But perhaps that’s already changing. Keep things interesting, 2012.

My father’s condition improved rapidly, to the point his consultant was beyond surprised at his progress. They take a ‘protein count’ to gauge how well he is doing, and by May the count was too low to even be measured. But while physically, he’s faring far better than most of those his age who’d been through what he has, mentally, he is a fragile shadow of his former self. It’s mildly traumatic to be around it on a daily basis, and a frustrating obstacle for an independent pensioner. For all his physical weakness since coming out of hospital, it’s the inside of his head that is holding him back the most.

It’s understandable that a man would be frustrated and upset at the loss of ability, strength and mental capabilities; but he is linking almost any accident or problem to his deteriorated state. Spilling tea is something most of us do; I, for one, would bring home gold at 2012 if they made it an olympic sport. But to him it’s a direct consequence of what happened to him last year. And he beats himself up about it as if he never spilt tea before he got ill. He beats himself up for tripping on a step, for knocking drying cutlery as he puts a new item in the dishrack, the list lengthens by the week. Some things – being unable to change the tiny bulb of his desk lamp, or to take the AAA batteries out of the remote – are an understandable difficulty for someone of advancing years, but he should not be bringing himself down for having those little annoyances we all fall foul of from time to time.

I’ve tried to calm him, but my reserves of patience are running dry after so frequently hurtling down the stairs, hearing the crashing and screams of world war three’s instigation, only to find the trigger for the onslaught of self-abuse is that some of the milk missed the mug. Trying to broach the subject is difficult. Skills that have not departed him are his abilities to deflect and change the subject. He lashes out and becomes agitated and upset. His increased fragility has made him over-sensitive, and try as I might, I’m unwilling to upset him further. But it cannot carry on this way. I have to help him regain the independence he is perfectly capable of. I will be needed, but having to tread eggshells and run upstairs a few times a day to check he isn’t throwing a tantrum has worn me down. I feel trapped and helpless, and I’m not only losing my patience, but my temper. I feel helpless about too many things these days. Glum face.

Oh, me? What about me?
The above has taken up a lot of ‘me’ this year, but it’s not all bad. In fact, some wonderful things have happened to me. I’ve met and spent time with some wonderful people. I’ve had my confidence raised by one wonderful girl, and had it crushed by another. I have made new friends, and had a reality check seeing my closest friend move away after the bottom dropped off his world. Through it all, as ever, was music. I don’t even care how pretentious that sounds. If I didn’t have it, I wouldn’t have made it. Fact. A proper Glastonbury (ie: fuckloads of rain) and the tiny 2000 Trees were highlights of the year, as was an impromptu ‘goth’ weekend with friends I wouldn’t have if I wasted my time with grudges. And Tellison came along; a band I didn’t care about until they wrote an album from inside my head. That isn’t supposed to happen after you leave your early twenties.

Writing has come and gone in reliably intermittent bouts of activity. I was in dire need of motivation, and that arrived when it really needed to. But at a particularly low point, I was saved! A Polish work colleague asked me to help her with her dissertation. Though her spoken English is excellent, she has problems handling the written form of our ridiculous language, so she paid me to copy-edit and proof read it for her. While she thought I would be bored out of my mind, the project was just the kick I needed. It excited me and gave me some much-needed confidence. Suddenly, those three years I spent building a massive debt were worth something again, and I felt that I could be of some worth and use to someone. WIN! I’m helping! I’m now looking at courses and into how I go about earning money doing such fun word-tweaking – and overcoming the paralysing fear someone will notice my horrific grammar (shhh, I are good at it’s, promise). The colleague got an excellent result, too, and will be working on further research papers and projects – asking me to assist again. Motivation? Twice in the space of a year? Madness.

What do I need to do this year? Well the same thing I say I’ll do every year, Pinky; try to take over the world… But learning to drive and getting a car is a must. Now I don’t have reviews to do, the unreliability and inconvenience of public transport has worn down my sanity. Thankfully there were a number of drivers who attracted such chaos that each week had a new adventure (seriously; breakdowns, police cordoned roads, joyriders, detours of doom, near death experiences…). But most of them work for different companies or routes now and the majority of drivers are so dull. They just turn up and drive you home, with journeys rarely causing any thoughts that I might get stranded or die. It’s just not as fun. So I have to learn to drive. Oh, also because of convenience, having more time to myself and becoming generally being less repellent to the opposite sex. Added to that, I’ll be able to get to more gigs further afield, and get to Bristol to take on the more respected copy-editing/proof reading course (I’ll go sfep myself). Win.

I also need to write. Odd, that – what with me wanting to be a writer, and all. I need to face fears, I need to say yes more. I need to succeed. Personality’s nice, but I need to be worth something if I’m going to be more than a minor role in people’s lives. I want to be the main event to someone and I’m not going to manage it being this. While that’s not easy, it’s easier than I think… I think.

Thanks for not being 2010, 2011. That would have killed me.
Here’s hoping 2012 is a further improvement, and that I can thank myself for the results.

Run at it, screaming.

Buy it and proceeds go to CALM

Have a good Christmas.

I just finished reading this.

Bam.
Yes, it’s a result of watching the TV series. Hold that against me if you want.
The televised series has been one of the finest to be made, thanks HBO. Personally, I’ve been waiting for television to take fantasy seriously my entire life (thanks, Peter Jackson), and – source material aside – they nailed it. This won’t be so much a book review as it will be comparing it to the series, and an argument to why picking one or the other just isn’t enough. You need both of these in your life.

I was worried that, having watched the series, the impact of the book would be dulled. That with knowledge of the entire plot I would lose interest or want to skip through pages or chapters to finish it. Not the case. It was difficult to put down.
Many might have been put off the book due to its size; it’s an intimidating 807 page paperback that could feasibly be used to defend yourself against a burglar. But Martin is such an impressive author that not a single page of it seems wasted. I’m not joking. For over 800 pages, he kept me reading a book where I already knew what was going to happen. No chapters even touched on ‘filler’ Every one advanced the plot and had something exciting to end on to keep you turning pages, that made you think ‘just one more chapter’ before you put it down.

The characters are engaging; I defy you to read and not root for (and despair for) Eddard and Jon. Naturally, the book gives them more depth than the series, no matter how faithfully the series has recreated them. I began the novel surprised that Catelyn seemed harsher than her televised incarnation at first, but as she developed in the novel my heart bled for her. I even found myself rooting for Sansa to redeem herself; I eventually felt sorry for her trapped in her dream-world delusion of a world of chivalrous knights and fairy-tale romance. Sansa in particular was fascinating to compare to the others, as Martin’s style changed considerably when the chapters centred on her. Similarly, Arya (one of the two best characters of GoT) is skillfully written as a child; full of the quick temper changes of youth in revolt against what she’s supposed to be. But the real treat character-wise is Tyrion Lannister, The Imp. He’s the best thing about it on paper or on screen.

The pacing of the book is, to me – as a writer (allegedly) – awe-inspiring. To keep a book of this length engaging from start to finish is amazing. It just keeps moving; with the series still fresh in my mind, I was amazed so much had happened only a quarter of the way through. I kept expecting whole chapters of material the TV-bods had decided to cut, and bar two battle scenes that were passed over and a slightly changed final phase for the Daenerys/Kahl Drogo storyline, this isn’t the case. It simply allows for more depth of the material seen on-screen. Easily one of the best books my eyes have had the good fortune to enjoy.

What the series lacked in depth, it made up for in other ways. The casting was inspired. Dinklage is a marvel as Tyrion. Sean Bean is – for an actor who has roles limited by his accent – pretty much the most reliable British actor around, and when his role in Lord Of The Rings came around I was so happy that he had made it to the level he deserved. Eddard Stark was perfect for him. And I don’t mean because it meets the criteria of a lot of his roles. That’s as close to a spoiler as I’ll dare go. Jason Momoa worked a treat as Kahl Drogo, and I’m still trying to work out if he ripped that guy’s tongue out through the mouth or the wound he cut in his throat. Yeah, he is Conan The BAMF. The development of Daenerys’ character was greatly helped by such a fantastic performance from Emelia Clarke – not bad considering her wiki informs us her past roles include an episode of UK soap Doctors and the shudder-inducing ‘Triassic Attack‘ (ergh). But the casting that always tickled me was seeing the porky dad from the Tesco Clubcard ads as the foul-mouthed drunkard – but still endearing – King, Robert Baratheon. They still missed out as far as swordsman Syrio Forel, who clearly should have been Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride.

Rambleblog? A little. Whatever. Get this book. If you’ve seen the series, you still need to read it. If you haven’t seen the series – GET THE BOOK! Get it? Get it.
Now I have a dilemma, though. do I do things the other way around now? Do I get the second book, A Clash Of Kings, and read it before the second series because I want to know what happens next? But will that dampen the enjoyment of the series? What the book gave me was extra depth and insight into the characters that the series won’t be able to provide. But If I wait for the series… I have to… wait…. tough call.

That kiss left me relieved. The second time we had seen each other outside of the workplace, the nervousness, the awkwardness wasn’t the normal behaviour of someone taking his first steps towards what could be a special connection to someone, but the mark of a man who was not fully sure it was really happening at all. Relief flooded through me when our lips met, hopeful questions of what could lay on the path ahead of me almost deafening, but at that moment they weren’t daunting, because there would be someone walking beside me. Fear of rejection makes us so fucking nervous; speeding up the speed and density of our words, triggering gesticulations you have never had as mannerisms until you met this person you can’t take your eyes off. But this time there was no rejection. There was someone who wanted a connection. You wanted a connection with me.

But so few steps were taken down that path. My inexperience made it difficult for me to know my way (and we both know I was never very good at orientation or taking directions), and now I have lost my way altogether. I’m working on finding my way back. Without a map to guide me, my chances are slim, but so were my chances of making it to that park bench next to you in the first place. So it’s worth looking for, however lost I become.

I miss you.

He walks to the kitchen counter, swaying from side to side almost like waddling. A hand – dotted sparsely with liver-spots and landscaped by the prominent veins we share – gently uses the counter surface for balance. A few months earlier he needed his walking stick for balance, a couple of months before that, a frame. His movements are frail and unsteady, simple tasks have become more difficult. He can drive the car to the petrol station and fill the tank, but he sometimes cannot open the packaging of a loaf of bread. Tempers get frayed. Patience is tested and exceeded.

“He’s a little terror.” he proclaims excitedly as he stomps back into the house. I am baffled initially, realising seconds later he must have tottered outside, having seen the neighbour walking their puppy. It is one of the less frustrating comments of this kind. He will often voice his thoughts on the latest spending of Manchester City, but as if we were both watching the Sky Sports News segment and conversing about it. I was not, and try to piece together what he is talking about as best I can, because when he realises that I could not have known what he was talking about he is embarrassed, and a dark cloud approaches him for the next hour or so as he mutters to himself to think clearer. I curse myself for not having guessed to save his mood, not that there is much I can do without telepathy.

He is old and he is tired, but he is still here. His own impatience is bleeding into me, an unusual event compared to my very different level of patience. I feel he should continue to improve, but perhaps he has reached the limit his aged body can manage. His mind in particular may never be what it was. His strength first cracked when our dog passed away four years ago, but he is now more afraid than ever of his own death and what he has not done with his time on this planet. When he spoke of the will he was recently updating, the look in his eyes as he tried to put a jovial slant on what little he had to pass on was more upsetting than the last time I saw him weep. I want to tell him he should rejoice in victory over a form of cancer that many his age do not survive, but when I try to motivate him when something goes wrong – when he spills his drink or trips over his own feet – I cannot look him in the eyes because of the defeat I see there. I should not be so cowardly, he does not deserve it when he has come so far against such odds.

Today was father’s day, and I didn’t do anything special for him. I am ashamed of myself, but I hope that it is for simply being negligent. A troublesome voice at the back of my mind whispers to me that it’s because I cannot bear to face him in my stressed, frustrated state of mind. That I am afraid to accept what Myeloma did to him, what it took from us.

I miss my father, and he’s only upstairs.

A lot has happened in a month, something I intend to tell you about, but following last year’s tiresome tirade of woes, this change is for the better.

I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t know if it’ll work out, but it has shown me that I genuinely had forgotten what it felt like to be happy. Even if it is just fleeting moments, it’s worth it for that odd sensation of wondering why the sides of my face sting like that – to find out it’s the result of having been smiling so often.

I don’t know where this will go, but I’ve not known where I’m going since I left university. But I’m blundering headlong because life is too short, and perhaps the knowledge of this means 2010 has left something good for me. But, at the same time, I’m not pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming, just in case I am.

The time between then and now has passed far faster than normal, which is a pleasing silver lining.  I’m sure I have learnt a lot in that time; certainly – considering the other traumatic events of 2010 – I have learnt more about myself than any other year.  But at the same time, I don’t feel I have progressed enough.  I don’t feel I have as much control over it as I should.  I know Diabetics don’t get a total grip over their condition in a year, and considering the serious distractions that come with a loved one’s serious illness being more than an ample distraction, I still feel I should have done more.  But it still feels like only a few months ago that it was confirmed.  In contrast, the day of diagnosis itself was a very long one.

I had more or less come to the conclusion that I had Diabetes before I stepped into the doctor’s office, but while that made the confirmation easier, it didn’t mean it was easy to hear.  From the doctor’s to the Diabetic clinic in Bridgend, I absorbed a lot of information that day.  I’m amazed I took so much of it in.  The nurse commented then as she has in almost all of our appointments, that I seemed to take it very well.  There was a wave of numbness fighting to overtake me all day; it was certainly there in the periods of blank staring I did throughout the day, but when I was talking to the nurse I knew I had to engage. Face it, head on. Run at it screaming, instead of away from it crying.  I’m not saying there weren’t tears; there have been plenty.  But one of the few things I’m most proud of is not caving to the internal desire to dive sobbing under the covers, hoping that it’ll just go away if I get upset enough.  It won’t though, and I knew that.  This is with me until the day I die, and unless I face it, that day will be a lot sooner than it need be.

“More susceptible to…” These three words I now loathe.  Thanks, pancreas.  Heart attacks, strokes, nerve damage, infections, tooth decay, the list goes on.  I don’t exercise enough, and I know I should.  I should anyway, but with the higher risk of heart conditions I should do something to keep myself in good shape – or at least a better shape than I am right now.  But I would hazard a guess that I am healthier than I was.  My diet didn’t really go through a massive change; I already made sure I had my fill of fruit and veg and ate enough fibre to be classed as part-loaf.  Cutting out the chocolate and sweet treats from my life was surprisingly easy.  Others find this baffling – less cake? Less chocolate? Madness – but when you consider that to keep eating this stuff all the time means a higher chance of dying… it’s not that hard to cut these things back. (Cut back. Remember that, non-diabetics. Cut back, not cut out).

But I still need to exercise more; I have an exercise bike upstairs so it should be easy.  Thankfully, my job is active; I frequently tackle up to six flights of stairs that beat most stairmaster workouts, with the advantage of being paid to use it instead of paying for it.

“Diabetes revolves around your life, not the other way around.”

This is another phrase I’m not a fan of, but for different reasons.  I am yet to get a handle of this.  I am sick of having to consider everything I do.  ‘Going out’ has a number of implications; Are we eating? If not do I have time to fit in food without having insulin doses too close together?  What do I take with me? Will I be staying out overnight? Do I take a bag or keep all my equipment in pockets?
I’m sure in time I will be better at this – I certainly hope so – but it has killed the notion of spontaneity considerably.
Not having a grip on these questions makes me feel like a burden to those I will be with. Unnecessary, as whoever I am with would strongly deny thinking of me as any such thing, but that doesn’t stop me being frustrated that something as simple as popping out for lunch or to ‘watch the game’ on the weekend requires fiddly consideration.  If I go to a club, will they have a cloakroom for my insulin pens? Will they cause a scene when they find needles on me without knowing what they’re for (they wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, but this would be attention I do not want)?

I am beginning to have a better gauge on how much insulin I need from meal to meal, but my blood sugar levels continue to give me readings I don’t expect. The professionals tell me that I am doing well with my control, but the erratic numbers I get make it hard for me to believe that. I’ll frequently give myself the same dose for the same meal and get a different reading later without really knowing what it is that’s caused it to be lower/higher this time.

There have been a number of reasons why I feel so ‘behind’, however.
The most minor being Christmas. While I did a better job of avoiding the overindulgences of the festive period than I thought I would (me and Christmas food have been good pals for many years), a few readings breached the 15 (mmol/L) mark, leading to my weekly/fortnightly/monthly averages being above 7.  I got it back down, but since then, all my average readings have been the very top end.  Today, the 30-day reading is 6.8.  If it stays this way until my next appointment and my nurse again says I’m ‘the model patient’, then I will be crushed, as it will surely mean that it is just something they say to make you feel more confident.

Having my wisdom teeth out towards the end of the year didn’t help things.  The resultant diet of soup was frustrating for more than the fact I loathe soup with a passion. I had to reduce my levels of insulin radically.  Hypos were frequent.  Going to sleep at night was a little more worrying.  But – just like the rest of the year – I made it through without waking up in an ambulance.

But the biggest obstacle to my progress has been my father’s illness.  Most of it is catalogued over the course of this blog. The harrowing nature of dealing with that made me face my first hypos induced by stress, but more than that, it taught me a lesson in not becoming too self-involved with my condition.  During these months, I managed quite well not having my life revolve around the condition.  It made me stronger as a person.  I didn’t really believe this – it certainly didn’t feel like it – but the amount of praise saying so forced me to accept it.  I’m not sure I can express how grateful I am for some of the things said to me.

Knowing that support is there is a great help.  I may be open about many things, but when it comes to the serious things in life, I clam up.  But just because I don’t talk to anyone about these things (apart from you, internet blog accessible by millions of total strangers) doesn’t mean that I’m not bolstered knowing that I can.  Since diagnosis, while I am yet to come into contact with another Type 1, I have met a high number of people who are close to one.  In work, I have a colleague who has a son with Type 1, her daughter also works with us, and she in turn has seen two friends of hers be diagnosed (leading to jokes that maybe she’s the unknown cause of it!), another has a fiancée, and one of our managers somehow ended up living with two in university.  We’re everywhere, living among you, just waiting for the time to rise up and make chocolate fudge cake illegal…

Helping me greatly is my sense of humour. I enjoy laughing. A lot. And when something like this happens, you have to see the funny side or you’ll spend an eternity in tears.  Thankfully, the wide scope of my sense of humour (bear in mind I’m talking of what I find funny, not how funny I am; that’s another matter altogether!).  When my sight went as my body readjusted to insulin, I was incredibly scared – though everyone said it would come back, there was that part saying “what if it doesn’t?”.  So the best way of dealing with it was laughing about the ridiculous things that happened in that situation; sitting in a light-drenched room at the breakfast table, munching my Alpen in sunglasses. Indoors.  Watching a Six Nations match where the Irish team on their bright green pitch became invisible but for the white shorts moving around the pitch.  When trying new things, I often mentally follow this train of thought “Go for it. What’s the worst that can happen? Oh, a diabetic coma… well… let’s do it anyway.”  Gallows humour isn’t a constant, but a regular dose of it helps clear the self-pity excellently.

This is essay length now, so I suppose I should leave it here. If you’ve read this far, well done. To sum up, although I have obviously learnt a lot over the last year, I was hoping that I would be able to believe it. I was hoping to be in control. Put that down to my cautious nature. It has only been a year, and I have been frequently told it takes more than that to properly adjust to Diabetes.  I just need to believe that I have made good enough progress when this first year had such a horrific distraction.  But when you’re faced with a condition that means you have to inject something four times a day to survive, having a parent play Knock Knock Ginger on Death’s door is an effective way of combating self-pity.  I have my moments – we all do, whatever situation we’re in – but I keep going.  That’s what you do.  If you shut down psychologically, it’s only going to make things harder.  So you remind yourself of how much worse it could be (again, a loved one getting a form of cancer will help with that, but I wouldn’t recommend it), you tell yourself to face it, as running from it won’t help anyone.  Being able to do this has surprised me; I’d even go as far as to say that I’m proud of how I’ve faced it.  I wouldn’t call myself a coward, but I’ve never felt particularly brave.  But there’s no escape from it, so fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen? Oh… a Diabetic Coma. Well… let’s do it anyway. I’d rather look it in the eye than have my eyes clouded with tears.

Here’s to the next year.


“Oh.”
Saying that out loud is the first mistake. You know what it is.  You can feel it, coursing around your body.  It feels funny.  The most ironic thing of all is that it seems reminiscent of when you had too much fizzy pop; a sugar high that’s anything but.  But you exclaimed that realisation out loud.  He heard you, and already the panic in the air is up.  He tries to play it cool, a poorly-executed attempt at showing you he’s calm and in control.  But the eyes and the tension in the body, it’s a dead give away.  He knows what’s going on, which is why his eyes are marginally wider, the eyebrows a raised ever so slightly, and each blink comes further apart.  You can’t hear his heart beat, but you can tell how it’s already pumping faster; it comes through in his voice – measured, a fraction deeper than that of casual conversation.
“Are you too low?”.

Why is it the arms?  Being acutely aware of something as minor as the slightest tightening of your father’s hand on the arm of his chair, you have already forgotten what you were concentrating on two seconds before, but you can feel your forearms. Inside them. It feels funny.  Somehow, you can feel the insides, the ulna and the radius.  The blood flowing around them.  It’s goosebumps without the physical reaction. The arrectores pilorum don’t react, but your fight-or-flight response certainly triggers when you know you’ve alerted someone else.  That someone else has just asked you a question, and the speed of response is crucial for reassurance.
“Yeah, I might be.”

Might be.  That’s what you say, even though you’re certain of it.  The problem is, your voice is less measured, a fraction higher than it should be.  You instantly realise that you’ve failed to reassure him, so as you reach for the black pouch that is your permanent companion, you back it up with distraction dialogue.  You talk of a breakfast – a cereal bowl lighter than usual, as you unzip your companion.  You mention the trip to the surgery to drop off a prescription – the second this week – while you remove the reader and a blue foil packet.  You bring up the brief but vigorous housework you carried out earlier in the day as you rip the foil to get the rectangular strip from within.  So desperate are you to calm his rising panic, you realise that you’re babbling.  You focus and slow your speech. Stop fidgeting and face his slightly wider eyes.  That marginally increased level of panic subsides.

What were you doing? Oh, yes, testing.  Taking hold of the plastic lancer, the far end pulls back to an unsatisfying click.  Your arms feel alive now, like they could move faster than ever before.  They feel lighter.  But they end with hands now lacking in dexterity.  They tremble, making the task of simply putting the rectangular strip into the reader a task as complex as threading a needle.  Pressing the plastic lancer to one restless finger, the plastic needle hidden discreetly behind its tip, you ready yourself for the inevitable.  This process is one that’s repeated at least four times a day.  At least four times a day for the rest of your life.  At the time that this occurs, you will have repeated it over one thousand, eight hundred times.  But you are yet to get ‘used’ to it.  Your thumb hesitates over the button, prolonging the inevitable. Wouldn’t it be nice to just know?  A quick, sharp intake of breath through the nose and press.

Over one thousand, eight hundred times and it still makes you jump as the needle punches through the flesh.  A tiny needle piercing less than a millimetre into your skin, but your body jolts, maybe your breath escapes you through clenched teeth.  A ball of liquid defiantly presents itself to you; sometimes a dark crimson, but this time it’s a vibrant postbox red.  You bring the meter and the strip towards it, and only then notice the extent of your trembling.  You wonder how the droplet of blood remains stationary, as if desperate to return to the warm sanctuary below the skin.  But it needs to give up its secrets, so you focus on steadying your hands even though you know what the result will be.

“Well?”
The question reminds you that only a few seconds have passed, and your father still watches, as if awaiting some sign that he can do something about whatever the result is, as if he can channel his fears into a psychic, unblinking  glare that will reinvigorate your failed pancreas.  Your blood has not even met the sensor strip yet, but you know.  It feels funny.  The sensation of too much sugar that isn’t so has spread throughout your body, and your mind is alive with thoughts. You aren’t thinking fast, you are thinking scattered. Questions and musings fire and rebound, some are connected, most are not.  What will the numbers be? Why has it fallen? Was it the breakfast? Why do you scare him by babbling? What happens if you stop noticing these? Are you worrying him into an early grave?
You’re frustrated, low numbers will be easily dealt with. There’s a tin of Roses just behind you.  There’s a pack of glucose tablets in almost every room of this house; orange and blackcurrant and that foul lemon last resort.  It’s not worth worrying over, but it’s right there in his stare.  Those slightly wider eyes are a mess of feelings as scrambled as your own thought processes.  No amount of forced, measured talk can hide the fear and guilt and frustration in those eyes.  No amount of reassurances that this happens regularly can stop that tone of his voice from sounding like he’s failed as a father in some way, that he is responsible for your failed organ.  Every delayed blink fails to mask a helplessness in the face of something he doesn’t understand.  Even though the numbers he’s waiting to hear will be easily dealt with.  Even though there is nothing to worry about right now.  If he is like this now, how does he feel when he goes to sleep at night? How does he feel after reading horror stories about those who drop too low as they sleep in their own beds, only to wake up in a hospital? You know that must never happen. His still-new greatest terror is your greatest motivation to maintain those numbers, to keep them within the right range.

3.4 is not within the right range. This is what glares out at you. This is nothing. It’s not good, but at point six below the safe range, getting back between four and seven is of no worry at all. Not to you. But to him it’s a cause for concern.
“Oh.”
His voice wobbles, despite being short enough to only consist of two letters, it trembles with worry.  Your reassurances that you are two cadbury’s roses away from correct go in one ear and out the other. You tell him you’ll be fine as saliva already begins to flow at the prospect of a couple of morsels of chocolate.  You pick out a pair of caramels, aptly encased in golden packaging, and hope he gets used to this.  Hope that he can stay calm in the face of these easily-controlled cases of hypoglycaemia, because 3.5 is nothing compared to what it could be.
His eyes are away from you now, back on the television to fool you that he’s calmed down, but his blinking is still less frequent than it should be, and his hands are still tight on the arms of his chair

You head to your room and let the chocolate melt in your mouth, the burst of flavour doing little to quench your own panic that if he cannot cope well with 3.5, how will he fare against 2.5? What will he do the day your numbers dip so low you slur? Or to the point you cannot co-ordinate to even test because of the trembling? It’s a panic that robs you of any gratification from your caramel treats, and stalls the rate of your blinking.  Your still scrambled thoughts contemplate all the unknown scenarios you are yet to face, and you’re so afraid you barely notice the sensation in your arms receding, in the more linear thoughts.  You don’t stop until you remember.  Remember the girl.  Nine years old.  What must it be like for her father?  Bringing up a child in a world where sugar is everywhere, how do they cope, stay sane? And you calm. You remind yourself that you and your father are extremely lucky, and you blink properly, and you don’t think about how this whole scenario will play itself out again in a few days time, because you are lucky.

I feel it is only right to send you this letter, we’ve not met face to face, and this will be the last time I have any interaction with you.  I think you will understand that I am very comfortable with this fact, as – to say the least – we have not got along.

Being diagnosed with Diabetes was not the best start to the year, to be honest.  Though I certainly deserve some criticism for not noticing the very obvious signs.  The following weeks spent with massively impaired vision was certainly memorable – especially as despite everyone reminding me that my sight would return, there was that part of me paranoid that it would not.  Though I had to see the funny side of eating breakfast indoors with sunglasses on.  It hit my father hard; without understanding of the condition, he saw it as a failure on his part to notice that his son was wasting away in front of him.  He felt that certain shade of helpless that makes it hard to concentrate on anything other than the many things you can’t do.

It’s a horrible feeling, and one that I got to know all too well.  Seeing a loved one get cancer – even a ‘milder’ form of it – is far from fun.  Not knowing it’s cancer until the end of a two-month stint in hospital is even further from it – especially when the one you care about most on this planet also gets pneumonia whilst in a weakened and drug-addled state.  Despite the fact my dad is in his seventies, despite the many fears I’ve entertained about his health and continued existence, this was the first time I genuinely thought ‘this is it’.  I thought my last contact with him would be a confused phonecall asking if we were coming in to see him that day, only half an hour after we had returned home from the hospital.

Don’t get me wrong, 2010; while I am critical of how you have treated me, I am more than aware of how lucky I have been.  The weight loss I suffered at the start of the year is often an indication of cancer, and there are far, far worse things to get than Diabetes.  And, as you know, my father kicked pneumonia’s arse and improved enough to come home. We found out he had Myeloma, that it was not a terminal form of cancer, and that he could be treated with a relatively low level of Chemotherapy tablets and Thalidomide.  Though I do not feel it, the amount of people who have commended my strength during this time must have a point.  I dealt with my own condition well out of necessity.  Not so much because I knew tears, fear and rage would serve no good use, but because I could see those things in my father, and I could not do that to him.  Similarly, I kept these things away from him when he was hospitalised, never broke down in front of him, and was lucky enough to have a mother who not only supported me, but helped her ex-husband in ways we cannot ever repay.

But the father I knew at the start of the year is not the man I know now.  Seeing him hobbling around as brittle as a twig is very hard to take. He frequently talks to me about doing something with several key facts missing, assuming I already know what he’s thinking about.  His wit – which was always greater than mine, and more modern than anyone I’ve known over 50 – is gone.  Now he is very much an old man. Something I thought I had already come to terms with, but the dramatic shift over the last six months makes it hit home more suddenly.  Now – despite recovering rapidly for his age – he shuffles about the house, his arms half the size they should be, his shoulders uneven due to muscle deterioration. He’s frail, brittle.  His resonant voice is weak. Shades of his old self come through in all the wrong ways; he gets angry with himself for being clumsy, frustrated because he can’t move his arm how it should, because the pills make him sluggish and tired. He, like me – like anyone – cannot bear the thought of enfeeblement and helplessness.  He may not have developed a terminal form of cancer, but it still feels like cancer has taken my father from me.

I’m not saying you have brought me only misery, 2010.  While you and I have known each other, I had the chance to experience Glastonbury.  I saw a good friend get married to a wonderful woman.  I reconnected with old friends from uni for two excellent weekends together.  And I got to vent my frustrations on the violent floors of music venues, listening and screaming along to some of my favourite bands, some of the best this country has to offer.

More importantly, I’ve got a hunger for a better life.  Thanks to seeing how short life is, to facing my own mortality and that of the person closest to me, I’ve realised how much of the short time on this planet I have wasted. I have a drive now to actually do those things I say I’ll do at the end of every year.  To make something of myself.  Perhaps I should be thankful.  If I had not seen the man that made me laying in a hospital bed so frail I thought I would never see him breathing again, I would not have realised so painfully that I have not done anything of worth to show him before he leaves forever.  If I had not come to terms with the fact that I now need to inject something into my body every day in order to continue living, I would not have realised that I have wasted so much time, and with a life that will now probably be shorter, I should actually knuckle down and be something.

Perhaps I should be thankful.  But I am not.  I will give you credit for making me stronger, for making me more determined.  But my time spent in your company has been foul, and as I face the final day in  your presence, I’m afraid to say I cannot wait to see the back of you.  Every year brings suffering to so many, and I am thankful that I was not one of the many, many people who suffered under your reign far more than I.  I could have experienced devastating seismic activity, been trapped in a mine, hospitalised by heavy-handed authorities, trapped in a land ravaged by war.  But for me, comparatively safe here in the Western world, I’ve never had such an intensely tough time.  Whether you have made me a stronger and better person or not, you’ll get no thanks from me.  I cannot truly blame you for what my father and I have experienced, it’s not exactly ‘your fault’, but I think you can understand that I don’t want to hear from you, and I don’t ever want to see you again.

Yours sincerely,
Phill