Since the October diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes twin girl and I have both started to refer to her in a numeric form.
This morning started with the following conversation;
“What are you Molly?”
Quick prick of the finger, a sucking of blood, a lick away of the excess red gloop and then a flashing number.
“Oh, I’m 5 mummy, all fine.”
I then relax a little, 5 is a good number.
Later when Twin girl complains of a headache I ask again, “what are you Molly?”
The needle jabs in again, the blood struggles to come so we squeeze and push until a droplet appears, the machine eats it and the magic number appears.
“I’m high,” she says flatly, “what did I do.”
I pause for a moment, reflecting quickly on what just happened. She is 14 (a non diabetic has blood sugar levels of between 4-8; twin girl tells me at 14 you tend to feel crap) she didn’t make herself high, her diabetes is to blame for that.
Still she feels worse.
In some way I have turned her into a number. Imagine if someone referred to you by your weight all the time?
It could go like this…
Mummy : “oh I am tired,”
Twin Girl : “jump on the scales mummy”
Much reluctance would come from me, and I would shed of every scrap of clothing, pull my stomach in and then eventually I would stand on.
The scales would bleat a rather high figure at me.
“I’m high, I’m fat” is what I would mutter, feeling no better for the experience.
Twin girl would nod at me, “maybe you should cut out the chocolate and wine, eh? Try and get to a 9?”
I don’t think I would like to be a number, certainly for something I can only exert a certain amount of control over. Weight is a poor comparison to Type 1 diabetes, I can get my number down, diabetes is known to bend the rules, it dislikes to be controlled.
It’s time for Twin girl to be Molly again, not a 3, 9, or 15.
It’s bloody challenging this diabetic game; bear with me though, I will work it out.
The mornings conversation ended like this…
“Your blood sugar is 14 honey, you have done nothing wrong. Now let’s have a run around the garden and get rid of some sugar, if that doesn’t work the extra insulin at lunch will scare it off.” I may have also patted myself on the back for my calm, measured, loving reaction whilst looking again for the man from Tesco’s to rock up with my Mother of the Year award.
My darling daughter looked at me with red eyes and said…
“So you are not cross?”
“No, silly it’s not your fault.”
Twin girl grinned at me cheekily.
“I know mummy, but that chocolate biscuit properly didn’t help!”
It would seem she is typical of a number – a cheeky little 7 year old.