them OUT of the box. It’s hysterical. Their little heads poke out and they fight to get out of the box, getting stuck, and they tumble around her. She bats them a bit, bites their ears, lets them suckle a little. They stagger about quite happily and explore. After a few minutes, she stands up and walks into the box. And gradually they follow her in, and everyone settles down.

It’s so simple. She knew what was best. She really did. She knew that if she had someplace different for them, they wouldn’t keep wandering out of the box and getting a bit lost before she thought they were ready. She knew when they were strong enough, and encouraged them to get going, to play.

Wow. When the children were little, I always made decisions about ‘what next’ based on what I would call my gut instinct. But I didn’t know that it probably really is instinct, in the flesh. It’s a real, palpable and despite our evolution, necessary thing which pushes us forward, helps development and survival. At each turn — sending my eight year old to get a cup of water from the counter, sending my eleven year old up the hill to buy some bread… or even standing in front of our one year old (we’ve all done it!) holding out our arms (that’s right, walk to mummy) — at each turn, something could go horribly wrong. You dream about everything that could go wrong. Like I’ve seen in Cleo’s eyes — they’ve gone too far! make them come back! But you know it’s your job to say hey come out here. The world is good. The world is full of new things. There’s a bit of it that might be dangerous, yes, and sometimes stuff happens. Don’t I just know that stuff happens. Better to learn to walk and run and play.

Well, it happens all the time. Only each time, you think: I can’t do this. Anymore.

But you do. Because that’s what you do. That’s what humans do, every which way and in all states of mind and body.

We have the capacity to start again, whether that means picking up where we left off, like a thread lost — or whether we must indeed re-build from the ground up, after catastrophe or death.

All these things have come my way in the last 24 hours, one way or another. My stuff, but stuff too surrounding people I care very much about.

1) in a sudden and unexpected shift, the CGM now seems to be serving a purpose. Several times a day E looks at it when he wonders what he is. Saves him two or three finger pricks a day. Looks at it in lessons, out of interest and for reassurance, he says. He says, it’s worth it already. And I’m stunned. And so we start to look up, start again.

2) one of my very dearest friends has undergone a freak event at her old childhood home in the States: a tiny tornado destroyed it, when the whole family was sitting at dinner. No one was injured, but how do you know where to start? I guess the answer is, you start again. She knows I’m thinking of her, but in case she forgets: I am.

3) and a long-time friend and colleague of OH died peacefully two nights ago. Perhaps mercifully quickly, given the situation. But we feel for his family, and thank him for his friendship and real gentleness in life.

So. It’s been a time to reflect. On what is possible. How hard sometimes it is to get there, and to know this, not to speak of just plain carry on. But here we are.

Today it has been cloudy mostly, warm. And this evening, the sun manages to break through. Time to water the pots. You have to work at it everyday, but the rewards are of course flowers.

Pots in my garden

My hanging basket!

It continues to be all-go in our household. There are times when I feel like a drill sergeant. Sigh. And I’m sure my family would say the same (!).

However. Good news from last week’s clinic appointment is that E’s HbA1c is once again back down to below 7%. This is approaching the high end of ‘normal’ (I love this word – NOT. It means here the high end of a non-diabetic person’s HbA1c). SO this is all good news, and confirms our suspicions that the vast majority of the blip last time was down to the dodgy sets, the missed boluses, and some plain wacky numbers. Two weeks later and those blips have disappeared more into his ‘blood history’, the measurement is 50% from the last month, and the proof is in the pudding. As it were.

It’s a wonderful clinic. Sensors for the CGM are arriving tomorrow, thanks to their help. The doctors and DSNs are open, kind, congratulatory, and we always come away having learned something — or at least with something to think about. This is incredibly rare nowadays for us: diabetes is such an individual condition, that what works for one may not work for another, and the pattern of x may not be the pattern of y. Not to speak of how things can vary day to day. So a new thought is, unfortunately, not usually one we haven’t already thought of. Nevertheless, in this clinic (our pump one, not local) we come away with food for thought. For instance: one of the doctors picked up what might be a pattern: E tends to have a hypo (below 4mmols), about 8 hours after changing to a new infusion set.

This may be nothing. But it may be something. What we would do about it is place him on a slightly lower rate of 95% of his insulin for that time. Maybe it will work? One of the lows was a severe low — the ol’ favourite, 1.8mmols of ten days ago. Ack. Each time, we count our blessings that he seems to weather these well. I am touching wood like mad for luck, but so far even these lows have not caused him to lose consciousness, fit or even become particularly disoriented. As I say, I realise we have been lucky.

And speaking of temp basals, it’s been ‘low insulin’ city in our neck of the woods the last two weekends. E is keen to earn money, so has been doing a lot of gardening work: sweeping the drive, weeding, hauling cut down branches to the bonfire. Etc. Last weekend he went onto a 50% temp basal to try to account for the exercise, and still had four or five hypos (I know, I know)… This weekend we tried a different approach. On Saturday, a shedload of hypos. One after the other. We reduced him to 0% for at least half the day. By evening he was stable again, though on 95% through the night, again to account for the exercise.

On Sunday however, we whacked on a low temp basal (20%) AND under-carbed his food. For instance: scampi and potatoes plus veg weighed out and added up to about 80g CHO. He bolused for 60g, thus receiving about 75% of his ‘usual’ dose.

Interestingly, this seemed to work (aside from two hypos in the morning, before we cottoned onto this new idea, sigh!), combined with the temp basal. We did the same for the evening meal — risotto, a slightly awkward one, that he normally doses at 25/75% (eg 25% up front, 75% spread out) over 7 hours. Again, no hypo.

What’s been useful to think through is that it makes a kind of sense that if the body is sensitive to insulin generally at a certain time, then it will also be sensitive in all instances: so any insulin going in during a sensitive time is bound to lower the blood sugar more than is desirable — whether it’s a ‘long-acting’ basal insulin, or a ‘short-acting’ bolus one.

This is not something anyone has ever mentioned to us. I’m mentioning it here, and will do so on the forum. But it makes sense, and worked.

Will it work the next time, however?! Ah, who knows….

***

The reason we have been so happy to let E work like a dog (and yes, I have a list for him after school this week!), is that we have about 30 people for dinner on Thursday. Eek. Spare a thought. The GREAT news is that the weather looks very promising: hot and sunny. (And DON’T even mention the possibility of a thunderstorm to break it, as is the tendency is this part of the country! Just keep it to yourself. Touch wood….)

Last year at the same party E had been on the pump for less than a month. We had lentils. And it sent his numbers all over the shop, being low GI. That would be very unlikely to happen this time. Incredible the distance you travel. We have travelled.

Touch wood.

copyright Tim Haynes

It’s been a shock to go from my peaceful mornings at the hut to a life punctuated by the fast train from Kent to St Pancras, but so it has been: external examining at Norwich University College of the Arts for three days, home examining at my own, then to York for a NAWE meeting, then three more days examining at my own institution again.

Ack. Meanwhile the sun has mostly shone, despite the cool wind. Like life of course. Mostly sunny, a more or less constant cold wind. That you just learn to get used to.

Three items for report (how many meeting have I been in the last ten days, you ask?!):

1) desperate cat Cleo is going on a singles’ holiday this weekend. Eg we hope for kittens in late August! Watch this space. The relief will be mutual, to be blunt. The poor girl spends some of every evening trying to settle in the bathroom, with bed, tray and food. Poor thing. Poor us. At its worst, we can’t hear ourselves speak. And her brother hisses at her all the time… Bring on some peace (and for her, satisfaction?!).

2) the Tooth Fairy has only just recovered from being in deep doo doos in our house. Not one, but two teeth languished under daughter M’s pillow. For a WEEK! I know, someone shoot that fairy. But the worst of it has been M’s eventual understanding, once the glowering passed. I know the tooth fairy has been very busy, she says. Eek, I can’t stand the guilt! Anyway, now the teeth are in the fairy’s castle, and M has not only £2, but a rather glittery bracelet (hopefully not made out of teeth…).

3) E’s numbers have been generally better. Again, some weird and wonderful nights: a drop from 8mmols to 1.8mmols once (yikes!), and another of a random rise… But these weirdnesses aside, things have eased. We are off to clinic for CGM instruction today. Another matter for report….!

***

Finally, at the gym yesterday (for the first time in two weeks…really, thank goodness the place doesn’t have cameras. I don’t think it does, anyway…), I encountered one of my favourite songs of the moment, by Jolie Holland. She is, if anyone is still around from my other blog, one of my favourite artists, but this song…I don’t know. I listened and thought you know, life is random. Life is harrying and harried. And is all about risk, about doing what you don’t and can’t know. And sometimes it works out, and sometimes it doesn’t. On Jolie Holland’s website, it says this about the song:

“Palmyra” is a prayer for the broken-hearted and traumatized, both individuals and communities. The first half paints a picture a love-lorn traveler pulling herself back together after a disastrous affair. The second half is lovingly and respectfully dedicated to the hard-pressed people of New Orleans’ Ninth Ward, hallowed estuary of some of the finest music the world has ever witnessed.

(But the real place to check her out is probably her myspace page, in which I have just spent several happy minutes…)

For me, the song’s somehow about strength. My OH and I met over 25 years ago. We married 22 years ago a week from tomorrow. He is my soul mate and best friend. And one of the very few people in my life that I haven’t had to leave for some reason, whom I haven’t left and hasn’t left me. A gift in my life I never really thought my life would hold or be able to hold. How very very lucky and blessed we are in this way. Just wanted to say that. He got the album this song comes from for me. He’s not mad on the music, but knows that I am, and lets me dance and sing to it in the kitchen. Even while he’s making dinner. What a guy.

After barely three days’ respite, little girl cat Cleo is on heat — AGAIN. We are gritting our teeth. She is doing something altogether different, but no doubt just as taxing. About another two weeks of this, all being well. We hope for another little mini-break for her. Then maybe making babies. And everyone will be happier… there is too much hissing in the house now, and not just from her brother Schubert, who is fed up to the eye teeth with all her moaning and constant IN YOUR FACE – ness. We keep putting her in the bathroom with a litter tray, food, drink and a bed. Her boudoir, in which she can recline. Fat chance.

AND: a day when E has helped me make a postcard for my hut poems. Okay, he’s done the whole thing (:-)). And here it is, the front image, and the back poem. Splendid job.

Hut postcard

(Sorry, on my computer you need to click once to go to some page in space that says ‘Hut postcard’, then click on that and then it finally downloads. Why? Who knows.)

So we go for a milkshake from the dreaded McD’s. Very unusual. Get a medium milkshake. Read the carb content from the handy placemat. Hurray, McD! Says 70g CHO. Sheesh! We think: a load of carb. Sounds TOO high. Settle on 55g CHO, and agree to pick up the pieces later if he goes sky-high. Two hours later he’s a steady 5.8mmols… Hmm… And still hasn’t gone higher.

So we wonder: Mr McD, what you playin’ at?! If we’d done the full 70g, it would have been hypo city! Oh dear.

Just another day in the land of managing diabetes. And life. And getting through both. For the moment!

Setting sail

In November 2008 my 12 year old son was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. The effect of this event on me -- and on our nuclear family -- was like being thrown overboard and watching the ship leave.

'Dealing with type 1' in the family has morphed into another sort of 'dealing' -- a wholesale resituating of parenting, of family dynamics...of life.

At my son's diagnosis I could not to locate a record of what living with a type 1 child in the family is like. I could not see myself or our family anywhere. I longed for a starting point, a resource and a sense of the future. Being a writer, my instinct is to write it. This space, I hope, is a start.

Blood Sugar Ranges (UK)

<4 mmols = low or hypo, life-threatening if untreated
4-8 mmols = within target range
8-13 mmols = high but not usually dangerous
14+ mmols = very high, or hyper, life-threatening if untreated

Bubbles

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Distance Travelled

Disclaimer

I am not a medical professional. Any view expressed here is my opinion, gleaned from experience, anecdote or available research.