'I can't remember the injection I did before lunch, yet the first one stayed with me.'

It’s Friday 27 December 1991.  I am not well. I am so thirsty, yet no matter how much I drink, the thirst doesn’t go away. It doesn’t get better. I feel weak.

I feel tired. I don’t mean, not having had enough sleep tired, I mean so tired that moving at all is a monumental effort. Everything I do seems to take so much energy out of me. I’m not hungry. I don’t want to eat. It all tastes funny.

I’m sat in the car with Dad. He tells me when we’re on our way to the doctors that he and Mum think I might have diabetes. He tells me not to worry. He tells me it will be a bit like my uncle. I’ll have to have some tablets and I’ll have to be careful what I eat. That doesn’t sound too bad.

I walk into my doctors room. She asks me to give her a urine sample. She puts a stick into it which goes bright purple. She compares the colour to a chart on the outside of the bottle and sits down.

“Hannah, I think you’ve got diabetes. I think it’s probably a good idea if you go home, get some clothes together and then your Mum and Dad will take you up to the hospital.”

My dad says “See, that’s what we thought, so you’ll have to take some tablets and not eat too much cake and chocolate just like Uncle Ray...”

My doctor interrupts “Not quite. I’m afraid you’re going to have to have daily injections. It won’t just be for a few days, you’ll need them for the rest of your life”.

I’m now sat in my hospital bed. A nurse comes and sits next to me. Her name is Sister Sally Strang. She looks friendly. We talk a bit about Christmas, what I had and what I did. I notice she has a plastic box with her. She opens it and takes out a syringe. It has a bright orange cap. She also takes out two bottles of clear liquid. Finally, she takes out an orange. I can’t work out why she has an orange. What could that be for?

“Okay, Hannah, I’m going to show you how to draw some insulin from the bottles, into the syringe, and then we’ll practice giving the orange an injection”. I giggle. “Oranges feel a little bit like a person, which is why we practice on them”. I look nothing like an orange and I’m pretty sure I don’t feel like one either.

She shows me how to check for air bubbles and how to get rid of them. She explains that it’s important to get rid of the air bubbles. If you inject an air bubble, it can kill you. She shows me how to check the dose of insulin in the syringe. She then picks up the orange and shows me what angle the needle needs to be at and how to keep it still and press the plunger at the same time.

She asks me if I’d like to have a go. I ask her where I should have a go. She laughs and says “I meant with the orange, but if you’d like to have a go at doing your own injection that would be fine too”.

I decide that I may as well go for it and have a go at doing my own injection. I need to do it some time. I’m pretty sure I don’t want Mum and Dad doing it for me.

I take the syringe in my hand. I pick up the insulin bottle and shake it. I push the needle in through the rubber seal. I pull the plunger towards me. I lift it up and flick it. This gets rid of the air bubbles. I look down at my thigh. That’s where the injection is going to go in. I pinch the skin together with my right hand and put the needle in with my left hand.

I then take my left hand and push the plunger down. I can feel the liquid going through from the syringe into my leg. At least I know I got the needle in right. It feels a little cold. I can feel the needle, but it doesn’t hurt. I take the needle out. There is no blood. There is the slightest mark where the needle was, but it’s barely visible.

Apparently I was unusual. Patients don’t usually do their first injection themselves. They usually have to wait a few days and work up to it. They usually go through a lot of oranges before they have a go on themselves.

Now it’s 2010.

It’s funny because I can hardly remember the injection I did a few hours ago before lunch, yet this one has stayed with me. I think that’s fairly normal. I’ve just had my 18th anniversary over Christmas. I can’t believe I’ve had it for so long. Thankfully there are no syringes now. I have a pen shaped device which has a cartridge and a needle attached to it. It’s much better. I don’t look as though I’m an addict carrying drugs around with me. I don’t really think about my diabetes much.

Sometimes people, who I meet for the first time, tell me how sorry they are and how hard it must be to have to give myself injections. They then ask how many a day I have to do. Three before meals and one before bed. I don’t think anything of it, but they always look wide eyed and say “Four, that’s a lot”.

I don’t think it’s a lot. To me, it’s just normal. It’s part of daily life. I liken it to cleaning your teeth or having a shower. It’s just something you have to do. The only difference is that I don’t do it to keep clean; I do it to stay alive.