Hi I'm Sam, and I'm a diabetic...

Yes, it’s official. At about 9:15 this morning, I was diagnosed with type I diabetes. I also did other fun things today, like throw streamers around the room and dance to Proclaimers songs.

But what does having type I diabetes mean? Well, medically, I have very little idea except that it makes me thirsty a lot as well as having another dreaded symptom known as “polyuria” which, while sounding like the name of a sun-laden tropical island, is something altogether and entirely different and not quite as much fun.

Being diabetic though, also means other consequences for me. Firstly, the three basic food groups for me are no longer sugar, Manning chips and beer, and I have to learn new, frightening words like “wholegrain”, “complex carbohydrates” and “alpha glucosidase inhibitors”. Essentially I will be put on a diet that consists of two alfalfa sprouts every two hours, and if I feel like a snack I can have a drink of distilled water through an eyedropper. Secondly, since I am insulin-dependent (another one of those frightening biological terms that you always hear but don’t ever want to know what they actually are first-hand, like “enflamed sphincteral cancer”), I will soon be required – yes, required – to shoot up once or twice a day. While they are going to start me on an insulin program first, after a while I’m sure my cravings will get stronger and I’ll start desiring the more psychotropic opiates. It’s only natural, really. And of course, finally, I will be forced to give up my life as a sardonic English student and instead wander the countryside in rags with bells hanging off me, moaning “Unclean, unclean”

Of course, you all think I’m being a bit flippant about this, don’t you? It’s true, I am, I’ll be the first to admit it. It’s funny but I finally learned through this what it means to be in the ‘denial’ phase. I mean for months now I’ve been exhibiting these really strong symptoms, without knowing what they would mean. And then as soon as I’m told I’m diabetic I suddenly feel a bit pissed off and a bit down and wanting to laugh it off. I mean, obviously my reaction would be a lot worse if I were told I have terminal dysentery or something, but it’s just funny that I need to wait for a diagnosis before I actually get annoyed at being unwell. It’s like, I’d rather just have this bizarre constant dehydration for no medical reason at all than to have a reason and hence be ‘labelled’.

Which is another thing that troubles me. Now I know this, am I no longer ‘normal’? Does this mean I will no longer be able to point and laugh at lepers and plague victims? Instead will I need to be shipped off to Molokai and get electric needles stuck in me on a daily basis? Are people actually going to step back and pull a handkerchief over their mouth when I introduce myself? Yeah. I totally, absolutely, believe all these things are going to happen. (Nah - I’ll always be able to laugh at lepers and plague victims)

What’s horrible though, is that I’ve found out I basically have this illness (syndrome? disorder? What to call it?) because my great-grandfather, George, also had it. This is the same great-grandfather from whom my middle name comes. The middle name I never liked, to the point where I was really willing to change my name legally to Samuel J Fletcher. I’m just thinking, horrible middle name and diabetes. What a wonderful legacy this man has left…

“Son, now that you’re twenty-one I think you’re old enough for me to pass on this disease that makes you crave sugar and be constantly thirsty and tired. When I was your age my father gave it to me, and he got it from his father, and one day you’ll give it to your son…”

I mean still, the poor guy had to live with insulin dependence AND a horrible name so I should definitely give him a break. It’s certainly not his fault that I’m in a pathetic whiny mood, but it certainly is more fun to blame someone. So, to be fair to my great grandpappy George, I’ll instead blame Gandhi. He hasn’t been blamed for anything for a while…