Today we’re going to share our most memorable diabetes day. You can take this anywhere…. your or your loved one’s diagnosis, a bad low, a bad high, a big success, any day that you’d like to share. (Thanks to Jasmine of Silver-Lined for this topic suggestion.)
You would think that my most memorable diabetes day would be diagnosis, but I honestly think that is another post for another time. It’s long, super personal, and probably deserves a special post of it’s own.
My most memorable diabetes moment? The night I came home from hospital.
This is not a happy memory, sorry in advance.
I remember this vividly. In true nerdy Georgie style I had been stressing about my year 12 assessments while in hospital (looking back this was probably a way to push aside the fact I had just been diagnosed with a lifelong chronic illness) and thus had not really thought very much about day to day life with this new diabetes thing. Diabetes just seemed confined to my hospital room, it was medical and annoying but hey, that’s hospital in general right?
I came home mid-afternoon, had a nap, then walked out to dinner and sat down at the table.
That’s when it hit me.
I had to inject myself for this.
I had to prick my finger.
I had to count my food.
I had to go against every single feeling that my body was experiencing. I was still terrified of needles, I had JUST got myself out of seeing food as numbers, yet to stay alive I had to throw all of this away.
I had to do this at least 4 times a day, every day, for the rest of my life.
Needless to say (excuse the language) I lost my shit.
I looked down at the roast dinner Mum had cooked and just started crying silently. All my aunt and Mum had to do was look at me and say “Oh George…” and I became a wailing, snotty, waterfall of tears.
I couldn’t talk or verbalise my feelings. I just…I still remember the loss of control I felt over my body and emotions. I physically could not stop crying or shaking, it was like this uncontrollable wave of emotion that just kept dumping me under, again and again. I pushed my chair back from the table, went out onto the porch, slammed the door and ran.
I ran through my suburban streets for about half an hour. In leggings, a t-shirt and bare feet. I ran and cried. It was such a strange feeling, I couldn’t control my sobs or my feet, they kept running and I kept crying. I was just so ANGRY at the world. It wasn’t FAIR. I don’t know what my neighbours must have thought…a 17 year old girl running down the street with bare feet and tears and snot flying out behind her. To the residents of Cheltenham in March 2010, I apologise
I stopped running when I returned to the end of my street. I had scratches all over my feet and legs, and my arms where I had dug my nails in, to try and feel something more painful than what I currently I was. Didn’t work, needless to say.
I came home, got into bed, and slept for about 10 hours. When I woke up the next morning, I felt a little better. I took a few deep breaths, sucked it up, tested and injected, and went to school.
The above memory is why I get angry at people telling me to “Be positive! Don’t dwell on the bad things!” Sometimes, you have to let all your bad feelings out to make the good ones seem brighter.