Reality Check : About a Boy with Diabetes

I’ve only had one diabetic boyfriend, so this won’t be empirical. I was never sure what to attribute to the disease, and what to chalk up to the man. One thing was certain; it was a very odd relationship.

It was a humbling experience getting to know Michael. I hadn’t realised what an idiot I was until then. I’d never heard of a glycaemic index, thought only lepers and cavalry men who threw themselves on grenades had their legs amputated, and believed the best thing to do when a diabetic passed out was to run away and hide.

The first night Michael and I spent together he had what I called ‘a spell’ during sex. I didn’t get it, but was quite content to lie there listening to him snore. The second night, he showed me what I called ‘The Orange Box’*. He explained that should he pass out, I was to stab this into that and withdraw this, mixing that, then inject him. Fortunately, the needle wasn’t necessary during our time together. I’d always secretly feared, should I need to use it, I’d end up injecting an air bubble into his eyeball.

‘The Orange Box’ came to represent a fear of my own uselessness. Seeing a loved-one pass out would have been devastating enough, now I was expected to perform minor surgery on a meaty part of said loved-one’s body. ‘The Orange Box’, like Pandora’s, held in it unseen terror and quite a few of my worldly fears.

That second night, Michael’s blood-sugar fell. The only food I had in the house was a Kraft single and a packet of tartare sauce. I was to pop out for life-saving nibblies. He insisted I take his money. I waved it away and made my way to the door. His insistence approached aggression. He intimated I could buy him a stuffed hippo if I desired, but anything related to his health would be borne off his own back. My car ride thoughts turned this over in my head. I’d never met anyone with such clearly defined ‘rules’ before.

Not too long into the relationship, Michael and I were going through one of our routine moody silences: he on the couch and I on the computer. After a fair interval, I yelled something to him. Silence. Moody bitch, I thought. I hauled my ass into the lounge room and found him looking shagged out and floppy. I asked him if he’d tested himself and he seemed annoyed. After trying to prick his finger unsuccessfully three to six times, unable to get the blood onto the strip, I finally gained a reading on his little blood robot. He was very low. I couldn’t tell you exactly how low. I’m sure he could.

So, with a very immobile, near unconscious boyfriend, it fell to me to take charge. His very life rested in my hands. As my first order of business, I held his head and shouted at him, “WHAT DO I DO?”.

To this day, Michael thinks I turned to jelly and was awesomely useless in that moment but in actual fact I was using all of my finely-honed skills to their utmost ability. By acting the panicky idiot, shoving ‘The Orange Box’ under his nose, falling over and crying, I managed to force the love of my life to summon all his reserve energy and concentration to combat the encroaching disaster. He sat upright and told me to fetch the glucose tablets, or what I called ‘Ultra-Butter Menthols’, which he kept in his bag.

My role from theretofore was simply to be ‘there’. ‘There’ when he went for laser surgery on his eyes. ‘There’ when he was feeling fragile and low. ‘There’ when he was feeling volatile and high.

For the remainder of the relationship, I came to believe that my boyfriend with chronic diabetes was a highly-strung, control freak. Superficially I understood, but only later did I fully appreciate, that he had to control things or he would die.

Michael filled his days with work, special events, meetings, rendez vous' and dinners. His social calendar for June looked like mine for 1985-2000. Whether consciously or not, I attributed his exuberance and lust for activity to the ever-present knowledge of his own mortality. Armed with a low life expectancy, he threw himself into everything with the kinetic energy of a vibrating egg.

This is probably offensive, but I gave up trying to be inoffensive several months ago. Had Michael not been a diabetic, I dare say he would have been an inversion of himself, possessing none of the qualities that made me fall in love with him. Can it be said I fell in love with him because he had diabetes? Not directly. I fell in love with him because of who he was, resultant from everything he’d experienced and overcome, how he lived his life and how he viewed the world.

We remain friends to this day. I was glad I was 'there’ when he discovered he’d live far beyond thirty. I was glad I was ‘there’ when he got the pump. I hope I’ll be there for a long time.

As I said, it was a very odd relationship. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

published 29th May 2004

* For the uninitiated, what is being to referred to here as "the Orange Box" is a Glucagen Emergency Kit which contains the hormone glucagon, which stimulates the liver to release a surge of stored glucose. This is the emergency treatment for a severe hypoglycaemic episode in people with diabetes. Friends and family of people with Type 1 diabetes can be trained in the use of Glucagen by a doctor or diabetes nurse educator. For more information about Glucagen click here.

About a Boy with Diabetes
I’ve only had one diabetic boyfriend, so this won’t be empirical. I was never sure what to attribute to the disease, and what to chalk up to the man. One thing was certain; it was a very odd relationship. It was a humbling experience getting to know Michael. I hadn’t realised what an idiot I was until then. I’d never heard of a glycaemic index, thought only lepers and cavalry men who threw themselves on grenades had their legs amputated, and believed the best thing to do when a diabetic passed out was to run away and hide. The first night Michael and I spent together he had what I called ‘a spell’ during sex. I didn’t get it, but was quite content to lie there listening to him snore. The second night, he showed me what I called ‘The Orange Box’. He explained that should he pass out, I was to stab this into that and withdraw this, mixing that, then inject him. Fortunately, the needle wasn’t necessary during our time together. I’d always secretly feared, should I need to use it, I’d end up injecting an air bubble into his eyeball. ‘The Orange Box’ came to represent a fear of my own uselessness. Seeing a loved-one pass out would have been devastating enough, now I was expected to perform minor surgery on a meaty part of said loved-one’s body. ‘The Orange Box’, like Pandora’s, held in it unseen terror and quite a few of my worldly fears. That second night, Michael’s blood-sugar fell. The only food I had in the house was a Kraft single and a packet of tartare sauce. I was to pop out for life-saving nibblies. He insisted I take his money. I waved it away and made my way to the door. His insistence approached aggression. He intimated I could buy him a stuffed hippo if I desired, but anything related to his health would be borne off his own back. My car ride thoughts turned this over in my head. I’d never met anyone with such clearly defined ‘rules’ before. Not too long into the relationship, Michael and I were going through one of our routine moody silences: he on the couch and I on the computer. After a fair interval, I yelled something to him. Silence. Moody bitch, I thought. I hauled my ass into the lounge room and found him looking shagged out and floppy. I asked him if he’d tested himself and he seemed annoyed. After trying to prick his finger unsuccessfully three to six times, unable to get the blood onto the strip, I finally gained a reading on his little blood robot. He was very low. I couldn’t tell you exactly how low. I’m sure he could. So, with a very immobile, near unconscious boyfriend, it fell to me to take charge. His very life rested in my hands. As my first order of business, I held his head and shouted at him, “WHAT DO I DO?”. To this day, Michael thinks I turned to jelly and was awesomely useless in that moment but in actual fact I was using all of my finely-honed skills to their utmost ability. By acting the panicky idiot, shoving ‘The Orange Box’ under his nose, falling over and crying, I managed to force the love of my life to summon all his reserve energy and concentration to combat the encroaching disaster. He sat upright and told me to fetch the glucose tablets, or what I called ‘Ultra-Butter Menthols’, which he kept in his bag. My role from theretofore was simply to be ‘there’. ‘There’ when he went for laser surgery on his eyes. ‘There’ when he was feeling fragile and low. ‘There’ when he was feeling volatile and high. For the remainder of the relationship, I came to believe that my boyfriend with chronic diabetes was a highly-strung, control freak.* Superficially I understood, but only later did I fully appreciate, that he had to control things or he would die. Michael filled his days with work, special events, meetings, rendez vous' and dinners. His social calendar for June looked like mine for 1985-2000. Whether consciously or not, I attributed his exuberance and lust for activity to the ever-present knowledge of his own mortality. Armed with a low life expectancy, he threw himself into everything with the kinetic energy of a vibrating egg. This is probably offensive, but I gave up trying to be inoffensive several months ago. Had Michael not been a diabetic, I dare say he would have been an inversion of himself, possessing none of the qualities that made me fall in love with him. Can it be said I fell in love with him because he had diabetes? Not directly. I fell in love with him because of who he was, resultant from everything he’d experienced and overcome, how he lived his life and how he viewed the world. We remain friends to this day. I was glad I was 'there’ when he discovered he’d live far beyond thirty. I was glad I was ‘there’ when he got the pump. I hope I’ll be there for a long time. As I said, it was a very odd relationship. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. published 29th May 2004 * For the uninitiated, what is being to referred to here as "the Orange Box" is a Glucagen Emergency Kit which contains the hormone glucagon, which stimulates the liver to release a surge of stored glucose. This is the emergency treatment for a severe hypoglycaemic episode in people with diabetes. Friends and family of people with Type 1 diabetes can be trained in the use of Glucagen by a doctor or diabetes nurse educator. For more information about Glucagen click here.
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