Author Spotlight: Persona Non Grata with Diabetes

Well my passport describes me as, “Cathcart, Paul, Stuart, British Citizen, Date de naissance 04 Feb 77, Sexe M, Lieu de naissance Glasgow,” and displays me in an out of date photo, a couple of stone overweight and badly needing a shave. Supporting this is a letter from my Doctor – which he charged me twenty pounds for the privilege of, informing the thick people of easy Jet, “The above mentioned has Type 1 Diabetes Mellitus confirmed at the age of sixteen and is insulin dependent requiring that he carry insulin and the necessary equipment with him.” Approval sought proving just enough to scupper reservations of bright orange persons behind a bright orange check-in desk and wipe away contrary expression as I *highly nasally accented, 'GO THROUGH,’ my bag of sharps intact. – Is that a fake tan or are easyTracy and easySharon sporting all out nicotine stains? ‘*THEY MIGHT ASK YOU TO PROVE IT AGAIN AT THE GATE…SO KEEP IT, YOUR LETTER, WITH YOU,’ it screams like a banshee, obviously not wanting to let things pass quite so lightly, but one up for the everyday diabetic I tell myself as I skip on through the rest of my trip uninterrupted. A completely different state of affairs from that afforded when I fly BA, who being far more compos mentis, preside, ‘Welcome aboard Sir, diabetes, yes that’s fine and if there is anything that we can do to help?’ before further reassuring, ‘We have plenty of Diet-Coke on board sir, for all that complimentary vody soon to be in your body Sir.’ – A gentleman’s understanding I feel. I’ve never been a diary person, not one of those people who write everything down into a secret notebook hidden under their bed, but I do like those people. Nor am I one of those who tweet and blog thoughts not belonging to them; though I do follow one-thousand live feeds of persons with diabetes, screaming out and falling down; and I’m certainly not one to force-feed the world status reports. – Posting pretty pictures, collecting compliments and as many friends as possible; never speaking directly mind, just talking down en masse and confusing high numbers for self-confidence. I’ll stop this French thing in a minute, it just makes me chuckle. I see diaries and autobiographies as fascination, the epitome of human being, not the ghost written dwindling of a hard faced tart breaking up with her boyfriend in time for Christmas publication. Anne Frank – no, she’s not a hard faced tart – now that’s a diary, although it bored me silly at school. Malcolm X, now that’s an autobiography, I just need to get around to reading the second half. I rarely write anything down at all, except ideas for my comic book, which I scribble down and sketch into a secret notebook then I hide it under my bed. I’ve never actually read a memoir; to be honest I got into this completely oblivious as to how hard it would be. I didn't realized till half way through, how much writing this book meant to me; though this open approach feels poised to the ethos of this communication, plus it’s nice to write down ones musings in not such rigid a structure as a formal diary would dictate. Whereas autobiographies, those seem at their best when on the subject of the deceased ...three, two, one ... no still here. It’s become very fashionable of late to write a letter back to ones sixteen year old self, with the age old adage, ‘If I knew then what I know now.’ And If you happen to be around sixteen and reading this, you lucky bastard! As hard as it may be at times, life is great and diabetes won’t slow you down, frankly there is no reason for you to become any more ill. Maybe this is a little bit like that, a letter back to my childhood self, expressing comfort that I’m going to be okay. But more so it's about reliving and unwinding, with pendulous levels of laughter and deep breaths, the circumstance, cause and affect which place me where I am. A time-out chance to think through every key moment, summoning memories long since buried. Head-in-my-hands-realizations of love and life in startling clarity: staring into open hands remorseful and peering into nothingness, owing, thankful and letting go. I hate even admitting to myself I have a disease. My life as a red balloon if you will, unclasped and rising, let go by a child’s hand: taken form around the questions a sick diabetic asks themselves on any given day. Why did I become diabetic? I never felt this ill before, so when did I become a sick person? When did I become a weak person? Worse still, when did I become a meek person and how am I ever going to make myself better? And, am I still worthwhile? My current situation is that I am lost, my character as thin as my skin pale, confidence gone, expectation extinguished; soaked through with doubt, nurtured in worry, close to giving up entirely. I used to be better than this. I used to look the world dead in the eye and swore I could stare down the sun, now the world’s gotten the better of me. Responsibility for everything and it's all too hard I fear I am letting everyone down. But I’m making myself better. Maybe it’s the time I find on my hands, or my current health status, this book just seems right. Note: Please excuse coarse and colorful language throughout: all natural reactions to real life recollections and I would be a liar if I were to be all, polite and flowery, about everything that has happened; especially those bastards who should have known better. On top of that, I’m typing away on a half broken Dell laptop with a screen consistently flickering before going blank on receiving the slightest nudge.