I’ve heard a rumour that there’s a royal wedding happening this week. I really think they should do some more publicity around this, I’ve no idea what colour knickers the bride will be wearing or what the groom will be eating for breakfast which is quite frankly driving me to distraction.
The husband and I tied the knot ten years ago (yes, I was a child bride) with a little less pomp and fanfare than is currently going on. I now realise I should be grateful that we had so little to worry about. Security issues, press intrusion and vetting our friends to be sure they were all suitable to be in the same room as the Queen weren’t even on our agenda. Even the pac-a-mac covered well-wishers from my grandma’s bingo club were able to find a spot right outside the church on the big day and thankfully didn’t need to camp out overnight to ensure they had a good view.
There is one thing the royal couple won’t be worrying about that we did have to consider though – how do you cope with a broken pancreas in a wedding dress? There’s enough junk and faffing involved in playing at being a pancreas at the best of times, so surely it’d be a nightmare at a wedding?
I don’t remember diabetes being an issue on our wedding day, but there were a few things we had to do that others wouldn’t. Because I drew the line at sewing fruit pastilles into my wedding dress, the groom and my parents all had some kind of sugar on them. For the first time I can remember, I didn’t wear any form of diabetes ID. We took a gamble that if the bride was found unconscious somewhere, at least one of the gathered crowd would guess she was hypo. I was on MDI at the time, so hiding a pump in my dress wasn’t an issue, but where to put my pen was a bit of a conundrum. I think it ended up in my mum’s handbag, along with blood testing kit and sugar. Have you ever seen a mother of the bride carrying a rucksack 😉
I’d decided to run a bit high for the big day, rather than risk a hypo halfway through my vows. With all the stress and excitement that really wasn’t hard to achieve. There was however, an overarching sense of fear that permeated the whole day. Would the pancreatically challenged and often quite messy bride make it through her wedding without getting blood on her white dress? As most of my wardrobe that isn’t black has some form of blood spot on it somewhere, blood on the dress was a pretty realistic possibility. It appears miracles do happen and by the end of the day, my white dress was slightly grubby from being dragged around but there wasn’t a spot of blood in sight.
I’ve always injected in public but I did for a moment ponder absconding to the toilets to do my wedding meal injection. But then I decided I wasn’t going to hide in the toilets at my own wedding, so I discretely (ish) lifted my dress and injected in my thigh whilst seated at the top table. The only fuss was my mother with tissues on standby in case of blood but luck was with me and there was nothing to see.
And so it seems, while diabetes can be a minor inconvenience on a wedding day, it apparently involves significantly less palaver than being heir to the throne. I therefore conclude I’d rather be diabetic than the Queen. Who’d have thought it?