One Friday night Dave and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves at the celebration of a fifteenth wedding anniversary. We were surrounded by happy and friendly people, good food, endless Moet and manicured gardens. It was a perfect evening.
We were served canapés. Scrump-tious. As I enjoyed each plate of deliciousness I began to remember that canapés can challenge people with CF. Long time readers of this blog will be well aware that our digestive system and pancreas are woefully poor performers. With canapés, we don’t know what the food will be, how much we will eat, or when each fresh tray of nibbles will emerge. How, you may ask, do we calibrate our medication times and dosages appropriately with so many variables?
At the beginning of the night we certainly had good intentions of being compliant with at least some of our medication. Dave gave each of us our own set of Creon so that if we were separated we could still consume calories. I dutifully put my container of pills in my handbag where it promptly vanished into the void to join a lone and sticky Buttermenthol, a scrunched up tissue, an empty container of hand cream, two depleted chap sticks, an old train ticket, three balled up receipts, and a pen that doesn’t work.
When the first plate of food came around my trusty wingman surreptitiously slipped me a pill from his still-readily-accessible stash and we hoed into the food. Insulin was wholly dispensed with. Witnessing someone inject themselves at a classy cocktail party rather dampens the mood. So too does the sight of someone falling into a diabetic coma because the canapé load and frequency is insufficient to counteract the relentless assault of insulin upon blood glucose.
We got caught up chatting and champagne drinking and before we knew it much time had passed and countless canapés had been eaten. Dave secreted me another pill and we dived into Round Two of Canapé Ingestion Without Sufficient Digestion.
Soon enough it came to the time of night when people can’t remember the name of their firstborn, let alone how many pills they have or haven’t had. We bade farewell and somehow made it to the car despite my heels, too many glasses of Moet, and a sloped grass verge out the front of the house. Dave immediately declared he was hungry. This was not entirely unprecedented. He pre-loaded with a big plate of spaghetti bolognese prior and planned to partake in a light supper after. I reached into the backseat and retrieved his snack pack to see him though the drive home. Since his caloric requirements rival that of a T-Rex the amount of finger food that would more than satisfy everyone else on the planet struggles to sate his hunger.
When we got home my primary motivation was to remove my heels and assume a horizontal position whilst Dave busied himself with his midnight snack. I consented to scrubbing my face and went directly to bed. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, an unwelcome thought popped into my head. I had neglected to take several meds in my haste to slumber. Oh, Good Lord. My almost complete fear of another bowel blockage was sufficient to snap my eyes open and swiftly propel me from bed to soothe my irksome intestines with their tonic. Whilst I was up I took my Orkambi (although the required accompanying fatty meal was altogether too long ago), popped another pill or two, inhaled a few things and returned to my bed chamber.
With a contented sigh I closed my eyes on the wonderful night that was. I melted into a mesmerising dream about what life would be like if I had an intact and functional pancreas that could do all the hard work for me.