Diabetes Wise

Which Way Out of Heartbreak?

This is a difficult post to write, especially on Valentine's Day.

The day after we arrived back from Italy, Rob stayed down in London with me. I had to get up and go to work the following morning. I left Rob in bed, still half asleep, giving him a kiss and a cuddle and reminding him I much I love him.

I didn't know that would be it. The end of the road.

Last Saturday, Rob reached inside my chest, grabbed out my heart and squeezed it until it broke. Or at least he may as well have done. I've been left scrabbling around on the floor, trying to fit the pieces back together.

I spoke to Rob on the phone at two thirty in the morning last Saturday. He told me, as always, how much he loved and missed me, how he couldn't wait to be with me again the next weekend.

Eleven hours later we spoke. He told me again that he loved me but then, like a bolt from the blue, told me that it wasn't enough, that he didn't want to go on with our relationship.

In that second, standing in a hot overcrowded room at a professional conference, my world began to unravel and nothing has been the same the since.

I have no idea what changed in the space of eleven hours. I'm perhaps more scared that nothing did. The love that Rob expressed to me in the middle of the night seemed as genuine and sincere as always. But Rob is a terrible liar, completely unable to hide his true feelings. Real love has no off switch, and I refuse to believe this was a snap decision, he must have already known at half past two what he planned to do when the sun had risen. If he didn't mean it when he told me he loved me then, that leaves only one logical conclusion.

He never has meant it.

The man who made me feel all this. My buddy, my rock, my partner in crime. The person I wanted to share my highs and lows with. The person who understood me and what makes me tick. The guy who was always there, at the end of the phone line, at the end of the train line. The one person who never failed to make me smile, make me laugh, make me love.

Now all he makes me do is cry. All he makes me feel is hurt. In an instant, it's all gone and I'm left wondering if it was ever there in the first place.

I can't find the words to describe how hurt I am, not simply by what has happened, but also the way it was done. Ending a long term, serious relationship over the telephone, even if you are 200 miles apart, just isn't fair. If I meant anything at all, I think he owed it to me to break the news face to face. This is the anger that tempers my tears.

I feel a little like I'm turning in an emotional spin dryer. I can't bear the thought of speaking with Rob, or seeing him again right now. I'm afraid I'd lose my dignity. I'm afraid it would hurt more than I can bear. But at the same time, the thought of never seeing Rob again, of him no longer being a part of my life at all is terrifying.

I'm still not sure that I really know how to get through this, how to find my way out of this heartbreak.

On Monday evening, I went to take my frustrations out on an indoor climbing wall. It's a hobby which, ironically, I took up because Rob loves it so much.

Halfway through a top-roped climb I found myself stuck, unable to figure out my next move, the only logical step for my right foot feeling insurmountable. I looked down, wanting to shout "I can't do it." In that unnatural position, arms and legs spread hanging on to an artificial rock face, I realised that climbing serves as something of a metaphor for life.

You can't look down or backwards. The only way is onwards, upwards, even if you have to push yourself through the pain to do it. You have to trust your belayer not to let you fall like you trust your friends to catch you when life gets tough.

And when you reach the top of an indoor climbing wall, the only way is down.

With heartbreak, the only way is through.

Going The Distance

For the last year, every other Friday, or perhaps every third Friday, I've rushed from work to Euston station to board the overcrowded Virgin Trains service to Liverpool, approximately 200 miles north west of London. And each corresponding Sunday, I've done the journey in reverse. In short, I've been a weekend commuter.

I hate the journey. The rush to make it to the station on time, the fight to secure a seat, the terrible food and lack of WiFi, the delays and the overpricing.

I do it because I'm in love with the man who meets me at Liverpool Lime Street Station.

It was a year ago today that we took our first, tentative steps on this journey. It's been a winding road of discovery, with highs  and lows along the way. But when I look back, I can hardly remember where I started out from .

Rob, I love you.

Facing life, diabetes and other challenges, with you is infinitely easier than facing them without. With you, the world seems brighter in colour and richer in texture. You make me feel beautiful, special and adored. Until I found you, I never knew what was missing from my life. Now, I can't imagine being without you.

But I am. Every weekday. And although the distance, and saying goodbye every Sunday night, threaten to break my heart, you also make me strong enough to handle it until we're both in a position to make a change.

There so many moments from the last twelve months that stand out. The fun times: The week we spent in San Francisco. The restaurant meals. You squeezing me tight when I was afraid at the cinema. Indulging my passion for giraffes and taking me to see them twice. The things your friends said you'd said about me. The not so good times that you somehow made good: One of the first nights we ever spent together, you got up in the middle of the night to find me sugar. The time you sprinted down the road to find cranberry juice for me. The time you held my hair back as I was throwing up.

I remember the time I couldn't bear to say goodbye, so I got on a train and came all the way back to Liverpool with you, because I didn't have to work the following day.

I remember the moment you told me that you loved me.

I remember realising that I already knew, because you'd already shown me.

Thank you, Rob, for being there for me, even when we're far apart. Even when I'm in a bad mood, stressed out or exhausted. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for going the distance with me and making this work.

Thank you too, for the twelve red roses you sent me today at work. Even though they arrived in front of a waiting room full of patients, I cried. They stood in my surgery all afternoon and I was proud to tell every patient, when they asked, that they were a gift from my boyfriend.

Because he loves me.

I love you too.

For Father's Day

I've never been able to find a way to put into words exactly how much I love my dad. I love him simply for who he is and I love him for all that he has done for me.

When I was a kid, testing my blood glucose was often handled by my dad. He was often the one who crawled half asleep from his bed to test me in the middle of the night and the person who sprang to life when I wandered into my parents' room complaining of feeling "wobbley".

For years, I used to get up in the early mornings with my dad who, rose a full half hour before anyone else in the house. He'd be the one who would check my blood sugar before settling me down with something to do. I have vivid memories of him setting up a television in the spare bedroom during the 1988 Olympics. Given that Seoul is several hours ahead of UK time, the sports would be in full swing by 6.30am. I sat and watched equestrian sports with the faint babble of Radio 4's Today programme emanating from the bathroom opposite.

Later, when getting up early was no longer my thing and I was far more likely to ignore the alarm, turn over and pull the duvet over my head, it was always my dad who made sure I got up. Long after I was capable of testing my own blood sugar, he'd still do that first morning test for me, giving me a few extra precious minutes of sleep. My insulin pen would be ready and waiting for me on the breakfast table.

I remember too an occasion when I experienced severe hypoglycaemia at school. My dad, the world's most careful driver, the man who will set the cruise control so he doesn't accidentally exceed the limit in a 30 zone, rushed down the motorway not caring if he got a speeding ticket, just to make sure I was ok.

My dad had dropped everything at work and rushed to be with me  more occasions than I care to count where I've been admitted to hospital, or too ill to cope on my own. He has supported me unconditionally when everything seemed to be gong wrong and it felt like the word was against me. He is never, ever more than a phone call or email away and has never thought twice about sacrificing his own needs for those of his children.

But my relationship with my dad is about far more than just diabetes and illness. He carried me on his shoulders through crowds. He taught me to ride a bike, running behind me, hanging onto the back of the saddle and saying "I won't let go, I won't let go" then moments later "you can do it!" Years later, he sat next to me in my little red mini, and patiently taught me to reverse park. He has shaped me as the person I am. From silly rituals like face pulling and silly sayings, to teaching me right from wrong. From helping me with my tax returns to teaching me how to love.

For years, I've watched my mum and dad as a couple -  a couple who celebrated their 33rd wedding anniversary on Friday - and known exactly what I wanted from a relationship. I blame my dad partly for my long years of being single. My parents' relationship has given me high standards, and it's been hard to find anyone who even comes close to matching up to my dad.

My dad has given me so much, but if he were to go and leave me just one more thing, I'd want his words. He is a brilliant speaker. I'd want from him the words he'd most want to say about me, perhaps the words he would say if I were to get married tomorrow. I'd want to hear those words  to know that I've made my dad proud of me.

And the one thing that I would want to give him back is the realisation that he can only be proud of me because of who he has made me.

It's About Us

Saturday night: After a day out in the heat of London and a huge lunch, R and I opted for an evening in with a bottle of wine and some DVDs. We were part way through watching 'Snakes on a Plane' which neither of us had seen in the cinema. I was finding it amusing, but not highly engaging.

My mind wandered. What should we do tomorrow... what things do I need to do this week... what needs to be planned ahead of our trip at the end of the month... my wireless router.

That's the one that held my attention. What use is a wireless router that no longer works without wires? Or worse, one that no longer seems to work at all?

You're right. Absolutely no use.

But that doesn't explain the level of vehemence with which I suddenly chose to attack the small white and silver object right then in the middle of the film, as people on screen were busy battling to save a 747 full of, erm, snakes.

"Babe. Calm down."

"Why should I? Sixty-five quid I paid for that f***ing piece of c**p."

"But you can't do anything about it now" says R, the voice of reason. "Just calm down."

A few more choice words and much tossing around of cables and chargers later, the end credits roll. There is a noticeable silence and air of indifference from R.

"Are you in a mood with me?" I demanded

Slightly exasperated sigh. "No. But I'd prefer a girlfriend who seemed a little more in control of her mood."

"Fine" I said standing up and moving towards the door. "Maybe you should find another girlfriend then" I added, somewhat quieter. "I'm going to bed."

I briefly contemplated testing my blood sugar before sleep, but I still felt too angry. Angry at the stupid wireless router. Angry that I didn't have internet access when I wanted it. Angry that R just obviously couldn't see how important, really important, this was to me at that moment.

Just as my brain slowly engaged into gear, asking the question "Why? Why on earth is it important at all?" I felt an insistent vibration down by my thigh. Reaching beneath the covers, I hauled my pump up to read the screen:

LOW

One quick fingerstick later and  was staring at the number 2.1 (38)

A few more choice expletives, as I realised that the Lucozade bottle beside my bed was empty. I hauled myself out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen. Fumbling for a new bottle with shaking hands it slipped from my grip bouncing once, maybe twice, before rolling away and coming to rest in the middle of the kitchen floor. I picked it up and twisted the top.

It almost seemed to happen in slow motion. A violent hiss and splutter and a fountain of orange foam burst out and upward over my hands, arcing at chest level before hitting the tiled floor with an insistent splatter and forming a vivid orange lake running in sticky rivulets along the cracks between the tiles.

It went everywhere. Diet coke and Mentos have nothing on shaken up Lucozade.

I rested my head on the counter, my hair trailing in the sink, unable to stop the tears anymore. If R hadn't heard the fizz as the bottle cap came off, he certainly must have heard the words that followed from me.  In a second he's behind me, his hands wrapping around me.

"It's OK babe."

"How can it be OK. I don't want this anymore. I don't want to be low anymore. I don't want to behave like this... this monster anymore."

"Let's just get you to drink this" he says, proffering the sticky Lucozade bottle minus a quarter of its contents.

I beat a retreat to bed, leaving R to clean up my mess.

When he eventually joined me, when he'd helped me to clean up my sticky, orange coated feet, the tears came again.

I wasn't just crying for what an idiot I'd been, for the silly row my low blood sugar had caused, for the mess in the kitchen or even just because I had a headache and felt lousy. I wasn't crying because I hadn't spotted the low sooner, or because the CGM hadn't alerted me sooner, or even because R hadn't spotted it - how could he? My blood sugar had been fine one hour earlier and this dimension in my behaviour is one that he, thankfully, hasn't experienced much.

I was crying more because of the realisation that this time my low was affecting someone else as much as it was affecting me.

This isn't just about me anymore. It's about us.

And while I benefit from facing this as a team, where is the benefit for R?

Somehow this makes me hate diabetes even more.

All that R could do was hold me while I cried and reassure me that he isn't going anywhere.

Lucky Idiot

“Come ooooon…..” I whined, zipped into my coat practically before my boy, R, was dry from the shower. “I’m reeeeeally hungry now”, pointedly putting my boots on as he tried to brush his teeth.

That should have been clue number one, the raging hunger. Fair enough it was already past one o’clock and getting late for lunch But then, we hadn’t eaten breakfast until gone eleven. This was pretty excessive hunger.

By the time we were standing, well wrapped up against the cold, at the bus stop outside my gastric juices were foaming and gurgling and my stomach was beginning to ache. As we sat on the bus the ache turned to nausea, my head beginning to throb ever so slightly.

We stepped off the first bus, waiting for our second ride into Greenwich, and I leaned against the wall to steady myself.

“I don’t feel hungry anymore” I muttered. “I just feel really ill.”

“I guess” I added, almost as an afterthought, “I’d better test my blood sugar, to make sure it isn’t that.”

I fumbled with cold hands in my bag, withdrawing the black zippered case, flipping it open, inserting a strip and applying blood. I watched the little lines dart round in a square shape on the screen of my Freestyle Mini for what felt like an interminable period - something that almost invariably pre-empts a high result.

20.1

“Shit. I’m really high.”

“How high?” R asked as I’m glancing down at the screen of my 522, first cursing it for not warning me, then cursing myself as I realised mistake number one: having earlier silenced a pump alarm without really taking in what it was telling me – that I was already high and on the way up back then.

“Pretty high.” I replied

“Yeah, how high is pretty high?” he asked, without a hint of accusation.

“Twenty. That’s why I was so hungry, and why I now feel so sick”

“What do you want to do?” he asked gently, after guiding me to a seat, buying me a bottle of water and assuring me that no, it really didn’t matter if I was sick right there on the pavement, yes he would hold my hair, and no my breath didn’t smell like pear drops. “You want me to get you home?”

I shook my head.

I made him sit there in the freezing cold, arms wrapped around me as much to keep me warm as to support me, watching buses that would take us where we wanted to be go flying past, for a full thirty minutes as we waited for the insulin to kick in, the sick feeling to go away and normality to return.

“I’m sorry” I mumbled, more than once.

“It’s ok, it’s not your fault” he assured me.

But I think it was. Earlier I’d made the elementary mistake of forgetting to reconnect my pump after disconnecting it. I’d compounded the error by not actually checking my blood sugar at that point, or attempting to bolus for missed basal. I’d well and truly wrecked any chance of getting out of the situation by failing to properly acknowledge the earlier high alert. All of which goes to show that both a pump and a continuous monitor are only as good as the person using them.

“I could have reminded you too though” was his response. “And next time I will. It can be my responsibility as much as yours.”

This crappy situation had a silver lining. As I started to feel better I smiled to myself, really happy to have found someone prepared to embrace this head on.

Sometimes, at least as far as diabetes is concerned, I'm an idiot.

But I feel like a very lucky idiot.

Learning to Fly

Thank you to everyone who commented on my last post, or took the time to email. Your thoughts, your support, your understanding is, as always, overwhelming. Kerri is right that it can be incredibly difficult to express feelings of fear and concern over the internet. It can also be very difficult to express other feelings, including gratitude. I'm finding it impossible to put in to words adequately what your responses mean to me. I can only apologise (again!) for not having at least let you know how grateful I was and how much knowing that all these people who understand are out there, somewhere, means.

I'm also finding it difficult to clearly express, and do justice to, a set of emotions at almost polar opposite to those in my last post; a very different set of experiences and feelings that have come to pass since then.

Very recently I've learned that reconnecting with people from your past can be a wondeful thing to do.

I've been discovering that teaching someone who wants to know about the ins and outs of life with diabetes can be refreshing, fun even, and something to really restore motivation.

I've found that seeing someone else take in diabetes as a part of you just as much as the colour of your hair or your favourite pastimes, and realising that they see an insulin pump no differently to the nose on your face is uplifting, and something that can really help to restore inner peace with the beast.

It has been unseasonably warm in London, to the extent of not always needing a jacket when I go out. It has done nothing for my festive spirit, but this year I'm learning that Christmas isn't necessarily the only thing that brings magic to December.

I'm lifting out of depression... I'm learning to fly.

Low and Alone

I'd intended on an early night last night. I was exhausted from those ridiculous highs, caused by a failing infusion set and prolonged by my stubbornness - choosing to rage bolus rather than take a shot or change it at around 1am. I gave in at 5am when I met that second peak, along with a bunch of ketones and I spent the day with a tired, hungover feeling.

But the early night never happened.

Instead I became mesmerised by tracking the progression of this flat line low, that saw my blood sugar stay under 4.0 mmol/l (72mg/dl) for over six hours, as I shovelled carbs into my mouth until I thought I would surely burst. For the first time since I started using it, I wanted the Guardian to be wrong, to be misreading the numbers and misleading me. I made my way through more than 10 test strips in my quest to catch it out. The Guardian just wailed sweetly at me, the technological equivalent of a smug smile. If it wasn't for the fact that it was actually doing me a favour, I'd have hurled it against the wall.

I didn't want to go to sleep until I could see an end to this. I pulled back my basal rates dramatically and watched trashy TV, waiting for the carbs to hit, and the decreased basal to take effect. Eventually, a little after midnight, a finger stick yielded 8.3 (150) and then I must have drifted off.

I was awoken around half an hour later by the insistent alarm of the Guardian. I was back to 3.9 (70)

Lying in the darkness, the window open just a little, I could hear the distant screaming of sirens. An ambulance, perhaps, racing across London's streets. Of course I was thankful that it wasn't coming to me, but at the same time I was acutely aware that even if I had needed it, it wouldn't be coming. Because there was no one else there to call it. Just me, on my own.

Twenty minutes later the Guardian stirred to life again. As I simultaneously reached with one hand to silence it, and with the other to my testing kit, I couldn't help but wonder if there would ever be anyone there; if I will ever find someone who will happily tolerate these rude awakenings; who will sit with me as I eat my way through the entire contents of the kitchen in a single midnight feast; who will share a bed with not only me, but also my pump and all the leftover crumbs.

I know that there are so many people with diabetes out there who have successful, supportive relationships. In fact, I wasn't going to share any of this here, feeling it may be somehow a step too intimate. Until I read Kerri's story tonight and found myself overwhelmingly unable to hold back the tears.

Even I am shocked by the intensity of my emotion. I've never felt before like I needed someone so much as I did last night. I've always been a very independent person, who likes my own company. I have a good network of friends, but despite spending the evening with several of them, I've been unable to confide any of this, because that isn't what I'm looking for. I need more than I can ask my friends to give.

I feel again now like I did last night as I continued to lie in the darkness listening to the distant sounds of a city that never sleeps: that finding what I'm looking for might just be an unreachable goal.