The Diagnosis That Changed Everything
Our journey with type 1 diabetes didn’t begin with a pamphlet or a gentle heads-up. It started with a hospital dash, a sick little girl, and a whirlwind of insulin, beeping machines, and sugar checks. Life flipped, just like that. And while we were trying to wrap our heads around what type 1 actually meant, the rest of the world just… carried on.
At the time, I was juggling two jobs — one as an agency HGV driver, and the other delivering newspapers out of my car in the early hours. That night, once we knew we’d be in hospital for the long haul, I did what any responsible person would do: I contacted both employers to let them know I wouldn’t be in.
The agency was spot on. My boss told me to take whatever time I needed and not worry about a thing. One less pressure on the pile. But the newspaper company? Not so understanding.
I’d sent a text around 11pm, but when I hadn’t had a reply, I followed up with a phone call around 3am — about an hour before my usual start time. I explained that I wouldn’t be in that morning, or for the next few days. I told them the reason: my daughter was in hospital with what we’d just learned was type 1 diabetes.
The response?
“I’ll have to speak to the boss and get back to you.”
Now, I’m a fairly patient bloke. But that got my back right up. I snapped.
“You don’t need to get back to me with what the boss says — because it doesn’t change anything. My daughter is sick. I’m in hospital. Whether your boss approves it or not, I won’t be delivering newspapers while I’m sat at her bedside.”
And just to round off the classy way they handled it — a few days later they messaged me to say they were advertising my job. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, a few more days after that, they had the cheek to ask if I was coming back.
I politely told them to go f*** themselves.
That moment really hammered home the kind of fight that was ahead — not just medically, but emotionally and practically too. Because when your kid’s life changes overnight, there are still bills, bosses, and bureaucracy that expect you to just carry on.
From Hospital Beds to Home Chaos
Our daughter came home on her fourth birthday, straight into the madness of lockdown. Schools were closed, and we were at home with six kids, juggling remote learning, Teams calls, two under-twos, and now a newly diagnosed diabetic child who needed insulin four times a day. No pressure, right?
She was only five when she started Year 1 — on multiple daily injections, battling highs, lows, and our own terrifying “what if” scenarios every night.
Back to School, But Not Back to Normal
COVID protocols meant the school missed the proper care plan handover. So for the first two weeks back, either me or her mum had to physically go in and do her checks and injections. With other school runs and toddlers in tow, it was chaos.
Eventually the teachers were trained… but then the segregation started. During snack time, her friends got to play. She sat inside alone, waiting 15 minutes post-injection, then had her snack with a teacher sat watching her eat. Same at lunch — injected first, ate alone, while everyone else still played. Every day, she came home in tears.
Who’s Really in Charge?
The care plan clearly said: parents first, always. But the TA rang the diabetic nurses instead of us, constantly. They were often unaware of the full context, meaning advice contradicted ours — even though ours came from the same team. The class teacher got caught in the middle. It was a mess.
Hot Chocolate & Bananas – The Breaking Point
At Christmas, every child got a hot chocolate — except her. Because they “couldn’t work out the carbs.” She got cordial. Cue tears.
Then came “Banana-gate.” We’d worked out together with the diabetic team that bananas were fine — just 30g of carbs across the board. But the TA decided otherwise. The damage was done. She hated her diabetes. She hated being different. She finally opened up and told us everything. We were heartbroken.
We got the diabetic team involved again. A long-overdue meeting was finally arranged. We aired every issue, and bit by bit, things improved.
New School, New Tech, Same Old Struggles
Moving to juniors brought in a CGM and an insulin pump — both brilliant. No more injections. A wizard (literally) to calculate doses. She started school dinners. And then… parents’ evening.
Instead of an academic report, we got a medical breakdown of blood sugar highs and lows. Then the teacher told us she was “struggling due to time out of class.” What time? She’d barely had a day off!
Turns out, every time her CGM beeped high, they took her out to run laps around the playground track. No care plan said to do that — and her pump was supposed to handle those fluctuations.
Then came the WhatsApp carb estimates every day from school dinners. “She’s having jacket potato and beans, that’s 45g — agree?” What did they expect me to say? I wasn’t there measuring food. Eventually, I just replied with a 👍.
We called another meeting. This time, the head, SENCO, admin, diabetic nurse, and dietician were all there. It started off as a slanging match between the school and the NHS team.
Then it was my turn.
I made it clear: the school report shouldn’t read like a blood sugar diary. Teachers shouldn’t be relying on me — a bloke who got a D in maths — to double check their carb sums.
That’s when the head dropped a bombshell: apparently a teacher had nearly “killed” our daughter by getting carbs wrong, and that’s why they sent us the daily messages — to pass the buck.
The dietician calmly explained: unless you’re way off with insulin vs carbs, a pump will sort itself. It won’t kill her.
But the worst came last. The reason she was being taken out of class all the time?
“Staff were scared of her. Scared of getting it wrong.”
That was it. I lost it.
I laid it all out: every failing, every emotional blow our daughter had taken. And finally, someone listened.
After that meeting, and her move into Year 4, things finally settled. The segregation stopped. The panic messaging eased. Her confidence grew.
Now we’re onto planning for her September residential trip.
Apparently, the school thinks me or her mum are going with her.
Yeah, right. With seven kids at home — including a baby and a toddler — they’ll have to get in line behind the NHS, Hogwarts, and MI5 if they want that to happen.
Final Thoughts
Type 1 diabetes doesn’t take weekends off. It doesn’t care about birthdays, Christmas, school trips or sleep. And neither do we.
We’re still learning. Still advocating. Still fighting.
But we’re doing it together.
Because when you’re a parent of a child with type 1, you don’t get days off.
You just keep showing up.
Even when the headteacher turns into Mrs Trunchbull.
Especially then.
🔗 > 📖 Related: Her Initial Diagnosis & Our Hospital Journey