Happy chocolate sales day! I hope everyone managed to get some cheap chocolate bargains to keep aside for hypos.
As of yesterday, Morty (my diabetes) officially turned 4 years old. An Easter diaversary. Morty is nearly school-aged. I dread the day when Morty learns to count and realises that throughout the year I have only bought it 36 presents, throws a Dudley and starts screaming at me "36! But last year, last year I had 37!". I suppose I will have to do a quick Petunia on the situation and promise to buy it another 2 new CGM sensors to stop a full-blown blood sugar control meltdown from happening.
I suppose I might buy Morty a card. But what do you say to diabetes?
If I loved my diabetes more, I might talk about the day I bought it home from the hospital with me. And how bloody confused I was leaving after an overnight stay with a permanent part of my life that I didn't know how to care for. Would I tell Morty that I never wanted to bring him home with me, and wished I could leave him sitting in a bed of his own at the hospital forever? I probably wouldn't want to tell him he was unplanned.
I won't go off on that tangent though, because I don't love my diabetes enough to reminisce fondly about the first time I held a needle to my stomach.
I could talk about how it Morty has grown as a disease. The progressions I saw after getting past that initial 3 month period when my world became a complete blur of eating, injections, sleeping and crying everywhere.
How I saw changes as Morty grew from that volatile infant state to toddler stage. I sort of knew what I was doing and was managing to look like I had my shit together. I could leave my house with my hair and make-up done; looking composed and not at all like I had just dealt with a tantrum of epic proportions.
Maybe then I will talk about my dreams and hopes for Morty's future. How much I'm hanging out for him to grow up, because I'm not as fond of his childlike behaviour as he thinks I am. I have been told, however, that an unfortunate aspect of raising a condition like Morty, is that they don't grow up. The most I can hope for is that with lots of therapy (and money) his tantrums may become a little easier to control. That as he grows, I will get to know the early warning signs of a melt-down and soothe him before I'm left with a screaming toddler disease in aisle 3 of the supermarket, because he wants lollies NOW.
The sign off would probably read: 'Happy Birthday, sweet Morty.'