‘Yeah, yeah. Thanks.’
‘Now bear in mind you might be taken a bit by surprise at how suddenly it works, all right? So I’ve left a pan by your bed in case you don’t make it. And I don’t want you getting all anxious about that. It’s there to be used, so use it if you need it, OK?’
‘OK.’
She looks at me and tuts to herself. ‘Listen, lovey, I’m not here to twist your arm, but are you sure you’re doing the right thing about the morphine solution? It’s really very mild, and I don’t want to see you distressed. There’s absolutely no need for that.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I need to stop being pathetic. Get my mind under control.’
‘Well, that’s what the morphine would do; give you a bit of space upstairs.’
‘Like you say, let it go, get a bit of perspective. I can do this. Mind over matter. Just — are you sure, are you totally sure there’ll be no visitors?’
‘Everyone’s aware, all the checks are in place. I’ve left strict instructions with Jackie to make sure everyone signs in at reception, all right, lovey?’
‘All right. Thank you.’
‘Only … do me a favour, if you want the morphine, go ahead and take it. You don’t get extra points for style in this game.’
‘No, I know.’
‘Now, have you got everything? How are you progressing on your alphabet?’
‘I’m up to the letter I.’
‘I? Well, it’s staring you in the face, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve thought about intestines.’
‘No: insulin.’
‘God. Is that an acceptable part of the body?’
‘Yes! It’s a hormone, isn’t it? The main thing I remember about it is that it’s produced in your pancreas by the islets of Langerhans.’ She draws her arms out wide in a romantic gesture. ‘It might be my favouritely named part of the body, the islets of Langerhans … And it comes under I. How about that?’
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.