Pump, O Pump
Pump, O Pump, you are number one.
When it comes to my sugars, you sure get things done.
For so many years, I took gobs of injections
“Too many,” I thought, after one night’s reflections.
I called up my doctor, jumped through some hoops,
Nagged my insurance and rallied the troops.
You showed up one weekend, arrived by FedEx,
Your buttons were tricky, your innards complex.
Yet we worked hard together, me and my pump,
To become familiar and get over the hump.
And now, ah now, O Machine on my Hip,
You’re as much my routine as a bloody test strip.
I am the Wallace to your savvy Gromitt.
When I’m feeling high, buttons beep and you’re on it.
My blood sugars fall from their highs with such ease
As the tubing snakes down from my thigh to my knees.
You sit, small and patient, at rest in my sock,
Sending units of insulin right round the clock.
Of course, we’re not perfect, our little D-Team,
There are times when you make me so mad I could scream.
When your tubing is kinked or your cannula bent,
I think about all the of the money I spent
On your infusion set goodies or IV prep wipes,
And all of pricey insurance-based gripes.
But then I see numbers, like my A1c,
(Which one time were bouncing, but now it's held steady)…
I’m reminded of why I chose pumping for me -
To help keep myself healthy for as long as can be.