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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.

So, you know, all is going well and then all of a sudden two nights ago before sleep E is 16mmols. 16 mmols! Over twice as high as he wants to be.

What the heck? We check his insulin history, and we haven’t forgotten to give him some for dinner. Damn.

We are up three times that night battling him down. Giving more insulin twice, and socking a high temp basal on… By morning he’s in better shape though still too high, 10mmols. Something was pushing his levels up such that they did not want to be brought down quickly.

Honestly. Why? We don’t know. This is the thing. We actually don’t know.

Two possibilities: he has a cold. But it had already come out, and his sugars had been fine. Probably not that.

The other possibility relates to what happened yesterday: one hour after eating a Penguin biscuit and bolusing for it, he’s again 16mmols. WHAT?!

The night we chased him down, he’d also had a Penguin, some time after dinner.

All we can think is that somehow the Penguin is a bit nasty for his blood sugar, even if he doses properly for it. He does love them and often has them with lunch. We’ve never noticed this happening before, but both recent situations are unusual: one was during a dual wave for pasta, so the Penguin would have entered his blood stream in near isolation, not tempered by other food. (It’s also always possible that the pasta dose was not quite right. It’s one of the doses we do mostly by eye.) Last evening, the Penguin was in complete isolation, and we tested an hour after because it was time to eat dinner. Otherwise we never would have discovered the huge spike, because he doesn’t normally test until at least two hours after he eats.

In any case now one of his favourite things is off the menu. Just a chocolate biscuit. But it’s a high price to pay for a snack. He was very upset at having such a spike, so has decided not to have them. It’s the down side of wanting good numbers: guilt and distress at ‘bad’ numbers.

I shake my fist heavenward. Why must everything be fraught with implications and consequences, every single damn choice?! Argh.

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.

I’ve had the odd sense in the last few days that I really shouldn’t do a post about the kittens. There are lots of other things to talk about, and some of the reason I’m here is to talk about them: our experiences with type 1, the way that diabetes is seen and talked about (or not), and our family functioning alongside all of this….

So I’ve decided to DO BOTH. In time-honoured multi-tasking fashion.

First, for days I’ve been haunted by Justin Webb’s article in The Daily Telegraph online. OH sent this to me, and I happened to read it on my way into work, stuck in the car park. I should have known better, because it completely undid me for a few minutes. Once again, the relief of reading about how someone feels, how they understand, how they get it, can be overwhelming. And to have my feelings encapsulated, for just a few moments… Still overwhelms me, and probably always will.

Second, everyone is back at school and so far so pretty good. Daughter M has swung into her last year at this school with real vigour, to the point of having a school play audition from 5-6pm tonight. So watch this space. E’s numbers have been pretty respectable as well, with too many hypos however and a couple of odd highs. The change in routine means a fairly wholesale overhaul of his doses and ratios, so we’ve been chipping through that the last few days, with decent success. Fortunately his night time levels seem to have stabilised, and we had three — count them three! — nights of unbroken sleep.

That saying, he did wake on 2.7mmols one morning. We know the reason and it is this: he fell asleep without testing. We came in and tested him before we went to bed: 3.3mmols. Semi-woke him under great protest, forced in most of a carton of apple juice, and put him on a very low temp for an hour. This was still not enough, clearly, thus the 2.7mmols at 7am.

Lesson: he mustn’t go to sleep without testing. End of story. If he had tested, he would have seen he was too low (eg 5mmols or so) for the night, and had a biscuit, which would have done a far better job of holding him steady in the night.

(Heartache: that he has to do this at all. That this ‘life lesson’ is literally one about life. He forgets it, of course, at his peril. Which is, how shall we say, a stupendous drag.)

Sigh. We continue to live and learn. And learn, and learn and learn.

***

And all along, like our own secret supply of the sweetest music imaginable, are the kittens:

2 weeks old!

Archimedes, Eudora, Artemis and Little Miss Unnamed Yet at the back

Archimedes, Miss Unnamed, Eudora, and Artemis apparently playing dead

Archie standing, Eudora swatting Artemis, Miss Unnamed maybe cleaning?

As you can see from the captions, we are beginning to name them: Archimedes (or Archie) is the larger darker boy. He always looks a bit disheveled and bumbling, because he has long, plush fur, and also M says, because his eyebrows are tufty! Eudora is the lightest, a girl, and she is extremely alert: the first eyes open, the first out of the box. She also now comes toward our voices, which is heart-melting. Artemis is the darker girl (we think). Called thus because of the gender confusion, and because two members of the family are very into mythology (Artemis is often used as a boy’s name now, but is actually a goddess from Greek mythology, a huntress and goddess of wild animals and childbirth). Artemis looks like a delicate one, very fine face. She is third in development and shy, but now beginning to show herself. Miss Unnamed is really only slightly so: we are stuck between Pandora and Eurydice, the former because it’s like Eudora and they are both light, and the latter because she is a bit of a ‘follower’, more reserved — was the last to venture out of the box, and is frequently sleeping while the others are playing. Negatives about Pandora is that she let all sorts of evil out of a box! And that seems unfair to put upon a kitten (though M points out that Pandora also released hope, which was mega good…). Negatives about Eurydice is that a) it’s hard to say and b) it’s hard to spell! And what could it be shortened to in which case? Eury?

Anyway, as you can imagine they are the light of our day and HUGE time-wasters. Cleo is still confined with them, so I’m still doing lots of letting her in and out of the room. Cleo is also eating for Britain, so our cat food bills are tremendous. I allowed Schubert in the room with us today for the first time. Cleo was very relaxed, stretched out. He came in, she watched closely. He sniffed out the room, stuck his head in the box. By this time Cleo was on her feet. He and Cleo sniffed noses, and he left the room.

A good start!

For you real die-hards, I’ve put a 9 minute video up on YouTube. It’s a film of Eudora and then Archie venturing out of the box. Eudora had already been out once, and this shows in her far-wandering propensity. Archie is a brief explorer. Cleo was there and can’t figure out what to do with her wayward daughter….

If you do watch, I apologise for the 2 or 3 minutes of  filming into space… I just forgot what I was doing, alas. Also, mid-way through you can hear E (muffled like the adults talk in the old Charlie Brown and Snoopy films) outside the door. What he’s doing is telling me that he’s home from school and tested his blood. And that it was 15mmols and he doesn’t know why because he’s checked and he did dose for lunch. But that’s he’s corrected with more insulin and won’t have a snack until his level goes down — even though he’s starving. Argh. And heart-tugging.

Anyway, be patient. There’s some nice footage at the end. Such a good mummy!

Almost three days old!

I’m pretty sure that photos of newborns of any species are beautiful pretty much in the eye of the proud grand/parent, but here we are! I snuck in and snapped this first thing this morning, when mama Cleo had popped out to have breakfast and do her usual cruise around the house looking for a singularly inappropriate place to move the babies… Scale-wise, each baby is about 100 grams at the moment, with one slightly larger, at 120g. This one is also the only definite BOY. We *think* we have one boy and three girls. They have increased their weights evenly by about 12% in 24 hours. That’s some growing…

I’ve just stuck my head in. Lots of feeding noises, lots of bickering — I want this spot, no I want this spot! — with mama purring away and resting her head on the backside of one of them. Aww!

She’s very happy. And I’m very happy, because at last this morning she managed to do all of her litter tray ‘business’. Number 1s, as they say, were fine from the start, but I was just getting to the point of trying to investigate mild kitty laxatives, when aha! Done deal. All looked healthy and good. Phew.

My only remaining anxiety (well aside from the larger ‘what is life’ ones and the longer term ‘will all the kittens be okay’ ones) is WHY she won’t drink the water in her room?She has two little bowls, both of which she has drunk out of in other parts of the house, both of which I’ve shown her and dabbed on her nose… But still, she rushes downstairs like a bat out of hell when we let her out to drink from the one on the side of the bath. I mean, I ask you!

I remember what it’s like to breastfeed. You are THIRSTY. Silly girl.

***

And last night I finally had some sleep that wasn’t fraught with worry. I didn’t jerk awake thinking the kittens were squashed, and E’s 3 am number was okay, as was his morning one. Hurray! Perhaps we will not set the alarm tonight? Nah. Too soon. But we may be getting there, for a short time anyway.

Deep cleansing breath.

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!

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.