I spent my first week in hospital as I was seriously ill with DKA when admitted. I actually felt fighting fit by the second day, once I had some insulin in me, and felt a bit of a fraud for being there, but they thought I had had a heart attack so kept me for an angiogram, which turned out to be fine. I couldn't see properly so had a hard time passing the time as I couldn't read anything. I seeme to remember spending most of the time feeling ravenous and waiting for the next meal, then eating, then waiting for the next meal! All the time I was there, getting tested and being given my injections, it never occurred to me that this was something I would have to manage myself for the rest of my life (or the next 10 years?
😉) - I got about 10 minutes with the hospital DSN who taught me about the needles and meter, and then it was home and on my own.
Fixed doses of novorapid and insulin and calling the DSN daily with my readings so she could give me dose adjustments, but I quickly came to realise when the dose was too high or low for the meal, so started adjusting on my own after the first week or so. I'd lost a lot of weight prior to diagnosis and for a while I ate like a horse at every opportunity. I remember giving my neighbour some jars of honey I had bought pre-diagnosis as I thought it was now a no-no. It took me a while to realise just how ill I had been. I've always been very lucky with my diabetes as my control has been good. My lifestyle helps with that, working from home, eating what I want, when I want, plus my pancreas has recovered some beta-cell function which probably smooths my upper levels a bit, and has meant that I now no longer take lantus since 4 years post-diagnosis.
Eee though! I do spare a thought for you 'old'timers' and what you had to deal with...
I won’t forget those wise old words my Daddy said to me
As he sat down in his chair one night and perched me on his knee.
He said, ‘Son, diabetes wasn’t always so much fun,
So let me tell you how it was in 1931!’
Twice a day we’d drive to town, down to the abattoir,
Pick out a bovine pancreas and stow it in the car,
And when we got home Mum and Dad would mash that organ up,
And strain it through a muslin bag into a paper cup…
Then Dad would get some chemicals and boil them in a pan,
Adding bits of this and that with flourish and élan!
And meanwhile I would drink and drink until I had to pee,
And Mum would take a jar away, as swiftly as could be!
She’d add it to the chemicals, and if it turned bright red
Then I would have no supper and be sent off straight to bed.
But if it just turned yellowish, I’d have something to eat
Like carrots mashed in gravy, with sweet pickles for a treat!
I didn’t like the needles though, at least six inches long!
So Mum would jig around the room, distracting me with song!
And when he’d scraped the rust off, Dad would stick it in my butt,
I’d bite down on a leather strap to keep my mouth tight shut!
So, should you whinge and moan about how finger pricking’s bad,
Then pause to contemplate about the progress we have had.
We’ve gone from times when prospects for our future might seem poor,
To looking forward to the day that they announce the cure!
