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He’s back! The Grumpy Pumper has returned to Diabetogenic to share some of his wisdom and wit. If you’ve ever wondered what a Grumpy Xmas looks like, here you go!
It’s almost bloody Christmas again.
A time for joy and happiness.
I hate it!
I remember Christmases before I was diagnosed:
Turkey dinner
Beer
Mince pies
Beer
Cake
Beer
Whiskey
Chocolate
Whiskey
Whiskey…
But now I have Type1 Diabetes!
So how does Christmas look now?
Turkey dinner
Beer
Mince pies
Beer
Cake
Beer
Whiskey
Chocolate
Whiskey
Whiskey…
I’m not going to let some condition that I just happen to have ruin the bits of Christmas that I actually like.
A few more BG checks to keep an eye on progress.
A bit more insulin when needed.
Then repeat for New Year’s Eve.
So whether you will be waiting for Big Ben to give you a bong, or your balls to drop in Times Square, enjoy Christmas. Here’s to 2017. And bollocks to ‘betes!
Live long and bolus,
Grumps
Festive as ever.
Want more from The Grumpy Pumper? Check out his blog here. And follow him on Twitter here.
Today, The Grumpy Pumper has taken over Diabetogenic. That sounds like it was a hostile move, however, the truth is it’s just to shut me up, because every time I speak to Grumps, I tell him he needs to get back to blogging. He may not know this yet, but today’s post is the first of what is going to be a regular (maybe semi-regular – no pressure!) feature, where Grumps is going to share his own brand of diabetes wisdom. It will be called #WWGD.
For a most authentic experience, it’s best to read his words with a frowny, grumbly expression while drinking beer. Sprinkle generously with expletives. Over to you, Sir Grump-A-Lot…
I’ve not blogged for almost six months (stop cheering).
Why not? Basically, I have sod all to blog about!…
You see, I have a special type of diabetes: Type B…Boring Diabetes
I’m lucky to have it. Nothing much changes. No dramas. Just the same most days.
Although, my life has changed recently: new job (well 4 month contract) away from home (140 miles away).
As a result, I’m staying in hotels (crap ones) 4 nights a week.
I’ve been doing it for 4 weeks now, and last night I realised that no one there knows I have T1D.
I don’t share my CGM data with anyone; I hardly ever wear it anyway. I don’t check in with the family so they know if I’m ok. (I never did before DX; I’ve never have done since DX if I’m away.) They have never been involved in my management in any way (my choice).
So…am I stupid (hands down people), confident, or just lucky? I’m lucky I have full hypo awareness still, for sure.
Having asked myself ‘What do you want to change about this all’, I replied to myself – (yes, I know that’s not normal. I like that it’s not normal) – ‘Nothing’.
Okay, I actually replied ‘Fuck all’ but that’s too rude to type…
I don’t want or feel the need to change anything. It’s how I do things. It works for me and my family.
If and when my diabetes gets to be less lazy I may need to change things, but not this day.
So if you ever find yourself wondering or worrying how to handle things, then ask yourself: ‘What Would Grumpy Do?’ And then do the complete opposite. Grumps is a bit of a knob and doesn’t take life very seriously.
Live long and bolus,
Grumps
Grumps low-carbing in Munich.
Want more from The Grumpy Pumper? Check out his blog here. And follow him on Twitter here.
Today, I am so pleased to have Jane Reid guest blog for me. I’ve never met Jane in real life (I hope to one day!), but we are friends on Facebook and seem to have very similar interests. We share a lot of posts about books, libraries, grammar and punctuation. Jane often posts really thoughtful and honest comments to my blog posts and I am always so interested to hear her opinion and experiences. Thanks for sharing today, Jane.
I have lived with T1 for 50 years – well, almost, but who’s counting?
It seems like a long time, but it has whizzed by. From diagnosis, (diabetic ketoacidosis and coma), to now, (pump, some hypo unawareness and some complications), I have lived it all with the help of my parents, my friends, my HCPs, and most of all, my husband who has put up with nearly 43 years of type 1. He told me yesterday that any sort of illness or set back that affects one of us is OUR problem. That is true love.
For the first few years I lived through what I call the ‘dark ages’. Glass syringes, horrible, large needles that went blunt quickly and testing (if you can call it that) with tablets dropped into a mixture of urine and water. If the result was blue, you were probably hypo; if the result was orange-brown you were high. My first specialist-physician (did they even have endos in 1965?) did me the greatest favour he could have. He told me that I would be the person who knew most about my diabetes, and he was correct. Thank you, Tom Robertson!
Jane
When I look back, I now realise that I had gastroparesis from quite early on, although it was only diagnosed ten years ago. Maybe I just didn’t want to know at that time, and I certainly never told any HCPs. I could probably have saved myself a lot of grief if I had.
The complication I really feared was retinopathy. I am a voracious reader, and I had heard gruesome tales of people going blind. Well, it wasn’t as bad as that, and it took over twenty years to develop. The treatment was worse than the fear, and the waiting around to see the ophthalmologist was worse than the treatment. I was treated by an ophthalmologist whom I can only describe as arrogant, and patronising. He did, however, save the majority of my sight, although I have almost no peripheral vision and can no longer drive.
I have had no treatment for over twenty years, so I guess he knew what he was doing. Losing my driving licence was the worst thing for me, although it was not until ten years ago. It has, to a certain extent, taken away my autonomy and independence, although every time I get into the car I know why I no longer drive. Believe me; everyone else on the road is safer because I’m not behind the wheel!
My latest complication is diabetic nephropathy (CKD). I was, to put it mildly, surprised and depressed when I found out. Luckily, the specialist I was sent to in the ACT, put me at ease, told me all about it, and arranged for a kidney biopsy. That showed that the disease was not nearly as bad as first thought, and was only at the very first stage. His comment to me was ‘I’m the same age as you, and I’ll look after you for the next seven years, and then I’ll hand you onto someone else when I retire’. That was reassuring!
I’d prefer not to have type 1 diabetes, but I can live with it. I’ve found out that I can live with complications; sure, I’d prefer not to, but they just become part of life. The worry and the fear are worse than the reality. I just do the best I can. None of us can do more than that.
Jane Reid is a proud member of the Newcastle Knights Rugby League Club and early next year will be eligible to receive a Kellion Medal for living with type 1 diabetes for 50 years – congratulations Jane!
Last month, my mate Mike Hoskins asked me to write something for Diabetes Mine. So I did.
It’s called A Word From Down Under, and I’m a little annoyed I didn’t add some commentary about throwing shrimps on the barbie, riding my ‘roo to work, or eating vegemite sangas. Missed opportunity.
This week, the new school year starts for many kids and teens in Australia. I proudly watched our big nine-year-old walk into her new classroom – seemingly confident and secure. As parents, we know that with each passing year, we have to hand over a little responsibility as our kids grow up. We need to foster their independence and celebrate it, even at times when we want to bundle them up and try to protect them from the big bad world.
Today, my dear friend Catherine Forbes, writes about how her family is navigating independence with their fifteen year-old daughter who just happens to have type 1 diabetes. I love Cath’s attitude and approach because raising her beautiful girl isn’t about diabetes. It’s about helping her daughter be the best person she can be. Diabetes or not, I think this is relevant to all of us. Thanks for writing, Cath.
One of the most amazing things about watching your child grow up is seeing them take on their own responsibilities and realising that, even without you, they will thrive. It’s no different when your child has type 1 diabetes.
For the past ten years, it’s been my job to look after my daughter; to keep her safe; to keep her alive. I’ve been the one testing, injecting, doing site changes, making adjustments and going to appointments. I’ve been the one checking the carb count in every piece of food that she eats. I’ve been the one nagging. I’ve been her carer – and it’s been the most important job that I have ever done. Sometimes, it’s extremely difficult to let go of that. It becomes our identifier. It’s who we are.
Cath and her daughter
But, I’m here to tell you that ‘letting go’ is so worth it, so rewarding and, ultimately, the best possible thing that you can do for your child.
Now, I’m not talking about handing everything over to them and walking away. That would be a disaster. What I’m talking about is slowly letting go of the control that we have, allowing them to make their own decisions and their own mistakes. Allowing them to learn how to look after themselves safely for the rest of their lives.
Let’s face it; as much as we joke about them having to build a granny flat for us when they move out, the reality is that they are likely to be living on their own at some stage. Possibly living with friends or a partner. And certainly – not with us. We want them to be confident and competent in their own care. We want them to know what to do in any given situation. And we want them to live happy lives.
Twelve months ago, we began consciously working on this transition time with our daughter. She was 14 years old and had just been selected to tour the United Kingdom and France with her school netball team. Even though she would have teachers with her for the tour, we wanted her to be confident enough to look after herself while she was away. I made sure that she knew that I was there for her if she needed me and, nervously, handed over the responsibility for testing, carb counting and bolusing her insulin. I did not ask. I did not nag. I cut back on the night time testing.
I admit to you all that, as we approached her quarterly visit to Diabetes Clinic, I feared that we would see the worst HbA1c ever. It was a tough lesson – but also one of the proudest moments of my life – when she presented her best result EVER. She had taken control. She had stepped up. She had set her own alarms to test during the night or she had asked me to check on her. She had worn her Dexcom CGM and taken great interest in the effect of different foods and activity on her blood glucose levels. Essentially, she was doing this on her own.
Cath’s daughter at Stonehenge
When September rolled around and we waved her and her school mates goodbye, we knew that she was going to be just fine. And, more importantly, SHE knew that she was going to be just fine. For almost three weeks, I did not know her levels – not one of them. I didn’t know what she ate or what activity she was dealing with. And, when we spoke via Skype, diabetes was not mentioned once. She told me about her adventures and the people that she had met. It was magical. A huge turning point.
Now, she is still driving her own diabetes management. Several weeks ago, she told me that she wanted a pump holiday. She asked me for guidance and I showed her what needed to be done. In the past, her “holidays” have barely lasted a week. Now, with her in the driver’s seat, she is entering week four on multiple daily injections and she is doing great. I don’t know what all her levels have been but she is happy with them and that’s all that matters. I see her testing. I see her injecting. I know that she is going to be just fine.
I know some remarkable and inspirational young people who just happen to live with diabetes – and I know that my daughter will be in good company in this community. She too will be an amazing young person – taking life by the horns and doing whatever she chooses. Diabetes is just a tiny part of the incredible woman that she is.
Catherine Forbes is a mother, advocate, volunteer and peer support mentor. You can follow her on Twitter here.
This is the story of Hypo Boy who, when not being a superhero, is the fabulous Spike Beecroft. I’ve known Spike for quite some time, and his incredibly amusing anecdotes about his life with diabetes never fail to have me in fits of laughter. This is a classic Hypo Boy tale that has been shared many times before. Recently, it appeared again on my Facebook page, and I asked Spike to guest blog and write about it here so you could all enjoy. Take it away, Hypo Boy…
People with diabetes are super human in lots of ways. We do the little bit extra that others just can’t do. Sure it’s not flying or shooting laser beams but it is a little extraordinary, and when you’re in hypo zone, that ‘super-ness’ can overwhelm your brain and give you powers you didn’t know you had; in fact it can give you powers you don’t actually have but you become convinced they’re there. My inner and very confused superhero is Hypo-Boy.
There are a number of things we all have to do in life that are stressful. Some we can manage to avoid with very little effort, like speaking in public or getting married. One stressful occasion that is difficult to avoid is moving house. Even if you opt to stay with your parents for your life at some point they will move to avoid you.
Stress does strange things to PWD and stressful situations confuse your finely-tuned spider sense of what’s going on with your finely-tuned and gym-trained body. If you’re hypo unaware and under massive stress and your gym routine consists of only riding a bike (you’ve seen those guys – they’re all legs and bits of string from their shoulders instead of arms) then moving house is a disaster waiting to happen.
The fateful day had arrived and I’d started the long and very strenuous task of packing up the house into boxes, loading said boxes into the truck and then transporting them to their next destination. Being an engineer and a logical person with type 1, I decided to start working from the back of the house and move forward. It was a clear and concise plan that involved the placement of items in the truck with regard given to weight, size, ease of load and unload. It was a perfect plan.
Then I started moving stuff.
It was going well – I was ahead of my predetermined plan, boxes where moving, I had a rhythm, I didn’t have time to test, I stumbled occasionally due to the weight/size of the stuff I was moving, the sweat on my brow was what they talked about in VB ads. I was THE MAN.
Hypo Boy knows one thing and he knows it well – Hypo boy knows when he’s low and everyone else are retards of the highest order. In retrospect the stumbling was due to being low and not being super co-ordinated; the sweat was from being low. But I was on schedule and I do like the odd VB.
The last item to be moved from the room was a big white couch. It’s a three person couch – one of those things that’s not super heavy, but is awkward to manoeuvre. It’s really a two-person job, but Hypo Boy can convince you (and himself) of many things including that he is THE MAN and that physics and ergonomics are fantasies. And also that the fuzzy vision and misjudging the size of items is just from the stinging of man-sweat.
Hypo Boy decided that the most efficient way to manoeuvre the couch out of the room was to tip it vertically and slide it on one end through the doorway. Lifting couch vertically and sliding couch on the fabric side across floorboards couldn’t be easier. Hypo Boy’s brain knows its stuff. This was going to work. Perfectly! Or until it’s halfway through the door and perfectly jammed in the door jamb.
Whilst a couch on its side does slide nicely across a polished timber floor, a vertically arranged couch with its back facing you, jammed in a doorframe provides almost nothing to grip on and use to push either forwards or to pull back on to reverse the operation.
After a few tries at various methods to move the couch, the sudden and very real feeling of weakness that comes from realising that you’re low hit. , And I realised I was not just low, but orange-box-NOW kind of low. Hypo boy had deserted me; taking with him his strength and mental clarity and leaving me stuck in a room with no hope of escape because I’d successfully stuck a couch in the only exit.
A real feeling of fear as I desperately tried to un-jam the couch and get to the hypo fix. But when you’re really low the ability to open a Mars Bar can escape you let alone trying to move a couch! And logically working out how to move the thing is way beyond what I capable off. It was looking grim. I could see the news headlines –MAN FOUND DEAD TRAPPED IN OWN ROOM. POLICE BAFFLED.
Fortunately for all of Hypo Boy’s fans an alternative plan hatched. Maybe – just maybe – Hypo Boy’s last vestiges of power would help. Exit the room via the window! And so I did. Then the next challenge: the locked back door. Again Hypo Boy’s brilliance came through: crawl through the dog door. Hypo boy looks good in lycra, but could afford to lose a few kilos. Doggie door needed some minor attention after its use by an animal several sizes larger than the designers ever considered.
Finally the kitchen! Hypo boy could save himself!! Why Hypo Boy had packed the jelly beans first was a question for later. There were slightly stale and not so crisp Ginger nut biscuits that would have to do! Well done Hypo Boy. Well done.
Later forensic investigation would reveal that:
a) the couch was pretty well jammed in
b) trying to grab the couch on the other corner would have made the couch twist nicely and popped it out of the door allowing the move to continue, Hypo Boy is obviously VERY, VERY focused on the right side of the world.
Thank you Spike for guest posting today. Please come back again and share more of your stories!
