Alex's story

Stock image.

Alex was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes during the first week of Year 9, when he was 13½ years old. After a long summer of constant thirst and a brief visit to the doctor, a blood test confirmed what the doctor suspected. “The diagnosis came as a complete shock. We have no family history of diabetes, and it was as unexpected as it was life-changing. Since then, we have learned that type 1 diabetes can happen to anyone, at any age, and is often diagnosed in children and teenagers.” Alex’s mum tells us.

“The excitement of starting college was suddenly overshadowed by the diagnosis and the need to adjust to a completely new way of life.”

Three months later, Alex was also tested for coeliac disease - another autoimmune condition that commonly occurs alongside type 1 diabetes.

“Unfortunately, although he had no symptoms, the test came back positive. Once again, we had to rethink our approach to food and diet.  In many ways, coeliac disease has had an even greater impact than diabetes. With diabetes, you can still eat almost anything - you simply need to count the carbohydrates and manage your blood glucose levels as carefully as possible. Living gluten-free, however, is far more restrictive. You quickly discover that gluten is hidden in an astonishing number of foods, making every day eating and social occasions much more challenging.” Says Alex’s mum.

Alex is now halfway through Year 12 at college and is already thinking about university, possibly in another city. Despite the challenges of living with both conditions, he continues to pursue an active lifestyle. He enjoys mountain biking, skiing, target shooting and, most of all, tramping.

His mum shares that “living with diabetes has undoubtedly helped Alex mature more quickly and become exceptionally organised and responsible. The daily discipline of managing type 1 diabetes and coeliac disease has not prevented him from pursuing the activities he loves or from looking forward to an exciting future.”

At school recently, one of the writing assignments given to the class was an essay.  The writing prompt was to write about something that annoys them. 

“The example poem we were shown was He Had This Thing by James Norcliff, talking about flies. Since all the various alerts and alarms all my diabetes equipment makes get annoying very quickly and have to be very loud for me to hear, it seemed like the perfect jumping-off point. I was aiming to show how constant and common the noises are. This is not a job where you can clock out; it can be every day and every night.” Says Alex.

Alex’s essay shares the impact of the mental load of managing diabetes, beyond the physical side of the condition. Alex explains, “I think that beyond the stress of actually keeping your sugar in range, it gets quite frustrating when you are out of range. Whenever you are low, or especially when you are high, all the alerts feel far more annoying than they really should be, and you might start to feel frustrated. For me, at least, I flip between not caring enough and caring too much about my sugar levels, and I usually don't correct properly. It's when you need to care and have patience the most that you don't have it.” He has shared his essay below.

Writing it down, I found there was a sense of catharsis, getting it out onto paper and into the world. I saw how silly it could seem, but I don't think I have really changed how I feel about all of my alarms. They are all still constant, and they are still annoying.”

We ask Alex, what helps, on the harder days? “With my CGM, I can see how well I have kept in range over different periods of time. It feels reassuring to look back and see, wow, I had 82%," or wow, I had 87%. Celebrating the small victories, it feels like it's repeatable, that it isn't impossible.”

Alex’s advice to other young people: “There will be a way to make the noises tolerable. Look into your settings, turn the volume down or set them to vibrate. The alarms, however annoying, are trying to tell you something, so please don't shoot the messenger.”

Alex’s Essay:

It started with the hospital. Reassurances that things wouldn’t be too different. And they weren’t. Prick your finger and let the machine read your blood. Just prick, prick, prick. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Beep. Beep. Beep. It was a high, incessant tone, one you couldn’t escape even if you tried, but it was bound to the box in my hand. It only came out of its cage to taste me.

Then the app came. They said bolting a machine to my arm every week would make life easier. Lies. It appeared bound to my phone, but it was free, always tasting, always remarking, always beeping. Be-beep beep. Every 5 minutes, like clockwork, it would beep. I would wait for my sugar to slowly crawl up through the molasses, and it would complain. Be-beep beep, Be-beep beep.

It feels like a younger sister, constantly pulling and begging on my leg irrespective of what I am doing. Oh, how I wanted to ignore it, but I mustn’t. “This is for your own good,” they said, “You won’t have to suffer as much.” They pile on more and more machines as they chase a normal life for me. Lies of course. I overcorrect, I undercorrect, and my world is drowned out.

My watch and phone buzz as they flood me with notifications. “I’m low, I’m falling, I’ll be low, I’ll be very low. I’ll die. I’ll die. I’ll die.” Di-Di-Din-Ding-Di-Ding. They are so eager to clamour for my attention, like hawkers at a marketplace, that they trample over each other. Be-beep beep. I close my phone to silence a source. Be-beep beep. I smack my watch, like swatting a fly, to mute another. Through the tumult, and pressed against my stomach, there rends an ear-piercing screech.

The apps’ noises, though grating, had a melody, their interfaces sleek and modern. The pump was a brick, utterly blunt. “Eeeeeeeeeeeee.” Each tone felt like it would never end, the sound going on and on and on. I clutch at my stomach, trying to stifle the noise, trying to smother the younger sister, but it doesn’t need air. It keeps screaming.

I feel the eyes of everyone around me. Not just their real eyes, but their minds’ eyes. They can see me, hear me, and how I wish they didn’t. Nothing said, yet I want to shrink, to draw inwards under their gaze, to pile more mass around the thing on my stomach, to shut it up. As I hear the rising tones, my temper rises in kind. Flashes of a future, of blood spilling forth from ripped patches, of shatterproof glass exploding on impact, of a freedom from this life. Only flashes.

I cannot live without those myriad machines surrounding me at all times. A network of sustenance and suffering, blood to data to noise to noise to noise. A background sound that mustn't be ignored. They wake me at two in the morning, devices buzzing all around. Caring for me with all the tact and tactics of an infant. Be-beep beep.

Claire Meirelles