Being restricted to home because of Covid-19 is proving interesting, for many reasons. I’ve written about some of the medical related considerations and some of the social media reasons, which of course aren’t directly related to being restricted to home. But one aspect that many or most people would bump into, regardless of whether they live with T1D or not, are things that can destabilise your mood.
And I think I’m in one of those periods right now.
For those who are following my ramblings, you would know that I recently had a surprise when I read my mother’s book for the first time. In there I discovered that some decades ago she discussed my T1D with her doctor, and he mentioned that stress, be it physical or emotional, is capable of doing dastardly things to the body, so my T1D was quite possibly a result of emotional stress from the family disruptions. That was an unpleasant surprise, one that I’m still yet to fully get over.
Next came the more recent interaction with social media and online forums. I won’t bother reiterating what happened there because it will just make me angry again.
But today the latest smack in the face came by letter. Here in Oz, as with many other countries, the “diabetes” organisations have a token of recognition when a person with diabetes, either T1 or T2, reaches the 50 year mark of living with the condition. As I’m now into my 47th year, being diagnosed back in 1974, I recently decided to start the process of gathering the information required so that in 2024 I’ll be ready to apply for my Kellion Medal, as it is called. I mean, why not? Living with T1D is not easy and it can be dangerous, scary, a lot of hard work and pain and basically not easy. So if someone is prepared to give me a small pat on the back for surviving the effort, pain, denial and more than 50,000 injections – many more – then why not?
So I recently sent off a request to get my medical record from the hospital where I was diagnosed all those years ago. A few weeks ago I received an official sounding letter acknowledging that they had received the request. Then today I received a rather ho-hum, official sounding letter informing me that my medical record had been disposed of (destroyed) back in 2003.
WHAT? You have got to be kidding me!
So now after my mum’s book, my run in with social media (still pissed off about that) and the fact that anybody and everybody who knew me back then, with the exception of my brothers who were too young to understand what was going on, are no longer here. So there is apparently no record in existence of what changed my life for ever, be it on paper or in people’s head. There is no record of what could have killed me so many times since then. No record of the ordeal of living and surviving with T1D. Apart from me, nobody even really knows it happened.
And here I am stuck at home, still, and not a single living sole has any living memory of what I have lived through.
Ask me if I’m happy right now. I wonder why I feel a little bit alone at the moment.