James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

I’m not convinced.

‘It’s interesting though, isn’t it, all the different hormones and potions your body is able to produce, just like that. Amazing, really. That’s what medieval doctors used to think: your whole body was governed by humours. And if they got out of whack, you’d get ill. It’s not that far off what actually happens with your insulin.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And it makes you think, in a thousand years’ time, they’ll be thinking, What? They used to inject people? In their veins? Seems barbaric.’

Insulin

OK then, OK. Insulin. Another I. The I that defines me. Who would ever think that something as tedious as insulin was ever going to be their biggest enemy? No one. People go through life thinking everything’s going to be fine … No one can be on guard against everything. It’s a slippery slope. So do what I did and be on guard against nothing. Another slippery slope.

Here we go: life is a snow-capped mountain, and all you’ve got to do is choose which direction your slippery slope is going to take. I say choose the sunny side.

They always told me there was nothing I’d done wrong to stop my body’s natural flow of insulin. Not like some people who could never gain control of their weight in these high-sugar, high-fat days. But thinking about it, I don’t think the Mars Bar and the pint of Coke I used to have for breakfast every morning in the school holidays will have helped. That must have been a major trauma for the old islets of Langerhans to cope with. Brilliant times, though, at home with Laura while Mum was at work.

I remember saying to her, ‘Does Coca-Cola really have cocaine in it?’

‘Yeah! Yeah, it does. Like Mars has bits of the planet Mars in it.’

Then, at nineteen, the insulin dwindled, and that was more or less that.

My pee started smelling like Refreshers.

I couldn’t keep the weight on.

So I got my diagnosis, and the NHS gave me my little pouch with everything in it, the blood-sugar tester and the injector pen and the insulin and–

Me, my body; my body, me. I’m all the same, but not. I didn’t want it to happen like that. I am my mind. Not my body. But it was like my body wouldn’t let my mind get away with it.

Mum’s still in her work coat, sitting next to me on the sofa. I’m trying to watch the TV, but she’s flipping noisily through Diabetes magazine, which she’s insisted on subscribing to. I think she thinks I’m going to have a look at it, but I look at the cover and it leaves me feeling tired. Static smiling people of mixed ethnicity. They’re happy because they have diabetes in common. Ha ha ha.

‘You’ve got to stay on top of it though, bab,’ she’s saying. ‘People go blind,’ she says. ‘They lose feet.’

I look at her directly in the eye, and I don’t know why, but I start to laugh.

‘What?’ she says, starting to laugh herself. ‘It’s not funny, this is serious!’

‘I don’t know, it’s — it’s funny for some reason,’ I say. ‘Losing feet. Seriously, Mum, don’t worry about it. I can look after myself.’

Every night after that, she would say, ‘Have you got your insulin?’

‘Yeahhh.’

And if not: ‘What would you do without me, eh?’

These early evening pre-loading sessions round Mal’s are getting out of hand. I’ve landed back in the habit with you away on your work placements, because there’s nothing else for me to do. But when you’re actually in-town-but-impossibly-busy, I sometimes think I’d rather be watching the telly in bed while you revise at the desk. But you won’t have any of it. I only come over to Mal’s out of something like politeness. Politeness to you and to him.

‘Now,’ says Mal, ‘what have I got here?’ He roots around in his jacket pocket, and retrieves a twisted little plastic bag. ‘Here, man, look.’ He jiggles it enticingly and grins.

‘Fucking hell, what is that?’

‘What do you think it is?’

I look closer, at the powder, and I don’t want to say it in case I sound stupid.

‘H,’ he says.

Mal’s car.

It’s the best option.

I clamber and collapse into the back on the driver’s side. Mal swings the front seat down, locks me in. Claustrophobia quickly starts to squeeze my chest. I need to get out, I want to get out. But all exits are blocked. Becca has settled in beside me, and Laura in front of her. Surrounded on all sides with the windows steaming up. No way of opening them. No way out the back.

C’mon, put your seat belt on.

Underway, rubber rumbling on the tarmac through town as Mal manhandles the gears upwards, we’re all thrust backwards and forwards as his feet push the pedals, side to side on the say-so of his hands. I’m fumbling for the seat belt, but I can’t focus. I can’t — get — I don’t know what’s the lack of insulin and what’s the drug, but I’m coming down now, it’s all starting to feel more familiar. Worse than familiar. Yank again at the seat belt but the safety lock’s locked. It’s too awkward, too hard to do. I’m going to leave it off.

Straight orange wash of streetlights replenished on Mal’s seatback, wiped out over his headrest, banished by the black, over and over in rapid rhythm.

Are you good to drive?

Yeah, I’m good to drive.

You’re sure?

Yeah, I’m sure.

I try a little look across the seat to Becca, and she smiles at me, takes up my hand. I want to tell her we have to have a plan, we have to get our story straight, because you’re not on placement this time, you’re home, revising the night away, and I need to have an explanation. But I can’t herd my feline thoughts. Becca has my hand. She’s stroking it reassuringly, tenderly. It’s nice, it’s nice.

Out again on the street, your street, and I’m being walked along the pavement — a long, straight terrace street stretching off into the distance, and I’m measuring out my paces along the pavement, slab by slab. Tiny ups and downs, wobbly wonky. I’ve Laura and Becca on either side, and they’re supporting, and there’s no — where’s Mal?

Jangle now as Becca retrieves her keys for the front door. Laura’s at my other arm, but I can feel her becoming softer, more uncertain. Less and less support. The front door unjams and judders, tattling the knocker familiarly beneath the letterbox.

‘You’ll be all right from here, won’t you?’

Words from Laura to my right, and now her presence drains away, leaks off back down the street, back off to — to Mal?

And now it’s your room, and it’s you. Urgent, attentive, professional.

I look up at you as you tend to me, your forehead frowning, your eyes precise.

‘I’m so sorry.’

Unscary daylight. The safe spacey morning-after wooziness. And you’re being so gentle and kind.

I don’t deserve any of it. Look at you, you’re shattered.

‘Can you remember what happened?’ you say, climbing in at the foot of the bed, giving me a bit of room. ‘Becca was a bit hazy on details.’

‘Just fucking stupid,’ I say. ‘I forgot my insulin, didn’t I? I left it there on your desk. And I was in the club and — you know — I felt a bit weird, and I knew I was having this hyper. I thought I could ride it out.’

‘So you forgot your insulin — and that’s it?’