Dear Type 1 Diabetes,
We need to talk.
I thought we had established some ground rules when you declared squatters rights and moved into my six year old almost three years ago.
I thought we had reached a compromise.
I got you the good shit you wanted. And I fought for it, I walked away from a bloody awesome career to ensure that you would have all you need to live in my girl and not hurt her.
You have an insulin pump to feed you every living second, and now I have a continuous glucose monitor to let me know when you need additional help controlling yourself. It even alarms so I can never forget your existence.
But it would seem it’s not quite good enough.
Either that or you are being a brat and simply don’t want to be controlled.
But that was the deal – you get to live in her and I get to control your existence.
The summer holidays I can almost understand, everyone wants to relax and take it easy and let off some steam.
This is why I didn’t complain when you held a party and sent her blood sugars racing and her moods irrational for two weeks. I’ll admit to f’ing and blinding at you when you sent her so low she couldn’t tell me her own name and struggled to stand. That was a low blow and you scared me.
Summer holidays or not – you deserved every curse word that night.
You need to get back with the program. School has started and I am tired of this crap.
What the feck was last night about? It was a school day, work is full on, I need my sleep. Even you must realise that we can’t go on when you send her bloods to 22 one hour and then crashing down to 2.3 then next. I reckon I got about two hours kip between the sounds of the alarm of that sodding glucose moniter. I don’t think, judging by the paleness of her skin, my beautiful daughter fared that well either.
Hope you are enjoying her foul mood at school today….
I’m still too angry to talk to you properly and so tired I can barely formulate the words.
I am doing my bit, following the rules. I know the carbs for everything, I test at night, I speak to school, ballet, gymnastics and drama, my local MP – everyone knows about you, you egotistical bastard.
And I’ll keep it that way, I’ll keep telling the world about you, raising awareness of who you are and what you do. I’ll shout so loudly about you, my foul little friend, that everyone will know the signs of your arrival in their child, the tiredness, the thirst, the weight loss and the need to go to the toilet excessively. I’ll share with people how to appease you so you live a long happy life in the body you target.
But you need to let me sleep, I could go to Tenerife on Easyjet and not pay for hold luggage with the bags under my eyes.
Let me sleep, let her sleep, and sit within normal range – just for a bit. I can’t scream about your difference to your sibling Type 2 if you won’t let me sleep.
And you know how you hate being confused with him; how mad it drives you when he gets all the limelight. Even Jamie bloody Oliver has a show about sugar and it is all about Type 2 my friend, not you. We are only going to get on the telly if you let me fecking sleep. The NHS spend a fortune on Diabetic care matey boy, and it is all about him, Type 2. Let me sleep and I’ll raise hell about the postcode lottery that impacts Type 1 diabetes, I’ll stomp my feet for more funding, for better education on Type 1, for more equal care.
But please, let me sleep.
The mother of a Type 1 Warrior