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TYPE 1 diabetes almost got the best of me within two hours of “diagnosis”.

I had been running late for work, and in my haste I grabbed an apple with the intention of eating it on the drive in.

But the fruit remained in my bag all the way to the office, and in the hustle and bustle of a busy news morning, I didn’t get to it until an hour later. By the time it came to recording my first ever blood-sugar level, it was way, way down.

I wasn’t “hypo” quite yet, but it served as a warning that I should be taking greater care to have regular meals and be wary of what I ate.

It’s an understatement to suggest having diabetes for a day is no easy task. You just need to look at the equipment required to survive day-to-day.

To manage diabetes, you will need: a hypo kit complete with juice box, biscuits and jelly beans for an emergency sugar boost; an insulin pen to inject the life-giving hormone back into my pancreas; a blood-sugar meter to monitor my levels; about a dozen medical lancets to draw precise droplets of blood out of my fingertips; and a bright yellow medical sharps container that has already made a colleague majorly freak out.

By far the most intimidating piece of equipment is the insulin pen, which I nicknamed Mr Stabby. It looks like a whiteboard marker – until you twist off its lid.

Mr Stabby requires disposable needle heads which, when you fit it all together with various twists and clicks, makes you feel like you are assembling a sniper rifle. Ideally, I should be taking at least five shots with Mr Stabby each day – two that will cover me for a 24-hour period, three with each meal.

While I did not have to use Mr Stabby for real, I could imagine how it must feel having to plunge his pointy end into your stomach, bum cheeks and thighs on a regular basis.

With only an apple (45 calories) keeping me going through the morning, by the time it was lunch, I was in dire need of some carbohydrates.

A beef burger (529 cal) from a local pub seemed to be OK, even when paired with a side serving of chips (342 cal).

I felt my energy level sagging a little bit, so out of routine, I grabbed a schooner of Coca-Cola (258 cal) thinking more of the caffeine hit more than anything.

Coke, of course, is full of sugar. A 600ml bottle contains just over 63.6g of sweetness, or about 16.5 sugar cubes.

If there was a diabetes educator watching me have lunch, no doubt they would have buried their head in their hands and wept openly.

Sure enough, when I later went to check my blood-sugar level, it had skyrocketed.

It was still within the safe range but if I had more time, no doubt I would have had more than one soft drink. As I continued to check my levels throughout the afternoon, my fingers were starting to become more tender with each prick of the medical lancet.

At one point, the blood-glucose meter wasn’t registering my blood sample, displaying a dreaded error message, no matter how much of my red stuff I lacquered over the tab to slide into the infernal device.

There was no other option but to continue to yelp and grimace until numbers were displayed, indicating that I was within range.

Dinner on Thursday night, World Diabetes Day, the day before my wife’s birthday, and we had organised to meet friends at a local restaurant.

It was easy for me to carry my diabetes kit in my work bag, but I could imagine the difficulty of someone in for a big night of clubbing having to juggle an insulin pen among their keys, wallet, phone and other night-time essentials.

Again, I was fairly careless with my meal choice, this time intentionally. I was interested to see what effect a typical restaurant meal would do to my body’s chemistry.

From the menu, I selected the most appetising item: a man-sized hunk of pork spare ribs slathered in smoky barbecue sauce (952 cal) with beerbattered chips (108 cal), and grilled mixed vegetables (46 cal), and I topped it all off with a stubbie of beer (109 cal).

A few burps later, I excused myself from the table to take care of some important business in the bathroom.

Afer slicing open my finger yet again, unsurprisingly, my blood sugar level was quite high. I wasn’t living dangerously quite yet, but I simulated a shot from Mr Stabby with short-acting insulin that would have brought me – theoretically – back within safe levels.

By the end of my day, my fingers were red raw from all the attempts to obtain clear readings from my blood-glucose meter.

I felt almost embarrassed to feel scared of the lancet’s prick, when there are so many Australians doing this so many times, every day of their lives, while having to be constantly mindful of what they are eating, should they need yet another visit from Mr Stabby.

They are a lot braver than me.

(This story was originally published in The Cairns Post)