Collective sharp intake of breath please – got the dreaded letter today. The HbA1c appointment. I was forewarned that “a letter from the hospital” (gulp) was on its way to me, in that mum had to post it to me from hers to my new abode that’s not in Yorkshire, but in The South. Proper south. Below the Watford Gap and everything. It sounds rather dazzling and spandangled, but before I regale you with tales of living it up in London baby… it’s Basingstoke. A massive town with not a lot in it, and this, dear folks, is from whence I hail. Given that the last two months has seen me move from Cardiff back to Hull, to York (for all of a week) and finally pack my life into my Ka yet again (yes, it fits into a Ka. Tragic isn’t it?) to wing my way down that dear old friend the M1 and land on my dad’s doorstep, you can probably suss that life’s been slightly on the crazy side lately. And hectic, living-out-of-boxes craziness doesn’t lend itself very well to amazing diabetes control.
The HbA1c appointment already instils the fear of God in me (if you didn’t click the above link the first time around and you’re wondering what the hell this appointment thing is that looks like it belongs on the Periodic Table, aforementioned link will enlighten you somewhat). That, coupled with the fact that my last result was the best I’ve had since before I was a teenager (can I get a high five!), I’m feeling the pressure. I haven’t been a bad diabetic by any means, but meeting new people, working in TV (aka working all hours under the sun. And the moon, in fact), reuniting with old faces etc etc etc… you get the idea. It’s looming like a bloody hurricane.
So, now that I’m sort of settled, insomuch as I’ve unpacked the boxes, it’s time to be diabetic extraordinaire once more. I haven’t got the Bernstein out yet, but priority number one is once more testing, testing, injecting, testing some more, refusing the cake *sigh*, a bit more testing and some mean exercising, which is literally a pain in the bum at the moment, given that I did one squat too many yesterday. Simple hey? Of course not. Oh yeah, and while I’m doing this, I’m trying to be a freelancer and somehow persuade people to actually pay me to do things. TV things, nothing sordid. It’s not quite that bad.
The other factor that’s rather bafflingly stupid, thinking about it, is that I’m travelling 250 miles for the pleasure of said appointment. I know. I’ve managed to move myself down south, but I’m a way off getting the rest of my life to follow suit. My prescriptions are still up there, tied to a random surgery in a small East Yorkshire village (this I WILL change before I run out of insulin!) and my hospital appointments have been in York since I left uni. Slightly ridiculous, I am aware. But until I am settled properly, I am indeed going to travel four hours for a 20 minute appointment, and get a nice cuddle from Mama Grieves while I’m up there. There is mild logic in this madness – my “plan” (I’m not sure you can call it that) is to move to London by Christmas, at which point I CAN regale you with city-based tales. Although the term “living it up” may have to be applied loosely! Living in a shoebox sized room in Clapham is probably not the tale you care to read about. But until then, for the sake of moving all this gumpf twice, York it is. But HOW devastating to travel 250 miles and THEN be subjected to that awful talk from the specialist because your HbA1c result is “disappointing”?! This is why I’ve got to make sure it’s not. Bring on the squats.