40. Hate flying. Love flying.

Here I am at 30 000 feet, looking at my soft white navel again.

I have drunk perhaps half a bottle of champagne. I have dissolved the crumbs of maybe three quarters of a Lorazipan under my tongue. The cut of the little white pill at the kitchen bar of Malaysia Airline’s Emerald Lounge wasn’t surgically precise, so I don’t really know what is working its magic right this minute, but I do know I’m relaxed and more than a little pleased with myself, and the relentless turbulence is like driving over a pitted gravel road on Great Barrier Island in an old Landrover.  I’m not sure how much of that state is actually natural. But I’m thinking almost none.

I have watched two films so far: 17 with Zac Effron, about wanting to go back in time to fix his fuck ups, and just now something called 50 / 50 about a 27 year old who gets the diagnosis and walks down the fire line to find his truths.  Seth Rogan is in it; I would like him to be my friend in another life. God we would laugh.

Next, a proper comedy please. I’m too easy a target up here. Everything I watch, everything I listen to, has a message that’s completely relevant to my life. Until I get back down on earth and realize it was horseshit. This has happened at least thirty times now.

My boy is two movies and a diet coke into his journey too.  Seems happy, with the pretty Asian girls fussing fussing fussing.  Had a 24 blood sugar in the Lounge, which showed up that he was actually excited if nothing else.  5 novo before we even hit the airways.

I am excited and nervous in equal parts about this trip. I want my boy to know he can do anything with Type One diabetes so I’m taking him into mad bad crazy gorgeous Asia. But his blood sugars have to play ball for us for me to actually prove that.

I am bristling with information about the best private hospital in Colombo should we need it, and who to ask for if we rock up. We have two of everything. I have  the orange container with the big needle in it  if he comas. Don’t coma Cody. It’s a fucking big needle and I’m not a very big mamma.

6234 kilometres to go, we’re somewhere over Australia.

Oh the pill is really working. Lovely.

Hate flying. Love flying.

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