diabetic blatherings

Last night, after I had dropped Oliver at Judo, I went to do a food shop.  This is about the third or fourth biggish food shop since he was diagnosed with diabetes, and each time I have felt my throat tighten and tears threaten.  For years I have had periods of time where I have dieted, and avidly read food labels for calories and fats.  Now I look at labels for carbohydrates because I have to, and it is for my little boy, not some poxy diet.  And that makes me want to cry. 

We visited new friends yesterday, a lady who has a little boy with diabetes, and she has said I am coping well with the diagnosis.  I feel a bit unnaturally calm with it to tell the truth.  I keep thinking I should feel more frightened, a bit more hysterical, but the reality is, when I start thinking hard about it all, I stop myself from feeling panic.  Partly because Oliver is 'well', and for a period of time at least, this can be fairly easily 'managed', and partly because I think I am a bit scared of being scared. 

One thing I am pleased with, and take a small satsfaction from, is that I took the trouble to explain to him why I was taking him to the Doctors initially - what I was worried about and what might happen if diabetes was the outcome.  Obviously at the time this was an 'if, if, if', conversation and this did cause tears and a little worry for him beforehand.  Still, if he didn't have this info, and hadn't had a notion of the 'if, if, if', I think he would have gone to pieces with the shock.  Forewarned is forearmed?  Or a little knowledge is a dangerous thing?  Who bloody knows.  I suppose it's down to how well you know your kid.  I will always remember her telling us in the surgery that day.  ('I'm sorry, but your instincts are spot on.'  Who wants their instincts to be spot on?  Usually instincts are an indication of something horrible going on) and I will always remember Oliver and I looking at each other open-mouthed with shock and fear, and feeling what I imagine he felt.  Bloody frightened, and I had to be the parent.  No time to cry, that would have scared him more.  I put him in the car so I could ring Mark to tell him.  No time to cry, Mark was clearly shocked too.  Back in the car and straight to the hospital.  No time to cry, Oliver is still tearful.  At the hospital and waiting, and waiting, and testing, and waiting.  No time to cry, he is being admitted.  I went home alone to get some things.  That was the time to cry, but I didn't.  Fool. 

For now, the time for my weeping and wailing has passed and I just feel deeply sad.  Learning to live a little differently is the order of the day.  For Mark and I this is only for the next 10 years tops.  For our precious little boy, it is for ever. 

Now, a spot of crochet

I feel that with my (relatively) new found crochet fetish, I don't want to fall prey to the WIP syndrome, so I have delved into the alarming number of bags accumulating around the place to take stock of my current position.  .  Well, that, and the fact that after a trip to Trago on Saturday Mark started a conversation off with 'not wanting to moan....'  (HAH!  If ever there was going to be a moan coming up - then surely this was going to be it) '...but why have you bought more wool?'  My defence was sound, if a little pissy, but I don't want the wool purchasing to get out of control and overwhelm me with it's silent and reproachful mocking from dusty corners.

So, in no particular order,

The bullseye square blanket.  I really like this one, and I think (hope) Oliver will like it once it's finished, as it's a bit boy-sy.  Then I may get a bit of breathing space for completing this bloody thing which is still haunting me:

The never-ending granny stripe.  I started this in France, in September, for Oliver using colours of his choosing.  I love it, but it is tits boring to do and growing no bigger with every stripe.

My crochet square swap squares.  Now finished - yes, that's f-i-n-i-s-h-e-d.  Ta dah indeed (tee hee Kim).

Then there is this:

From the Cute & Easy crochet book, the wave cushion.  This is one finished side, which I really enjoyed doing, and love the colours, but I just can't face the thought of having to chain a new starting line for the other side, and so it sits, sulking away with the granny stripe.

Which brings me on to this:

This is the wool which caused all the aggro on Saturday.  I blame C*****a.  You know who you are.  She turned up on Wednesday with a beautiful chunky granny blanket casually chucked in the buggy,  and with no preamble stated that she'd made one for all the kids.  I was under the impression that she could barely crochet a few weeks earlier!  I was well impressed with it (and her), and felt the urge to chunky-up myself.  (I am quite impressionable in this respect).  This granny square took under 10 minutes sitting in my Mum's kitchen, so this is a very tempting medium.  Think I may try a chunky scarf with these squares, or just do lines of double crochet. 

Actually, I don't think that's excessive.  Do you??

spooky

Yesterday I read this quote on the internet:

Woe to you! You thieves and imitators of other people's labour and talents.

Beware of laying your audacious hand on this artwork.

It was made by Albrecht Durer in 1511 on the title page of a series of woodblock prints entitled 'Life of the Virgin'.

Last night we were watching an old episode of Morse on DVD, 'Who Killed Harry Field'.  In the last scene Morse utters this very quote.  It happens at 7 minutes in,  if you can be arsed to take a look.

I can't seem to post the actual clip here, my computer 'skills' seem to be malfunctioning this morning, sorry.  I just wanted to record it for my own benefit, as it sent a chill down my spine.  Weird to come across the same 500 year old quote for the first time both within hours of each other. 

The thing I was reading on the internet was about Pinterest, and the current hoo-hah around copyright infringement.  I am not on Pinterest, although I was (p)interested in the concept.  ha ha, see what I did there?  I don't feel massively strongly about banging on about copyright, but I found the story about the fashion student interesting:  She had posted  a photo of herself on her blog and was subsequently, and understandably, a tad taken aback to pop into Tesco for a bunch of bananas only to find that the image from her blog had been taken up by Tesco and printed onto t-shirts!!  Bit cheeky and slack of Tesco I feel.  I made the bit up about the bananas.

Thanks

For the really kind comments regarding Oliver and his diagnosis.

It is comforting to know there is support and kindness out there, and I will reach out for it at some point for all our sakes.

So very appreciated.

xxx

moving swiftly on

because there are no other options.....

This is the drug haul we came home with on Saturday:

Obviously that is not the amount of stuff we need to carry around with us, and Oliver's daily stuff is in a little 'travel pack' bag-ette which the hospital clearly issue to children.  Much to Oliver's chagrin, this bag is bright green with a little frog picture on it.  We fondly refer to it as the gay green bag.  No offfence intended to the gay community.  I think I will have to try to trendy this item up for him. Presumably by replacing it altogether.....

On a brighter note, yesterday was mother's day and Oliver (ably paid for by Mark) bought me sparkling wine, maltesers, a DVD, the Hairy Bikers Bakeation book and some beautiful flowers:

Uplifting.  A bit.

What a difference a day makes...

...24 little hours.

Within this particular 24 little hours we discovered Oliver has diabetes. 

It feels like, within minutes, our lives changed forever.

I am sure that every parent, who gets told something life-changing feels like this.  Stunned. 

For us, there was no big build up - no advance warning - wham.  There you go, your kid's life will be more difficult for him - for ever. 

Oliver had been, suddenly, drinking loads, exceptionally unusually wetting the bed a few times and a  bit tired.  Being the sort of people Mark and I are, (paranoid parents), anything a bit extraordinary sets off alarm bells, and so Internet poking about was done, and an appointment was booked with our Doc, and on Thursday, her considered tone in uttering the word 'right,' set off alarms bells that signalled the end of life as we knew it. 

I drove straight from there to the hospital where we received the most caring of care, attention and support for two very long days, while we three had to adjust to the news our son had type 1 diabetes - for good. There is no reason why - no hereditary factors, no dietary factors - his pancreas does not produce enough insulin to  transfer sugars from foods into the body.  There it is.  That's it.  Oliver must now face an immediate future of 4 insulin injections per day, plus numerous finger-pricking blood glucose tests. 

I have to say, I just feel an immense sadness.  I feel sad his life is so fractured in this way, and so sad that the 'normality' of food he so enjoyed has gone for good. 

He has been wonderful.   He did cry.  Quite a few times.  His tears flow when the realisation that this is forever overwhelms him.  He has not cried over insulin jabs, nor the inconvenience of having his mealtimes scrutinised or the fact he can no longer freely eat whatever and whenever he likes.  (You have to know Oliver to appreciate the blow to his week this is).  His attitude to blood sugar tests and jabs 4+ times a day has been impressive.  He has done them all himself for the last day or so, and he seems to have a full grasp of what diabetes is, and what it means for him.  Our pride in his attitude is at bursting point. 

We came home this afternoon, and at the moment, we have to telephone the paediatric diabetes nurse before each meal, to tell her what he is going to eat, and after a blood sugar test, so she can tell us what insulin level he must inject in order to cope with the sugar levels in the food we are giving him.

Every time he says he is hungry, my stomach lurches, because I have to think 'What can I give him? What will this do to his blood sugar level? What will fit in with the meals he is having today? What time is it?'  I know for sure we will get on with this - it will be second nature within weeks,  I have no doubts.

I said as much to Oliver tonight as he prepared his overnight insulin, and then it hit me that this was to be our new reality, and the way we have lived with him for nine years is over for good.

That's when I felt like collapsing into self-indulgent, useless tears. 

But I didn't.   Not right now. 

Day one

of my new gardening career.  Well, day one of my new intention to run the garden.  Another lovely warm afternoon, so I dragged my protesting son outside to share in my venture.  He got a bit more on board once he'd planted some real life seeds in the bed I've allocated to him.  He wants to grow potatoes, onions and carrots.  Truly I cannot really see the point in growing your own carrots since they are so cheap to buy year round.  If I had my way and could be arsed, I'd have a garden full of mediterranean veg because it's costly to buy.  I shall make do with courgettes and runners, both of which are expensive and have done really well in the past.  My heart sank a little when Oliver said he wanted to grow spuds, as they seem to be a bit complicated, what with chitting, earthing-up, earlies and what not.  Confused.com. 

And to those who have heard me moaning about my garden - this is the reason why:

There are yet more steps behind where I am standing to take this photo, which lead to the bottom of the garden where the veg department lives.

It is bloody miles from the house and I am always out of breath by the time I get up to the front door (and I am not that unfit).  I have lost count of the times I have hauled myself up to the house to find I have left the front door key down by the shed.  My howls of rage have stirred foxes from their dens.