Full Blown Type 1 Sook

Just so's you know. I'm sitting in Michel's Patisserie in Brunswick. I'm having a moderate sook.

Why? Because Type 1 Diabetes is a bastard to live with. All that ordinary stuff that people take for granted, like plating up with over 100g of carb without recrimination, other than perhaps a little weight on the hips.

Well, I've got the weight anyway & I've just had a remarkably ordinary wholemeal ham & cheese toastie with an Earl Grey tea & skinny milk. So pure of me given I'm surrounded by sweets & pastries.

But I'm really sulking cos I'm in the middle of a bike ride & I can't control my blood sugar. Prepared for the ride. 30g of breakfast carbs - Special K & skinny soy milky. Reduced basal insulin - see below - pre an easy ride - about 10 k anticipated. Bg -blood glucose - 12.7 at start of ride. 4 k down the track it's 7. I have 10 mins of feeling smug as I swan around K Mart buying a couple of copies of Perks of Being a Wallflower & the latest Diary of a Whimpy Kid for my middle school kids.

But my bg had dropped to 5.7. Wasn't hungry but thought I'd better carb up, hence aforementioned sandwich. I still have to cycle back to Coburg against a fierce wind. But by the time my food arrives I've checked my bg again. 4.8. Dropping quickly. So I have a 4 jelly bean starter pre lunch. Hate that.

So here I am hanging around in a very un-French pastry shop, waiting for my bg to settle itself.

Just pisses me off. It is a bother. Nearly said 'handicap' - after all I am a 'full blown Type 1 diabetic'. OMG! Hide!

However blogging is cheaper than therapy & I feel better now. Hope I haven't made anyone feel the need to hug a tree.

Bg 10.4. I can pedal off now, having bolused .15 units of insulin to cope with the 14 g of carbs - half of the total amount - I've eaten.

Hope it works. No longer sulking.

(Bg 14.7 after 11 k ride. Bummer.
However, the good news: the wind changed direction while I was in sook mode. Had it at my back all the way up the Upfield bike track.)

Note: basal insulin is background insulin that is regularly pumped in tiny doses into my body through a cannula inserted under my skin. Bolus insulin is extra insulin I pump in to metabolise additional carbs I eat. I check my blood glucose by pricking a finger & squeezing a drop of blood onto a test strip in a small blood glucose monitor that I carry.

Happy coincidence

Period 1 today, I was at the front of my year 10 class, all eyes on me. Suppose I was striding around a bit, waving my arms as I tried to make some point about the film The Sixth Sense, which we're studying at the moment. I had everyone's attention, and then I heard the computerised tones of Fur Elise, coming, I supposed, from between my breasts. (My insulin pump, wearing its baby sock, fits very snugly between the girls.)

Anyone who wears an Animas 2020 insulin pump will no doubt be familiar with this tune.  It's a warning that you're getting low on insulin or it's a reminder that you've suspended your pump.

I also seemed to be contravening the 'switch off your mobiles in class' rule, much to the amusement of 25 students.

I did the only thing possible. I reached inside my shirt front to press the button to stop the sound. As I did so, cos you've got to admit it would look funny to see your old teacher grovelling between her tits in the middle of a lecture on a film, I explained that I wear an insulin pump and that it was warning me my insulin was running low.

At the same time a boy in the back row interrupted.

"Actually, miss," he said, "I think it's mine."

And it was.

Snap.

It was a unique and strangely joyous experience for me finding a fellow Type 1 in such close proximity. Let's face it, unless you work in the industry, or you're at a special conference or some-such, you're unlikely to find two insulin pumps - let alone Animas pumps - in the one small room. What are the odds?

Pleb TV and me

Do you think I'm a bit strange for saving up last night's episode of Packed to the Rafters to enjoy on my day off?  Surely it's light-weight and beneath the dignity of me, an Expert Teacher - well, that's my official designation. And that's an Expert Teacher of English.  Would you think I'd have less plebeian tastes?

Well, my tastes vary.  I'll happily engage with low brow popular programs, like Big Brother.  I'm also extremely partial to a talent competition - The Voice, X-factor, Australia's Got Talent. Whatever. Have to admit to passing on American Idol though. I got bored with the auditions and the almost generic vocal gymnastics of the wannabes. The formula palls and I don't understand the appeal of that Nicki Menaj.  Getting old.

I'm a sucker for a good series.  I've made Al promise to watch, should he outlive me, Six Feet Under, The Wire, Boardwalk Empire and Mad Men amongst other things.  He rarely watches a series with me; says he can't be bothered. He prefers to read whatever SF novel has taken his fancy. Given that I read all day as part of my job, and often into the evening, I prefer to watch something. It really is easier, more relaxing than reading.

The thing with that white-bread Rafters, though, is it occasionally mirrors what's happening in my own life. (I'm taking a punt here, that son Pete's girlfriend, the one who unfriended me on Facebook, and unfollowed me on Twitter, is not reading this. If you are, Mel, hiyee! At least you're getting a pseudonym in my blog.)

Last night's episode saw the return of the second youngest Rafter, Nathan.  He's been a bit of a ne'er do well throughout the series. He arrived back at the Rafter's modest home with news of a new wife - he'd been divorced from the first beauty. It became hilarious, and close to home, when Julie and Dave Rafter met their new daughter-in-law - who looked considerably older than their son, Nathan.  Because she was.

The expressions on Julie Rafter's face - props to your acting skills, Rebecca Gibney - looked pretty much like mine would have when Pete turned up with Mel a couple of years ago. That combo of trying to look accepting and pleased while masking your disappointment that your son has fallen in love with someone half a generation older than himself.  Like Al, at our own terribly interesting meeting, Dave Rafter was much more tolerant and composed; possibly proud of his son snaring such an attractive older woman.

Happily, Mel didn't reveal, unlike Saskia, Nathan's wife at that meeting, that she was pregnant.

Rafters is also dabbling in dementia, given Julie's dad, Ted, is suffering memory loss. This is very close to home for me, given what my elderly mum's experiencing. Not hilarious at all.

So I took an hour out of my busy day - well, I've done a load of washing, cycled 8 k in the heat and made a banana cake for Al - to LOL on my own and shed some tears over Packed to the Rafters. Some episodes are a bit lame, but last night's hit the spot.

BTW, Pete and Mel are still going strong three years down the track and the age diff has ceased to concern me.

Ab Circle Pro update

My Ab Circle Pro is a feature in my living room. I'm used to it now, so much so that when I visited a friend who has her own ACP obsession - keeps her ACP in her lounge - I didn't even remark on it. Along with the comfy chairs and television, the ACP seemed to be in its rightful place.

In my case this isn't testament to my regular workouts. In fact, my ACP would be gathering dust except for the efforts of my housekeeper. She treats it like everything else in my house, including apples in the fruit bowl. She polishes it weekly.

I didn't reject my Ab Circle Pro. The opposite. It rejected me. Sorry, that's not quite right. It ejected me; spat me off.

This happened one ordinary Saturday morning. Al and I were home alone. He was in the shower; I was in tee-shirt and knickers, assuming the position on the ACP for a few intense arse swinging moments.

So, head up, back straight, working those abs then WHUMP! I'm splayed painfully across the machine. My right knee had somehow lost purchase on its knee pad thus upsetting the entire apple cart: me.

I whimpered a little. Al strolled in drying one ear with a towel. Wanted to see what the crash was. He raised his eyebrows and strolled back in the direction from whence he'd come. He'd had his inward chuckle at the beknickered idiot hanging off the side of the contraption.

I gathered myself up and pushed the machine back into position by the armchair.

That was at least three months ago.

They say you should get straight back on the bike if you fall off. I've done this a couple of times in my life, even after someone ran me over back in the day. But that's my bike. I actually still get a buzz out of cycling.

Get straight back on the ACP? Nah. It's not as much 'fun' as the adverts would have you believe. And pity my second hand machine didn't come with a guarantee. Discovered a couple of days ago that part of the knee pad that had rejected me so spectacularly had actually split.

My Ab Circle Pro is going for a ride to the tip come the next hard rubbish collection. Dare say she might find a few of her fellow rejects there.

Oh yes, I'm the French Pretender.

I'm sick of saying I'm a qualified middle school French teacher and this being my little joke. That is, I'm crapue at French and you'll be pleased to know I don't teach French at my school.  Perhaps if I did, I'd be heaps better at speaking it.

Recently, on an impulse, I grabbed my '4th form' - me, 4A - French text book from the book shelf. Il faut practiquait - I must practise - my French.  Did I just use the correct conjugation of the subjunctive? Beats me.

Within the pages of this tome, Chez les Francais, first published in 1969 - thus state of the art in 1971, my fourth year of high school - I found an essay I'd written in French, in form 5, for which I'd received A minus.  It's beautifully handwritten, and in the judgment of my teacher, whose expertise I had no reason to doubt, it was worthy of a high score.  Interestingly, I can no longer remember lots of the words and constructions I'd almost faultlessly written, aged 15.

Don't know what happened to my skills in form 6, HSC.  Despite my teacher's optimism, I infamously scored 49 percent and thus Failed my second favourite subject.  Fail.  Failure. Fraudster. (See how it gets in?)

What a surprise then, when I enrolled at Melbourne State College the following year and was permitted to continue my French studies and still qualify as a French teacher.  The fact that I'm only qualified to teach to year 10 was due to my choosing to major in English rather than French.

I successfully completed two years of university level French, and loved it.  Some fellow French students and I formed a French folk singing group and had the audacity to perform not only around the college but at events at the Alliance Francaise.  We attended French galas, saw the opera, Carmen, the libretto of which we'd studied in our second year.  Great music and lyrics and hilarious for us late teens.  I can still sing lots of it now.

I was seventeen and eighteen during those two years of French study.  I was insanely confident swanning around with my guitar and my repertoire of French folk songs.

As it turns out, I've only had the opportunity to actually teach French for one semester at year 7 level.  Hence my lapse in skills.

At my fourth French conversation meet-up last week, I really did feel like a fraud explaining my qualifications to this woman I'd just met. (Well, she asked, I think.)  Another comedy of errors, literally.  With my paucity of vocabulary, tiredness - I'd been marking year 8 exams for the previous three hours - and my new friend's 'idiosyncratic' accent - I'm being kind - we were stymied.  Perhaps it was just that eating my poached eggs and carrying on a conversation in French required too much multitasking.

So.  I've decided to go back to basics.  My old French text book is a good place to start. 

Night terrors?

In the small hours, Al's 'action dreams' kick in.  Can't call them nightmares. Not for him anyway.

His dreams involve sudden violent jerks and starts; actions, like flinging his hand back and smashing the bedhead - catching a basketball, he said on waking, because he'd actually hurt himself.  Or leaping over the side of the bed to land on all fours on the polished boards, seeming so surprised to wake up and find himself down there.  Last week, making some gruff devil noise, he snatched the pillow out from under my head.  He's also given me a few quick boxing jabs in my belly - as many as he could get in, apparently, before I woke and stopped him by yelling, and clouting him back.

He apologises then falls immediately back to sleep.  The dreams continue for a couple of hours, with me waking him when he's at risk of harming himself or me.  I'll manage a couple of hours' sleep before the alarm goes off.  Given his dreams, me having diabetes and checking my blood sugar for possible hypos and the fact that I've always been inclined to insomnia, it's no wonder I've got black rings under my eyes.  I tend to hit a wall early in the afternoons that has me struggling through meetings.  (And they're invariably tedious, repetitive and useless, which doesn't help at all.)

Al's sort of dream disorder was explored on Embarrassing Bodies a couple of weeks back.  A night vision camera filmed this man and his wife.  In the green light we saw him sit up and peer around, walk, all while soundly asleep. 

Al's done lots of this in his time.  It's usually prompted by him needing the toilet.  Occasionally I've had to steer him towards the bathroom, given he's opened the wrong doors - a cupboard, the kids' bedrooms.  A few times he's lined up a convenient corner or other 'receptacle'.  See, I have to be vigilant.

The 'action dreamer' on Embarrassing Bodies began to resolve his issues through anger management counselling as opposed to medication.  In his case, therapy revealed that he did have anger issues.

I suggested to Al that he might need therapy.  He says not.  "I'm just taking a protective role in something I've seen on TV.  Don't you ever do that?"

Perhaps, but it's all happening in my head.  I don't act it out. 

Last night I could no longer tolerate Action Man.  Given I now have a made up 'guest room' where son Pete used to be, I grabbed my pillow, jelly beans and blood testing gear and abandoned the marital bed.

Still took me an age to get back to sleep, given I was mulling over the significance of us not sleeping -as if - together.  I'm not into separate beds as a solution. 

Then I dreamed bizarre extra-worldly colourful markety narratives.  I can't remember why I was riding elevators and escalators.  Too strange.  Waking up, again, had to grope around in the dark for a distant light switch so I could check to make sure I wasn't hypo. I was okay.

Probably after five, I fell into a desperate recurring dream.  Won't bore you with the details, but in these dreams, Al finally, inevitably realises that he got a bum deal with me, and sometimes the kids, and he decides to leave. In last night's dream he was taking his chances with a young adoring athletic woman with wild springy curls.  As usual, nothing I can say or do will make him stay with me.

And then I wake up, sobbing - yes, my own action dream - in my freaking guest room. I listen for Al moving around the house getting ready for work.  Nothing.  I stumble through to our room and he's made our bed.  I was going to get back into it.  I'm even sadder.  We haven't spoken this morning and I can't bear it.

Seven-thirty and I stagger through to the kitchen.  Clearly he's gone to work and didn't want to wake me.  I'm still sad from my dream.  It's as though he really has left me this time.

Over by the kettle, he's made me a thermos of real Earl Grey tea.  He's warmed my special mug by half-filling it with boiling water which is still hot.

Why do I worry?  Back for more action dreaming tonight. 

Outside my comfort zone on a Saturday morning.

I arrive at the agreed rendezvous point.  After some small talk with a few strangers that doesn't really go anywhere I decide to approach the man sitting quietly at the end of the table.  He's alone.  Looks young; at least twenty years my junior, but what the hey?  I'm also here alone to meet new people.  I take my drink and sit next to him.

He seems more than happy to talk to me, despite my age.  He's fashionably dressed in a well cut black zippered jacket. 

'Hello, my name's Fraudster.  (Well, obviously I told him my real name.) Have you been here before?'
'I've been once before,' he said.
'What do you do for a living?' I asked.  Cut straight to the chase.

'I'm a photographer,' he said.
Okay.  Interesting.  He asked what I did and I told him I'm a secondary English teacher.  He seemed interested that I'd taught VCE and expressed admiration for the expertise he assumed I must possess.

My next question.
'Where do you live?'
He told me he lived in an affluent Melbourne suburb.
'Wow!' I said. 'Do you live in a house or an apartment?'
'I live in an apartment,' he replied. 'Where do you live?'
I told him and we agreed that this cafe meeting had been convenient for both of us.
'So,' I mused, 'do you own your apartment or are you renting?'
'Renting,' he said, before telling me that he also owned an apartment in another wealthy suburb.
'Okay, so you must be doing well in your profession!' I dare say I was beaming at this stage.  He was smiling and fielding my questions well.  And then I hit him with it.
'Are you married?'
'No,' he laughed. 'I was in a relationship but it's over now.'
'Sorry to hear it,' I said.  'Are you sad?'
'I was, but I'm getting used to it.'

At this stage I leaned back in my chair, took a breath and laughed, perhaps hysterically.  My questions were bordering on rude.

'Sorry!' I wiped tears from my eyes.  'I'm not normally this nosy! I'm just making conversation.'
He wasn't offended; had probably experienced such curiosity from a total stranger before.  This was his second meeting, after all.

BTW, the above dialogue was all conducted in laboured French.  That was the funny thing about the whole experience.  From my perspective it was a bit contrived as I struggled to apply some of the few words I have in my store.  I knew the verb 'to rent' hence me chucking in a question about whether he was renting his flat.

When  I returned from France, mid-July, I was desperate to keep up my French speaking skills.  So I did the obvious; searched the web for a suitable group.  Unfortunately, the small French conversation meetups are oversubscribed. I was unable to secure a spot at a meeting for two months.

Saturday was my first meeting and leading up to it, I was a nervous wreck.  It's not knowing what to expect.  I nearly cancelled.  What's worse, the meeting would be held at a cafe that specialises in crepes and chocolate.  Basically, I was heading off on my bike, not only into gale-force winds but also a potential diabetic nightmare.

Worst case scenario?  I'd be working the room explaining, in faltering French, that I couldn't eat anything because I have Type 1 diabetes and I can't guesstimate the carb count.  I even practised saying it.

I considered calling the cafe beforehand to see if they had anything I could toy with while I honed my French conversation skills. But I stopped myself.  I'd simply say, if anyone asked, that I wasn't hungry. Je n'ai pas de faim.

Does this sound ridiculous? How about the fact that I couldn't sleep the night before the meet up brunch?  I was as nervous as if I was going for a job interview. .

En route to the venue I got lost in those labyrinthine North Melbourne streets.  Made a left instead of a right and cycled up hill a few blocks in the wrong direction, as it transpired..

I asked a couple of strangers for directions, because, in my vanity, I'd worn my contact lenses and  I couldn't read the map on my iPhone without my reading glasses.  They had no idea being New Zealand tourists checking out Victoria Market.

A couple of extremely obliging parking inspectors came to my rescue.  (Another first:  I've never spoken to a parking inspector before.  Who does except to curse them?)  One was instantly talking into his collar to get a Google search on the address and soon I was back on my bike and pumping it back up the hill from whence I'd come.

At the meeting I spent a pleasant enough hour, initially making French small talk with a few people before settling to interrogate the aforementioned photographer.  Hard work; intellectually demanding.  The second hour was much easier.  Most people left and three of us remained.  And spoke English. 

Think I made a couple of friends, oiled up my French speaking skills and no one force-fed me crepes and chocolate.  I'd call that a good outcome.

Back for more in a couple of months.