A Deathly Dose of Doubly Dirty Diabetes (or how I learned that alliteration just doesnt sell quite as well as vagrant nudity) PART ONE

For a decade now, or as the French say, decade, I have been living with a silent killer.


No, not a psychopathic mime artist who has cracked due to audience members claiming they can actually see the sides of his 'box'. Nor carbon monoxide.

In the golden Summer of 1998, a glorious pinhole in history that gave us the Furby and Lethal Weapon 4 (thus proving while your'e never 'too old for this shit', you can always be a little too anti-semetic), I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Which was annoying. I was due to compete in the up and coming school sports day.
Shot Put- for those who are too fat to run and too uncoordinated to toss a javelin.

It struck me at night, rousing me from any hope of peaceful slumber through the double threat of severe dehydration and regular (hourly or less) passing of water.
This went on for maybe ten days. I was shattered, losing weight rapidly (so maybe I could run the 100 in 9 flat after all...), weak, and barely able to even lift a mars bar to my young pink mouth.
People noticed. My parents thought I was on smack, and before I knew it the worldwide media got involved. It was no good.



I needed to see a doctor. Who told me I needed to go to hospital. Which is where I finally learned that diabetes didnt mean I possessed the power to move things with my mind.

Now the science bit...

Within the pancreas the insulin-producing langheran glands have ceased to work, are bereft of hormones. done and dusted, over the hills and far away. Insulin just doesnt live here anymore.

What of this fabled insulin? Well. everytime you eat, the pancreas produces insulin to help control the amount of sugar that enters your bloodstream as a result. No insulin, no blood sugar control. Which is always bad and rarely good.

Which in short means I get sad outside bakeries and funfairs.

So after a week in hospital, and intense diabetes training, I was released.

But what does it all mean?

• If you have a complimentary bowl of candy beans on your coffee table, you had better damn well hide them when I visit. It's like inviting Dracula over for a garlic baguette whilst enjoying the sunrise. In a Church.


• The expression 'kid in a candy store' is a coma waiting to happen.


• Death By Chocolate is a suicide method and not, repeat NOT a dessert option.


• You are treated like a more interesting and less controversial kind of vegetarian when it comes to 'dinner-talk'.


• Woolworths closing down can be attributed to me coming off pick 'n' mix.


• No global expedition can be safely undertaken with out prior and extensive knowledge of all known pharmacies, chemists, hospitals and witch doctors. You dont wanna get 'the shakes' in Papua, New Guinea. Fo Sho.

• You had better call up everyone you've ever slept with ever, 'cos they, um, might wanna get themselves checked out.
  

• You finally realise how retarded some of your friends are when they A) ask you what would happen if they injected some of your insulin and B) recoil in horror when you approach the, syringe in hand and maniacal grin on your face.
  

Shortly I will be posting a list of symptoms and ways to cope if youre at that delicate age, and find you have the condition. I dont want to get too seriousl just yet.
Peace and love.

Adz