The Sugar-Blood Diaries: Blood Is Thicker Than Treacle

This is the first in a new series of blog entries which will, I hope, be a reasonably entertaining and brutally honest look at my day to day life, “coping” with diabetes.

Notice the quotation marks? That’s because i’m not entirely sure that I am coping. Not in a “OH MY GOD THIS IS SO HARD!” kind of way, you understand. More like a “I kind of suck at being an adult, is ice cream good for breakfast?” sort of thing.

So, if you’d like a laugh at my expense and perhaps some useful information about diabetes and life and all that balls, then read on dear…reader. That doesn’t scan well, bad start. ONWARDS!

Saturday the 9th of April, in the year of someone else’s lord, 2016. That’s the day that I found out I was diabetic.

On the Friday night, I discovered a small lump on my inner thigh. I actually noticed when I sat on the toilet and felt a sharp pain. Obviously, my first thought was “FUCK! SCORPION!”, but after inspecting my trousers and finding no venomous arachnids within, I realised I had an abscess.

The next morning, I shot down to the Minor Injuries unit at the local hospital. I’d expected to leave with a course of antibiotics and a feeling of slight embarassment at having to hold my gentlemen’s sexual paraphernalia to one side while I was checked over by a nurse. I got both of those things, but they came with a side order of shitty news.

The nurse checked by blood sugar levels, which as an adult, should sit somewhere between 4 to 6 millimols. If you’re picturing a “Milly Mole” as an adorable mole girl in a flower print dress, you’re  not alone. My blood sugar was sitting happily at 18.5 delightful Farthing Wood characters. I’m amazed that the testing machine didn’t ask for some pancakes to go with the syrup.

We Have A Bleeder

Blood was taken, advice was given, appointments were made and I went home to start scratching sugar from my diet. As a long time Coke addict (beverage, not nose candy), it wasn’t an easy switch but I swapped out the sugary drinks for fizzy water, reduced portion sizes, changed eating habits, etc. This all came with a healthy dose of pissing and moaning about never eating cake again.

Wednesday came and I received a call from the doctor, who told me to head to accident and emergency as soon as I could…

Dear reader, I will cheerfully admit to you that, at that point, I emptied my metaphorical bowels with considerable force. A thousand questions raced through my mind. Why did I need to be seen so urgently? Was my blood caramelizing? Was I slowly turning into a delicious doughnut? Would there be adequate parking?!

If I had known that the doctor was working in A&E at the time and as it was quiet, thought that just the easiest and quickest way to see me, I could have saved myself a pair of jeans.

My levels were tested again and now sat at 21.6 adorable wee molefolk. I was weighed too and in a world first, i’m actually going to share my weight with the wide world. 22 stone. To give you some perspective, that’s roughly how much crap an elephant can put out in a day. I’m a giant elephant shit of a human being.

A week on and i’ve been ever so good. I’ve been trying to get more exercise, despite having chosen my feet from a lineup of lower limb misshapes. I set up reminders on my phone and take my meds. My diet has improved hugely.

At last count, i’ve lost roughly 5lbs and my blood sugar is down to 10.2. I plan to celebrate by snorting six pounds of icing sugar.