In the words of Taggart,
“There’s been a murder”
But there is no body.
A pancreas has been killed
And it’s inside my son.
My dodgy gene pool looks like the prime suspect
With weird and wonderful auto immune diseases abounding
On both sides of my family tree.
No happy valley here.
Just a predisposition
And the elusive lightening strike
That leaves him with needles and insulin pens: the wire in his blood.
I spend my days as a silent witness,
Looking for the ‘green around the gills’ tinge of an impending hypo
Trying to work out the reason for sudden high levels.
I snuffle about, metaphorical magnifying glass in hand,
Forensically examining the carb count of a recent meal,
Querying the impact of an activity or lack thereof,
Constantly learning new tricks.
There is no right or wrong in this game.
He is above suspicion.
Sleepless nights feeling like I am waking the dead: a teenage boy in deep slumber.
Blame is never attributed for the weird and wonderful numbers which
Randomly appear on that small screen.
No offence is taken by this amazing child but
No convictions will ever be made for the death of a pancreas.
Edit – how many detective shows can you find reference to?