of failure in my head. Rose might have harshly critiqued my first attempt at telling this story, but I had felt amazing when I brought Colin to life. Something odd happened that I couldn’t explain; what I’d read and what I imagined merged like two paint shades on a palette. Maybe this was how the actors I’d watched at work pulled it together?
I went upstairs and stood at Rose’s bedroom door, watched her put books into her glittery Hello Kitty bag.
‘Don’t forget the glucose tablets, just in case,’ I said.
She’d not yet experienced the dreaded hypo. The nurse had explained how blood sugar levels of less than four make a diabetic dizzy, hungry, sweaty, and unable to concentrate. How this needs treating immediately with glucose. Now Rose’s blood sugars were slowly coming down to a more normal level, the risk of one grew.
I feared it happening at school and no one noticing, least of all Rose, who might not even realise what was going on. I found myself watching her for every sign, over-analysing every sudden tantrum, every yawn and expression of feeling odd.
‘I’ve got them,’ snapped Rose.
‘And put your medical bracelet on.’
‘I have.’
‘And remember your new phone.’ I’d bought her one, just in case.
‘Can’t you talk about anything else?’
I didn’t know what to say. Was there anything else right now?
So I went downstairs and sat at the table and listened to her activities. Only nine and she was more independent and contrary than any other child I knew. Perhaps there was one similar. I saw myself aged ten, listening while the lady next door explained how I should pick the garden flowers by cutting at an angle, so they lived longer. I saw myself nod politely and then wrench up roses with bare hands.
How would I have coped with diabetes? Would I have listened to the things adults suggested? Taken the pain without tantrum?
When Rose left to meet her friends on the corner, with no word of goodbye or glance my way, I sat for a long time at the table, staring at nothing. The house felt cold, even though the heating had just gone off. I rubbed my arms to warm them. I’d never felt so alone. I felt if I opened the door nothing else would exist, that the road and lawns would have been sucked into some void, leaving only me.
I put my head on my arms and closed my eyes. When I looked up there was a candle on the table, its flame flapping like a tiny orange butterfly. Not just any candle – the one I’d removed from the pumpkin.
He’ll get the candle , Rose had said.
I looked around. Who’d put it there? Was Rose home?
Somewhere in the house was whistling; a merry tune I sort of recognised. Perhaps the window cleaner had turned up a week early. I looked outside. No one. Besides, the sound was too close and clear to belong to anyone beyond the walls. I went into the hallway, looked upstairs.
‘Is it you?’ I called. What was I saying? Who did I mean?
The whistling stopped. I listened. Radiators clicked, still emptying. The clock by the small window marked my wait.
‘Colin?’
I began up the stairs but the phone stopped me. I opened my eyes. Saw the kitchen. The table. No candle. I’d fallen asleep in the chair. How long had I been out? The phone continued ringing.
I picked it up. ‘Hello, Mrs Scott? It’s Mrs White.’ Rose’s headmistress. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an incident . Can you come into school?’
‘An incident? Is Rose okay?’ Visions of hypos and unconsciousness made me close my eyes.
‘Yes, she’s fine.’
‘Is it a hypo? Did she …’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘You can’t just ring and tell me vaguely that there’s been an incident when a child has diabetes!’ I cried. ‘I’ll imagine the worst.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs White, in the least apologetic voice possible. ‘I assure you Rose is physically fine but she’s locked herself in one of the toilet cubicles and she won’t come out. She also stole some food from the
I went upstairs and stood at Rose’s bedroom door, watched her put books into her glittery Hello Kitty bag.
‘Don’t forget the glucose tablets, just in case,’ I said.
She’d not yet experienced the dreaded hypo. The nurse had explained how blood sugar levels of less than four make a diabetic dizzy, hungry, sweaty, and unable to concentrate. How this needs treating immediately with glucose. Now Rose’s blood sugars were slowly coming down to a more normal level, the risk of one grew.
I feared it happening at school and no one noticing, least of all Rose, who might not even realise what was going on. I found myself watching her for every sign, over-analysing every sudden tantrum, every yawn and expression of feeling odd.
‘I’ve got them,’ snapped Rose.
‘And put your medical bracelet on.’
‘I have.’
‘And remember your new phone.’ I’d bought her one, just in case.
‘Can’t you talk about anything else?’
I didn’t know what to say. Was there anything else right now?
So I went downstairs and sat at the table and listened to her activities. Only nine and she was more independent and contrary than any other child I knew. Perhaps there was one similar. I saw myself aged ten, listening while the lady next door explained how I should pick the garden flowers by cutting at an angle, so they lived longer. I saw myself nod politely and then wrench up roses with bare hands.
How would I have coped with diabetes? Would I have listened to the things adults suggested? Taken the pain without tantrum?
When Rose left to meet her friends on the corner, with no word of goodbye or glance my way, I sat for a long time at the table, staring at nothing. The house felt cold, even though the heating had just gone off. I rubbed my arms to warm them. I’d never felt so alone. I felt if I opened the door nothing else would exist, that the road and lawns would have been sucked into some void, leaving only me.
I put my head on my arms and closed my eyes. When I looked up there was a candle on the table, its flame flapping like a tiny orange butterfly. Not just any candle – the one I’d removed from the pumpkin.
He’ll get the candle , Rose had said.
I looked around. Who’d put it there? Was Rose home?
Somewhere in the house was whistling; a merry tune I sort of recognised. Perhaps the window cleaner had turned up a week early. I looked outside. No one. Besides, the sound was too close and clear to belong to anyone beyond the walls. I went into the hallway, looked upstairs.
‘Is it you?’ I called. What was I saying? Who did I mean?
The whistling stopped. I listened. Radiators clicked, still emptying. The clock by the small window marked my wait.
‘Colin?’
I began up the stairs but the phone stopped me. I opened my eyes. Saw the kitchen. The table. No candle. I’d fallen asleep in the chair. How long had I been out? The phone continued ringing.
I picked it up. ‘Hello, Mrs Scott? It’s Mrs White.’ Rose’s headmistress. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an incident . Can you come into school?’
‘An incident? Is Rose okay?’ Visions of hypos and unconsciousness made me close my eyes.
‘Yes, she’s fine.’
‘Is it a hypo? Did she …’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘You can’t just ring and tell me vaguely that there’s been an incident when a child has diabetes!’ I cried. ‘I’ll imagine the worst.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs White, in the least apologetic voice possible. ‘I assure you Rose is physically fine but she’s locked herself in one of the toilet cubicles and she won’t come out. She also stole some food from the
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