By the time my brother and I came along, we instinctively knew we were ‘also rans’. The ‘special one’ had already been birthed. Not only was he the first born boy in a farming family but by age 3 he had diabetes. We hadn’t a hope!
Granted as the last born and female, I had more of a chance but really the story was already scripted, Johnston was ‘different’ and Mark and I would have to find solace in our ‘normality’.
Of course we felt sorry that he had to have injections twice a day and that he wasn’t allowed to consume any chocolate scraps in a relatively treat free home. However, he seemed to make up for it (in our eyes) in many other ways…
Family, friends and neighbours all made a big fuss of him and he was groomed in a more mature world than us as the attention from adults gave him a special appeal. We just cowered in his shadow and reverted to ‘taking the piss’ out of his granda ways.
On a Saturday, our Papa would take a run to the local village (Caledon) to the butchers. Mark and I would get a crunchie which we would devour with speedy relish while Johnston got a chop. He always had the last laugh at tea time as we sat down to a lesser meat.
On Sundays, the special one would go to Granny’s after church for dinner and we would follow afterwards. He was so molloy cuddled, he was virtually dripping from Granny’s apron.
Every summer he would go to ‘Diabetic Camp’. Mum would go as a helper and oh what fun they’d have..learning about the ‘special condition’ as they played in the sun. Mark and I were left behind considering the big question ‘Would you rather have injections or go to camp?’
Even in school, he was special. Being a small country school, the dinners were cooked should I say better than mum’s. Of course Johnston always got to go first in line as of course he needed food NOW and when it came to seconds, he was offered first.
At this stage, I should add that Mark and I always concluded that we didn’t want the injections, the hospital visits or indeed the intense attention between mealtimes.
When my dad became ill and it turned out to be another diabetic in the house, we really didn’t fancy it. Dad was a different proposition – he had grown up with a sweet tooth and wasn’t a great threat to our infantile need for attention. We just didn’t want him to be sick.
Two of them in farming household brought on the crazy days. My mum became uber mum. Her whole life’s work became a dedication to ‘the men’. Meal times were regimented and always began 30 minute before by her stress about whether or not they would make it in on time for their scones before they were ‘dizzy’. If cattle had unexpectedly broken out and running was involved, the men would both trail back ‘dizzy’. An afternoon’s shopping with mum included a lot of clock watching, just in case we were home late for the men.
When Johnston started to date, it was all a bit tricky. If his new boo wasn’t properly up to speed on his condition, she could get caught out by a rapid change in behaviour which would go from charming to apparently drunk to out for the count very quickly. We felt sorry for his girlfriends on so many levels. On one occasion, when he was late back from a trip to Bulgaria, we realised afterwards that he was mid chat up when he got ‘dizzy’. Next thing out and they had to do an emergency landing – all for a bottle of lucozade or a mars bar!
My dad wasn’t great at handling the condition. He was known to wander into many neighbouring farms without a clue about his whereabouts. Luckily he was always escorted home like a naughty puppy. He once upturned a tractor in a ditch. Until it was reinstated, it was something of a local tourist draw as visitors came to see the miracle of survival. As my dad did like a wee whiskey, it became a little dangerous as his dizzy spell was occasionally mistaken for tipsy. That one was a little close to the non survival!
The strangest thing about the dizzy phase was the lack of understanding between the two sufferers. There was always a war to get the magical lucozade down the neck of the dizzy one. There was always a kind of drunken objection. The most bizarre thing for the rest of us was the frustration of the non dizzy one when the dizzy one was objecting to the cure. Mental.
Having left both Johnston and Dad at home being cared for by their respective wives, life takes on a different perspective. I take my hat off to my mum for her many years of selfless dedication to diabetes with both my brother and my dad. I see the impact of very young diabetes on my brother. It has had an adverse effect on his body and I feel sad when I realise how bitter we were as children about his little privileges. I also hold his wife in high regard because it’s a life challenge. So forget the crunchies, the dinner queue, the attention, I’d hate to have grown up with diabetes.
Story by Jackie, follow her on twitter @BabettesBangor
By the time my brother and I came along, we instinctively knew we were ‘also rans’. The ‘special one’ had already been birthed. Not only was he the first born boy in a farming family but by age 3 he had diabetes. We hadn’t a hope! Granted as the last born and female, I had more of a chance but really the story was already scripted, Johnston was ‘different’ and Mark and I would have to find solace in our ‘normality’. Of course we felt sorry that he had to have injections twice a day and that he wasn’t allowed to consume any chocolate scraps in a relatively treat free home. However, he seemed to make up for it (in our eyes) in many other ways... Family, friends and neighbours all made a big fuss of him and he was groomed in a more mature world than us as the attention from adults gave him a special appeal. We just cowered in his shadow and reverted to ‘taking the piss’ out of his granda ways. On a Saturday, our Papa would take a run to the local village (Caledon) to the butchers. Mark and I would get a crunchie which we would devour with speedy relish while Johnston got a chop. He always had the last laugh at tea time as we sat down to a lesser meat. On Sundays, the special one would go to Granny’s after church for dinner and we would follow afterwards. He was so molloy cuddled, he was virtually dripping from Granny’s apron. Every summer he would go to ‘Diabetic Camp’. Mum would go as a helper and oh what fun they’d have..learning about the ‘special condition’ as they played in the sun. Mark and I were left behind considering the big question ‘Would you rather have injections or go to camp?’ Even in school, he was special. Being a small country school, the dinners were cooked should I say better than mum’s. Of course Johnston always got to go first in line as of course he needed food NOW and when it came to seconds, he was offered first. At this stage, I should add that Mark and I always concluded that we didn’t want the injections, the hospital visits or indeed the intense attention between mealtimes. When my dad became ill and it turned out to be another diabetic in the house, we really didn’t fancy it. Dad was a different proposition – he had grown up with a sweet tooth and wasn’t a great threat to our infantile need for attention. We just didn’t want him to be sick. Two of them in farming household brought on the crazy days. My mum became uber mum. Her whole life’s work became a dedication to ‘the men’. Meal times were regimented and always began 30 minute before by her stress about whether or not they would make it in on time for their scones before they were ‘dizzy’. If cattle had unexpectedly broken out and running was involved, the men would both trail back ‘dizzy’. An afternoon’s shopping with mum included a lot of clock watching, just in case we were home late for the men. When Johnston started to date, it was all a bit tricky. If his new boo wasn’t properly up to speed on his condition, she could get caught out by a rapid change in behaviour which would go from charming to apparently drunk to out for the count very quickly. We felt sorry for his girlfriends on so many levels. On one occasion, when he was late back from a trip to Bulgaria, we realised afterwards that he was mid chat up when he got ‘dizzy’. Next thing out and they had to do an emergency landing – all for a bottle of lucozade or a mars bar! My dad wasn’t great at handling the condition. He was known to wander into many neighbouring farms without a clue about his whereabouts. Luckily he was always escorted home like a naughty puppy. He once upturned a tractor in a ditch. Until it was reinstated, it was something of a local tourist draw as visitors came to see the miracle of survival. As my dad did like a wee whiskey, it became a little dangerous as his dizzy spell was occasionally mistaken for tipsy. That one was a little close to the non survival! The strangest thing about the dizzy phase was the lack of understanding between the two sufferers. There was always a war to get the magical lucozade down the neck of the dizzy one. There was always a kind of drunken objection. The most bizarre thing for the rest of us was the frustration of the non dizzy one when the dizzy one was objecting to the cure. Mental. Having left both Johnston and Dad at home being cared for by their respective wives, life takes on a different perspective. I take my hat off to my mum for her many years of selfless dedication to diabetes with both my brother and my dad. I see the impact of very young diabetes on my brother. It has had an adverse effect on his body and I feel sad when I realise how bitter we were as children about his little privileges. I also hold his wife in high regard because it’s a life challenge. So forget the crunchies, the dinner queue, the attention, I’d hate to have grown up with diabetes.