Saturday afternoon, I removed the Dexcom sensor. 

For the record, that Dexcom is worth the design flaws and I was very impressed with the results.  (More on that later.)  But also for the record, pulling out the sensor was extremely painful - that adhesive is intense!  I had to use a damp cloth around the sticky gauzey bits to help alleviate that "peeling my skin from my body" feeling.   Why didn't I apply a new sensor?  Due to the upcoming July 4th holiday and the white-water rafting trip this weekend, I didn't feel comfortable toting around an additional gizmo that couldn't get wet.  So off it came, to be reintegrated next week.

Saturday night, I removed my insulin pump.

I decided to take a "pump vacation" for the rafting trip, based on my insecurity about being able to properly protect it and my fear of it being busted on the excursion.  (I thought a lot about the advice to order a back-up pump, use the AquaPack, etc. but I had to go with my gut on this one.)   So late Saturday night, I disconnected my pump and took my first shot of Lantus in almost four years.

I was at Batman's house, spending the night before I headed up to Boston to retrieve Chris (yay!) from the airport.  

"Ah, the red ladybug bag!"  Batman exclaimed.  (It was a Clinique "free gift" from several years ago - a red circular zippered case that was plastic and held my insulin bottles when I was on injections.)  "I remember that thing!  I also remember when you went on the pump in the first place.  Is this weird?"

"Definitely."  I uncapped the syringe with my teeth and put the needle tip into the new bottle of Lantus, drawing back 16 units.  "This is completely bizarre.  But it's only for a week.  Just until Sunday night."

It's been two days without it and I'm feeling pretty good.  I am back on my old dose of Lantus (15 1/2 units at 10 o'clock at night) and I'm bolusing with an insulin pen.  Between you and I (and the entire internet), I miss my pump and I feel like I'm walking around naked, but this brief vacation is just that:  brief.  Blood sugars have been closely monitored and in a holding pattern of about 150 mg/dl, which is higher than I shoot for but I'm happy to have them steady instead of bouncing.

This is weird, though, going from two savvy devices to nothing more than an insulin pen in my purse.  Weirder still (yet comforting) is the fact that Chris has never known me without my pump.  It's always been a part of our life together.

After rescuing my fiance from the airport (at 7 am in Boston - damn that's early), I gave him a huge hug and then shared my secret with him.  "I'm not wearing a pump today."

His arms circled my waist and he gave me a kiss on the head.

"I never notice even when you do." 

Welcome home, Chris.  I'm so happy you're home!

Posted by Kerri. at 10:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

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Back a few years ago, when I was working in an arbitration firm, I developed an obsession with Fudgy the Whale.  (Yes, we're back at Tom Carvel again.)  The job I worked was thankless, forcing my then 23 year old self to receive payment for only 35 hours when I was plugging through more than 40.  Deadlines were strict, the matters were enormously legal, and my days were spent consulting with high-power attorneys and former FBI heads.  Files piled up.  Stress levels were elevated. 

It was at this job that I decided to start insulin pumping.  I had been struggling to lower my A1c for some time and my morning dawn phenomenon symptoms were becoming a daily nuisance.  Couple those factors with the low blood sugars I was being tagged with and I was a grumpy little diabetic. 

I started making the phone calls to my doctor in November, telling her that I was ready to transition to pump therapy.  After a few training classes at Joslin, some in-depth discussions with my then-partner, and way too many phone calls with the soul-sucking ghouls at my medical insurance company, I was finally suited up with my Minimed 512 and ready to roll.

After I started pumping, I was so tempted to start experimenting with the insulin-to-carb ratios.  Specifically the ones that would allow for, say, some ice cream cake?

"You guys remember Fudgy the Whale, right?"  I asked my co-workers over lunch one day.  They did.  But I wouldn't let it go.

"Man, those ice cream cakes were delicious.  We should totally get one for the office."

"Right.  We should!"

But we didn't.  And the pump clipped to my hip kept whispering to me as I filed my arbitration awards. 

"Pssst.  Kerri.  Listen, you can totally do an ice cream cake.  Just use your 1:10 ratio and read the carb count on the side of the box."

I tried to whisper back without moving my lips.  Didn't want anyone at work to think I was nuts.

"I know.  I'm working on it."

After a few days, my frenzied discussions about Tom Carvel and his fabulous cakes tapered off a bit, thanks to a workload that was holding me by the throat.

One afternoon - "Hey guys, we have a meeting in ten.  Conference room."  My bosses voice rang out over the cubicle farm and we all popped up like overworked whack-a-moles.

I finished up the file I was working on and grabbed my notebook for the meeting.  The conference room was right near my desk, so I strolled on over, opened the door, and saw:

Fudgie.

And on his belly, it said, "Fudgy Loves Kerri."

"Oh!  Fudgy the Whale!  He's here!"  I couldn't help myself.  I regressed immediately, grinning like a six year old at the idea of ice cream cake with tasty crunchies. 

"We were going to write 'You Must Shoot Up Now,' but figured that may be offensive.  But you can shoot up now.  Use your pump thing.  And we'll have cake!"

And we had cake.  As a team, we devoured every last morsel of Mr. F.T. Whale.  I used my new insulin pump to cover bases and enjoyed both a piece of Whale and a stable blood sugar an hour and half afterwards.

Even a crappy job can be momentarily saved by Tom Carvel. 

( And a HUGE Happy Birthday to my friend Batman! )  

Posted by Kerri. at 11:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (0)

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After my shower last night, I sat in my bathrobe and primed the pump for a new infusion set.   Chris was home in CT for the evening, so we were chatting as I wiped the IV prep along my thigh and checked the tubing for pesky little air bubbles.

"Sure thing, I can bring you to the train station in the morning,"  I said, and the infusion set inserter sprang forth with a shunk and the infusion set needle dove into my leg.

Disclaimer:  Usually, changing my infusion set site doesn't hurt.  Most often, it's a little pinch and maybe a little bit of soreness when I bolus for the first time, but usually it's hardly noticable. 

This site change, however, stung like a sonofabitch. 

I pulled back the Quick-Serter and threw it on my desk.  "Be right back." 

Walked into the bathroom, gritting my teeth and feeling the infusion set imbedded in my muscle with every step.  I shut the bathroom door, turned on the overhead fan, leaned against the sink and let loose with a soft slip of the foulest curse words I could muster. 

After a few minutes, the pain ebbed away a bit and I could walk okay.  I went back in to the office.

"You okay, baby?"  Chris asked.

"Yeah.  Man, that infusion set was a nasty little one.  It stung like mad!"

Last night in bed, every time I rolled on my side, I felt the sting.  This morning when I bolused for my breakfast, it felt like fire.  But my blood sugars appear to be just fine, so it's not a question of absorption.  It's now become a question of my Stubborn Self, rearing her ugly head once more.  I could pull the set right now and replace it with the back up one I keep at the office. 

"You can't feel it now, Kerri.  You're fine."  Internal Motivational Speaker wakes up from her nap and stretches her arms over her fictional head.  "Just leave it until tonight and change it after you get back from the gym." 

I'll wear this insulin pump 24 hours a day.  I'll make it a part of my life.  And I'll even spend all that money on the blasted supplies.  But this sting?  This hot sting that makes me feel like I have an irate bee trapped in the leg of my pants?

Forget it.  It's not worth it.

I'm pulling the set at lunch. 

Posted by Kerri. at 09:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

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The Nanopump from Debiotech.   

I must admit:  I love that they are showing the size of this thing against a stack of sugar cubes.  (No, not the band that Bjork used to be in, although she is very cool and reminds me of Sonic the Hedgehog.)  After reading a few releases, checking it out at Amy's, and then receiving an email from an F.R. in the United Kingdom, I couldn't resist a post-ling about it. 

(Post-ling - noun. "mini post")

The pictures I found didn't exactly show how the pump would look, but more how tiny the actual insulin facilitator is.  My fashion-curious self couldn't help but wonder how big the hub for this Nanopump would end up being.  I found a picture at the Diabetes Mall that gave a better representation of how this technology could end up looking once it's on the market. 

The pumping mechanism itself would be attached to your skin and you would control the hub by means of a remote, much like the Omnipod system.  Various websites have mentioned that this system could hold maybe 5ml of insulin - that's over 16 days of use for someone like me who is taking about 30u of Humalog a day.  Even if the pump can hang tough that long, would my body be able to play host to one infusion site for that many days? 

As Amy already mentioned, it could be years before this thing even hits test phases in the United States.  But I can't help but become excited about the idea of a pump that lays so flat against my skin that I can barely detect it underneath my clothes.  As my Paradigm 512 rests quietly in my pants pocket this morning, I notice the overall mass of my current system.  It would be very nice indeed to have a crafty little MiniPump - a pump-ling? - to assist me in navigating my diabetes management.

I remember using blood sugar meters that took 120 seconds to count down results, basing readings off the color patterns on a spongy test strip.  I remember playing Bill Nye the Science Guy in the bathroom with test tubes of urine, what appeared to be Paas egg coloring tabs, and eye-dropping urine to see if my blood sugar or ketone levels were elevated.  I used pig and cow insulin.  These management methods were in use when I was first diagnosed.  Now, 20 years later, we've come so far with technology.  Wireless insulin pumps?  Smart-fabrics to detect neuropathy?  The promise of teeny insulin pumps?  Amazing developments.

While we hope for a cure, I'll take these tremendous advancements in the meantime.

Posted by Kerri. at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

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While it left me be for the weekend, I had a very diabetes-bloggable evening.

Posted by Kerri. at 08:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

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I received one of the best emails EVER yesterday, from Kymberly in New Jersey, in response to my poem - Pump, O Pump. Here it is:

Hi Kerri, my name is Kymberly,
I've had diabetes since 1973.
Found your site doing an internet quest:
"Where to put a pump when wearing a dress".

Saw your post today about your pump
And had to email, cuz' I'm in a slump.
Have taken injections for 34 years
And the ever-imbedded cannula is what I fear.

The doctor says that it's my decision
But a lower A1c he can envision.
It's something I long for - tighter control,
A long healthy life is the ultimate goal.

Your website answers alot of my questions
Along with giving helpful suggestions.
Figure I've got to give the pump a 3-month trial
To see if the partnership is friendly or hostile.

Diabetes can be so easy while other days it's a curse,
But I always remember I could have it worse.
I prick and I test with the goal of perfection
And feel like I failed when it doesn't meet expectation.

So just wanted to write and tell you "hello",
Congratulations on your engagement to your beau.
I'll keep checking your website to see what you wrote
And I'll let you know if the pump gets my vote.

Regards,
Kymberly McDonald
from Texas but living in NJ."

If you have any tips to offer up to someone who may be teetering on the edge of deciding to pump, have at it!

Posted by Kerri. at 09:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

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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.

Posted by Kerri. at 11:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

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Warning:  The following is sort of a gross post.  A "grost." 

I am so sorry to gripe, but diabetes is chewing happily on my last nerve at the moment.  After peaking and plumeting all day long for the past two days, I finally pulled the infusion set in my leg out to be greeted by spurting blood and a cannula clogged with blood.  Disgusting, but helped explain why maybe my insulin wasn't being absorbed in a timely fashion.

After mentally chastising myself - "Kerri, next time don't be so damn stubborn and just pull the set." - I hopped in the shower for a nice, infusion-free shower, where the shower pouf doesn't get caught on the pump cap and I don't have to worry about catching my razor on the gauzy edges while I shave my legs.

Ah, nice.  Warm, clean ... feeling better.

I settle down at my desk to put in a new set.  Fill the reservoir, prime the pump, wipe an IV prep over my right thigh in preparation for the set, and load the Quick-Set into the Quick-Serter.

Holding the insertion device against my thigh, I press the buttons and the spring-loaded device clicks forward with a distinctly dragging shunk.

"What the hell?"

I try and pull back the Quick-Serter to see the set only to have it resist.  The infusion set sticky tape ended up stuck on the insertion device.  This is what I saw:

Stubborn as always, I refused to pull the set out and use another one.  Damn it, I was going to make this work.  I pulled back the needle and gently pried the Quick-Serter away from the edge of the set.  Eventually, it gave way with a fluttery bandaid sound and I quickly pressed the sticky edges against my thigh, hoping they would stick.

Stubborn Kerri: 1

Infusion Set: 0

I wasn't sure if the site was working until I woke up this morning at 40 mg/dl and had to ask Chris, in that ethereal "dead" voice I apparently speak in when I'm low, to please get me some juice.  Now I feel like I've been hit by a truck filled with penguins, who are all carrying suitcases filled with bricks.  Because that makes sense.

Bouncing Blood Sugars: 1

Stubborn (Tired) Kerri:  0, for now

Here's hoping that diabetes lays low for the weekend.  (And not the hypoglycemic kind of low, you pun-filled Faithful Readers.)  Have a good one!

Posted by Kerri. at 08:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (0)

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Yesterday was a disasterous diabetes day.  Despite the fact that the day began in a flurry of Sox fans and ended with a 14-3 victory, my blood sugar numbers left much to be desired.

I started out the day at a slightly elevated 157 mg/dl, but I took a little correction bolus and then disconnected for the shower.  Headed off to work to enjoy a crispy 244 mg/dl before I had my coffee.

"What the hell ..."  Check the site.  Check the pump.  Everything looks good.  Bolus in a correction and carry on.  Half an hour later, 276 mg/dl.

"Oh come on," I plead with my thigh.  Lace in a few more units.  An hour later, peaking at 290 mg/dl.  Mouth thick with sweaters, a high headache, and feeling too sleepy to sit at a computer and try to focus on work.

45 minutes later, back down to 210 mg/dl.  An hour from there, 176 mg/dl. 

A shaky 59 mg/dl at lunchtime. 

Ridiculous.  It's my own fault for correcting on top of correcting, but I felt so frustrated with the high that I was intent upon getting it down.  Of course, I slightly over-treated the reaction because it felt particularly intense after a morning of elevated blood sugars, so I had the pleasure of a 261 mg/dl later in the afternoon.

Back down to 143 mg/dl before I left work.

Before going into the gym, I was steady at 134 mg/dl.  Feeling better now that I was down to a normal number but beaten down after a day of ping-ponging, I hopped on the treadmill and started my Larry Bird 33 minutes.  The televisions at the gym were all on, but no sound, so I listened to my iPod and watched the news in closed-captioning. 

Katie Couric sat at the newsdesk and a graphic reading "Type 1 Diabetes" appeared over her right shoulder.  My eyes locked on the screen.  Sweat on my forehead.  Working out hard.  Tested my blood sugar - 90 mg/dl.  I felt strong and healthy and like the world was mine to conquer.

The tv showed a young girl with a meter and an insulin pump.  The captioning then switched to talk about the study in Brazil where 13 type 1 patients are now making their own insulin, after a risky yet hopefully effective procedure.  "Potentially a cure for people living with type 1 diabetes."

My heart leapt.  Is it okay to hope sometimes?  Or is it safer to not think about it and instead fight hard, every day, because my life - our lives -depend on it?

Closed captioning keeps coming:  "Could be the breakthrough for type 1 ... years away from reaching the public ... cure ... advancements in technology ... cure..."

Shaky.  My legs are weak.  The sweat on my brow feels different, colder somehow.  I slow the treadmill down and test - 55 mg/dl. 

Tears of frustration spring up.  I felt so strong just seven minutes ago, when my blood sugar was at 90 mg/dl.  Now I feel crumpled at 55 mg/dl.  I drain half of my juice bottle and wait for my blood sugar to rise.  The word "cure" is on the closed captioning slates behind my eyes.

I just want to know.  I want to know what it will be like.  I want it in my lifetime.  I'm reluctant to say that I want it now because that means I'm allowing myself to hope.  Hope is nice and makes me smile, but it does nothing to lower my A1c or repair my eyes.

Some days, diabetes is something small that I carry in my pocket.  Other days it is something heavy that I drag behind me in a wagon with no wheels. 

But is there a tiny glimmer of hope now?  I mean,  Katie Couric said so.

Posted by Kerri. at 08:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (18) | TrackBacks (0)

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Diabetes is everywhere. 

It was in my car last night when I climbed in after work, seeing the test strip on the driver's seat.  It was on my bathroom counter, where I placed the pump when I disconnected for my shower.  Little bits of it are at the bottom of my purse, where test strips are scattered.  And it's folded into every meal, with a quick finger prick, some fast calculations, and discreet button pushing.

No one's the wiser.  

Except this morning, when I made a small scene on my way into work.

Making attempts to enjoy the more feminine side of my wardrobe, I decided on a skirt this morning.  Skirt, shirt, underwear, and stockings.  Jewelry.  And insulin pump.  Since there was no good place to clip my pump, I used the thigh holster and viola - the outfit was complete.

Walking out the door to my car, no problem.

Driving to work, no problem.

Arrived at work.  Grabbed my bag and my folder.  Started walking from the car to my office.

Pump.  Slipping.  With every step.

"Oh shit, shit."  Whispering to myself, trying not to make it look like I'm walking as though I've just been startled to the point of staggering.  Every step I take, my knees are bending more and more to keep the pump from sliding out.  Since the infusion set is in my thigh, there's plenty of tubing to send this pump straight to the sidewalk.  The pump is sliding neatly down my right thigh, edging towards my knee, soon to be on the ground.

Wearing a calf-length black coat, I figure I have about two more steps before the pump and the holster drop into plain view of everyone driving by and the entire Westport train station. 

I duck into a side lot and try to make it look like I'm just itching my ankle.  Then I try and grab the holster through my coat, as it hovers just below my knee, hoping I can hitch it up above my knee and at least make it into my office. 

No luck.

The pump drops, hanging around my ankle like a sad garter belt. 

I grab it, holster and all, and hold it against my purse.  The tubing is pulling up the front of my skirt a little, but not in an indecent way, more in a "Are you wearing a garter to work?" sort of way.  My face is scarlet - I'm trying to walk with dignity, as though I'm not holding my pancreas in my hand.

Almost to the building.  I think I may be able to make it in there without dropping it or everything I'm carrying. 

All at once, my phone rings.  The pump beeps.  The train comes roaring into the station.  My meter case falls from my open purse.  My pump slips from my hand, clatters against the sidewalk, just in time for the guy who runs the parking lot to put out his cigarette and say, "Mornin'.  Hey, your phone charger is still attached to your phone, you know." 

Diabetes is everywhere.  And this morning, it was all over the sidewalk. 

Posted by Kerri. at 08:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

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Right off the plane, we trot over to Budget to pick up the keys to our rental Jeep.

"Reservation for Chris Sparling, please."  Chris leans against the counter and we revel briefly in the fact that we're now in our tropical paradise.

"We don't have a car for you."  The customer service representative behind the counter snaps her gum.

"Excuse me?  I have a reservation.  I gave my credit card weeks ago to hold this Jeep."

"Reservation doesn't guarantee a vehicle, sir." 

Re-serve (verb): to retain or secure by express stipulation.

After much discussion, Chris and I ended up in a Taurus instead of a Jeep Wrangler.  Not the best arrangement for our hilly St. John adventure, but we were determined to keep it from ruining our vacation.  (By the way, an eight page letter is en route to Budget as we speak.) 

However, we weren't the only "bulls" on the road.  Driving along the windy streches of road in St. John, we were accosted by wild pigs charging from the woods, a handful of bleating goats, and a few big ol' Road Cows. 

We stayed for part of our trip with one of Chris's friends, enjoying the beer he and his business partner created and drinking into the wee hours of the night at their bar - The Tap Room.  You have to try the Virgin Islands Pale Ale.  I'm not a beer drinker, but this stuff is so nice and mango-infused that it tastes much better than the regular "carbonated bread" tasting beer nonsense.  Note:  0.8u Humalog per one beer, for me. 

For the other part of our trip (the engagement part!), we stayed at the Concordia Eco-Tents, which were tucked into the southern part of the island and provided the most spectacular views.  We  hiked out to Ram Head and saw both breathtaking shorelines ...

And yes, of course I was sure to test along the way.  I tested all across the nine miles of St. John - on the beach, on the hiking trails, in the eco-tent, and on the Red Hook ferry.  And I did my best to keep all test strips contained, though I fear that one may have leapt out as I traveled.  But damn it, I tried!  (Chris, my fiance - yay! - kept snapping diabetes-related pictures as we traveled.  "For the blog, baby."  Ever my content editor.)

We had such a terrific time.  And now we have the next year to plan our wedding.  Do you think Ms. Sausage will be able to behave herself as she traipses down the aisle?  (Yes, I'm kidding.  Mostly.  Damnit, now I have to go get Larry's address so I can send him an invitation.  He's going to be thrilled!)

Posted by Kerri. at 10:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

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I've been putting off this appointment for a few months. 

I hate needles.  Any needle I'm not controlling makes me feel faint.  (I've talked about this irony before.)  So the idea of offering up that sensitive little fleshy crease of my arm to the phlembotomist makes me pale with panic.  Also, blood sugars have been a little nutty lately, fluctuating wildly after Grammie passed away and taking several months to sort of reclaim their sanity, so I haven't been feeling like a well-controlled diabetic. 

In fact, I've been feeling a little crummy about the whole thing entirely.

It's hard to avoid paying attention to diabetes, considering where I work and what I do for a living.  It's a large part of my life and one that, even if I didn't want to pay attention to it, I don't have much of a choice.  Ignoring it for a morning is one thing, but ignoring it for more than a few hours is non-negotiable. Eventually, it forces you to listen, one way or the other. 

So I had the paperwork for my A1c blood work sitting in my desk drawer for a few weeks.  I called and made an appointment, but then rescheduled it due to the weather, my weekend plans, my mood, the cat's mood ... anything that seemed like it could stand for a second as a reason to reschedule, I rescheduled.  I ignored.

An A1c, to me, is my diabetes report card.  Even though I know I should have this test every three months or so, I haven't had one since last June.  I haven't wanted to find this number out because I'm afraid it will be higher than I'd like.  But it's always higher than I'd like.  I'm diabetic.  I just needed to suck it up and find out what that blasted number is and move on.

I made an appointment for this morning, 7:30 am.  No excuses.  The alarm went off this morning and I thought about snoozing through, but I woke up.  I got dressed.  And I drove there. 

"I'm here for an A1c and microalbumin test.  I'm Kerri."  I stuck out my hand, insurance card at the ready.  Paperwork filled out.  Consent form signed.

In the chair, I pulled up the sleeve of my sweater and closed my eyes.

"I can't watch.  It makes me feel weak.  So I'm going to look over here, okay?"

The lab technician started laughing.  "Lady, you said you had diabetes?"

"Yes, since I was a kid, but I'm scared of needles.  I know, I know."

The elastic band snapped tight arouind my arm.  "Okay, quick pinch ..."  I felt the hot spike of a needle against my inner arm and my stomach leapt in response.

"So tell me about yourself," I said to the corner of the wall, hoping my words would bounce back to the man who was holding my arm.

"My mom has diabetes.  Type 2.  She's on insulin twice a day.  You take insulin?"

"I do.  I have an insulin pump, though."  I gestured flailing towards the pocket of my jeans, where my pump was clipped. 

"No kidding!  That's cool.  I thought it was a beeper.  I'm gonna have to tell my mom about that.  Damn, no more shots?  That's cool."  The pinch in my arm shifted a bit.  "We're almost done.  I used a butterfly needle instead of the big needle, so it would hurt less."  His smile bounced off the corner of the wall and into my ears. 

"Thanks.  'Butterfly' makes it sound so cute and nice, even though it's still a needle."

"Yeah, but it's important that you have your A1c checked, diabetes and all.  You need to take good care of yourself."  He removed the elastic from my arm and slipped the needle out of my skin.  A bandaid was applied to my "wound."

"All set.  You did a good job.  And you know what?  That didn't hurt a bit, right?"  He asked me, taking off his gloves and folding his arms.

"Not a bit.  Thanks."

Back in the car.  Driving to work early, watching the morning commuters traveling beneath me as I crossed the overpass of 95 southbound, into New York.  The sun warmed the seats of my VW and caused the windows of the houses I passed to wink at me. 

My A1c result may not be what I'm hoping for.  It won't be "perfect."  It won't be ideal.  But knowing it will give me the chance to change it. 

Posted by Kerri. at 09:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

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Slim fitting pants with no pockets.  A shirt with no practical place to stash anything. 

Ah, but I'm still wearing it.

It's not tucked into the waistband of my pants.  It's not lurking in my bra.  It's not taking up residence in a pocket or clipped to a belt. 

"Where's your pump, Kerri?"

"In my sock."

I don't know why I didn't think of this before.  With the infusion set in my outer thigh and the 23 inch tubing more than enough to traverse my short stature, the pump can be easily tucked into the top of my trouser sock.  And with a slight flare at the bottom of my pants, the bulge can't even be detected. 

Tricky little spot for my high-tech little buddy. 

This may not be as fashionable in the summer, but it's working out just fine for winter wares.  And granted, I may look a little bit strange when I reach down into my sock to bolus, but I'm willing to take that risk.  Maybe investing in a remote for the pump?  (Does anyone use a remote for their pump?) 

I may need to have a little chat with Santa.

Posted by Kerri. at 08:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (0)

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The alarm goes off, forcing my hand out from under the covers to seek it out. I test my blood sugar without thinking, easing the tip of my finger into my mouth to whisk away the blood. Wipe the sleep from my eyes. Pet Abby as she stretches out on my pillow. I shuffle off to the fridge to take out a bottle of insulin, letting it warm to room temperature while I shower.

I pull the tape loose on my set and gently pry it from my thigh.  It’s the one shower per week that I am without an infusion set.  The shower is hot and the sticky residue left from the tape is worked away by the soap.

I think about what I will wear to work as I fill the reservoir and tap out the bubbles.

Siah comes up and rubs against my leg while I connect the reservoir to the tubing of the new infusion set. She reaches for the tubing.  I bat her paws away, “No, kitty.”  She sits, watching.

Prime the pump, keeping watch for bubbles.  Chris stirs in bed as the pump beeps and whirs.  Load the set into the insertion device, peeling back the tabs and removing the needle sheath.

Run my hands against my thigh, looking for a place that isn’t already sore or blotchy. I find a spot and rub it vigorously with the IV prep wipe.  Press the insertion device against my thigh.

Even though I’ve done this hundreds of times before, I still hold my breath before I release the buttons.

The set slides in with a soft click.  I pull back the blue cap, leaving the cannula in place.  Send 0.3 units through the tubing to fill the plastic tube that is now embedded in my skin.  Furrow my brow at the initial cold wince of insulin spreading under my skin.  Tap on the top of the infusion set – “You stay put,” I encourage it.

I decide on black pants and a pretty blue sweater for work.  Nestle the pump into the waistband of my pants and tuck the tubing out of sight.

I put on my watch. Siah and Abby meow at me for food.  And Chris’ alarm goes off. 

Posted by Kerri. at 10:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (0)

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I’m cheap.  Frugal.  Stingy. 

Or maybe just bitter?

I’ll spend an obscene amount of money on a pair of pants or a shirt, but I will reuse a lancet until its bitter, blunted end and I will stretch out the life of an infusion set until the site starts to throb a small bit.  I’d rather spend my money on something normal instead of shelling out any more than is necessary to the diabetes supply fund.  Sounds sort of whiney but it’s true:  I spend as little money as humanly possible on maintaining the D.  I’ll exercise and eat right and keep things as tight as possible every single day, but I'm cheap about supplies.

Like today:  I went home for lunch.  Grabbed my handbag and some paperwork from the front seat of the car and closed the door with my hip.  Felt that “hey!” from the outside of my left thigh, where the infusion set is living.  The lip of the door snagged on my site and gave it a solid yank.

Oh man, that hurts.

I trotted upstairs to my apartment and scoped out the site.  The edge of my QuickSet had ripped a little bit, leaving a peek-a-boo spot that I could spy the cannula through.

“Shit, shit, shit.”  I pushed against the cap of the infusion set and watched as the cannula imbedded itself deeper into my thigh.  Pulling the plastic wrapping off a band aid with my teeth, I stuck the band aid over the infusion site and pressed down hard. 

Too cheap/frugal/stingy/bitter to replace the site.  I mean, there was still 8 units left in the pump.  Enough to last me through the end of the work day, when I could rip the site before the gym, workout, and replace it after my “pump-free shower” tonight.

“Please work.  Please just hold out until the end of the day.”  This makes the second time in a week that I’ve had a conversation with my leg.

So now, a few hours later, I’m enjoying a blood sugar of 116 mg/dl.  My pump keeps hollering at me – boop beep boop – because the reservoir is less than 5 units, but I’m riding it out.  I have a brand new infusion set and a bottle of insulin in my bag.  I have an insulin pen stashed in my desk drawer. 

What I don’t have is the desire to rip out a set before I feel it’s due to be removed.

Conserving test strips.  Re-using syringes.  Re-filled pump reservoirs.  These are the financial tricks of my trade.  Even though I know it’s better to switch the site every three days and to change the lancet every time I test, I just don’t do it.

I’m trying to convince myself that I’m recycling, but it’s a bit of a tough sell at the moment, with this sore site in my thigh. 

Other people do this, don't they?

Posted by Kerri. at 04:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (33) | TrackBacks (0)

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I went home for lunch (my commute is six minutes – have I mentioned that I love my job?) and enjoyed a sandwich and an ice cold glass of milk.  Terrific.  Bolused a few units for the meal.  Put the dishes in the dishwasher away, entertained the cats with a hair tie for a few minutes, and then drove back to the office.

Staring at the computer screen, I noticed that the letters were leaping all over the place.  “For your diabetes life” looked like it was trying to scuttle across the top of the screen.  If I spied weights attached to each individual finger, I wouldn’t have been surprised.    My eyes were aching and dry.  I rubbed them with the back of my fist and reached for my water bottle, guzzling down half of it in one breath.  I felt Grade A crummy.

“Oh for crying out loud,” I half muttered to myself as I sat at my desk and tried to make sense of the recipe pages in front of me.  “I’m definitely frigging high.”

I pricked my finger and the droplet of blood formed, thick like syrup, on the tip of my index finger.

366 mg/dl.

The groan escaped me involuntarily.  Ugh, that’s so high.  How did I end up that high?

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my insulin pump discreetly.  Too sluggish to calculate the math myself, I listened intently to the bolus wizard as it boop beep booped out a few units for me.  I tucked the pump back into my pocket and resumed staring aimlessly at my computer screen.

I smelled the dentist-ish, Band-Aid smell first.  Then I noticed that the spot near my outer thigh, where my infusion set was stashed, felt a little damp.  Hoping no one would walk by and see me with my hand down my pants, I reached in and felt my thigh for the site hub. 

The little sucker was loose.  Not connected to my body.  The tubing must have swiveled around and tugged the site loose sometime over the last hour or so.  Probably just in time to miss my lunchtime bolus, leaving me at this sticky 366 mg/dl. 

I reattached the tubing to the hub and re-bolused.  “Gotcha now, you pesky high.”  One of the marketing people strolled by and I pretended I was on the phone instead of talking to my infusion site.

An hour later- 184 mg/dl.  

“About time.  You’d better stay connected now,” I threatened my thigh.  The marketing person walked by as I stared admonishingly at my leg. 

Posted by Kerri. at 04:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

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Funny thing, stress.  It’s a sneaky little bugger.

Despite the fact that I’m doing my best to continue on with business as usual, good ol’ diabetes has reared its ugly head.  Instead of lying quietly and letting me mourn, stress has chosen this time to join the fray and make me grumpy.

Feeling a little too crummy to eat?  Don’t worry.  Stress levels will keep my bloodsugars cruising neatly around 250 mg/dl, making my stomach ache with loss and hunger and hyperglycemia, all at the same time.  How much insulin does it take to cover a bowl of oatmeal?  On any other day, three units, but these past few days, it takes about five units coursing through me to keep me under 200 mg/dl.  Mind too busy to sleep?  Good.  Stay up all night, end up tangled in the blankets, and only acheive REM once, or so it seems.  My eyes close and then all of a sudden the alarm is nagging me, causing me to unsnuggle from the bed and wander towards the shower.  Morning sugars are fine but they immediately become chaotic once I am awake for an hour or so.

I changed my pump set this morning and have been enjoying a sticky 307 mg/dl for the last 45 minutes, climbing from the 202 mg/dl I was at 10 o'clock this morning.  I am waiting to see if this bolus starts to bring me down (thus making the site valid) or if it will require a rip and reset.  My eyes feel like they're tethered by extra tendons, aching every time I move them.  And my skin feels tight and dry, despite the water I'm trying to chug.  I'm like a miserable lizard.  I'm liz-rible.  Which makes me laugh to think about but at the same time, it's contributing to an already-elevated stress level.

Then I read posts like Martha's and Scott's and I feel like this is just One of Those Diabetes Days.

Maybe hitting the gym will help.  Or reading the new Jennifer Weiner book I picked up this weekend.  (Hey Julia, have you read this one?  It's shaping up to be pretty good so far.)  I realize that this is what happens when you lose someone you love and the daily bits of stress seem magnified as a result.  And I know this stress will pass.  But while it's here, I'm not enjoying it.

Tomorrow:  The Flu Shot Emmy Award

Posted by Kerri. at 12:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

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I wear an insulin pump.  (Gasp from the Faithful Readers.  “She’s a diabetic?!”  I know.) 

The pump itself is not very big – Minimed says it’s a tiny 2.0 x 3.0. x 0.8 inches.  That’s smaller than your average cell phone, true. 

As I was going through my morning “get ready” routine today, I stood in front of my closet and did a quick assessment of my clothes.  I like classic, tailored sorts of outfits and I like for my clothes to look streamlined.  Incorporating this device sometimes proves to be very … challenging.  (Diplomacy won out on that phrase, over my other option of “makes my head spin and I almost launch the pump across the room.")

I don’t like when the pump is exposed.  Not that it’s something I consider to be shameful, and especially since I work at a diabetes-focused media company, but I don’t want tubing and pump bulges as part of my daily look.  I always tuck the tubing away and I keep the pump as tucked away as possible.  Every skirt has either a pocket sewn in or I use that thigh thingy from Minimed.  Every pair of pants has either a pocket to slide the pump into or a waistband wide enough to hide the pump inside.  (And for some fabulous reason, my favorite stores - like Ann Taylor - have been adding these convenient little pockets to their pants, perfect for pump-tucking.  That’s a way to earn my consumer loyalty.)  And for those that don’t, I add a little internal pocket just as swiftly as I hem the pants before I wear them.  (I’m sort of short, so the hemming was just as necessary a skill to learn as pocket creating.) 

I often go to great lengths to conceal my pump.  Sometimes it’s a complete pain in the arse and I can’t find a way to incorporate it into my outfit.  Today’s ensemble includes a pair of tailored corduroy pants (no pockets) and a long sleeved, fitted shirt (not billowy enough to hide the pump bulge).  Out of options, I reluctantly clipped the pump to my pants and it’s been a visible part of me all day long.  No one notices.  No one comments.  And to be honest, no one cares but me.

But sometimes it makes me frustrated to have to interrupt my attempts at dressing like a “normal twenty something girl” with these pump integrations.  Just as it makes me a little batty when I have to interrupt my gym workout for a blood sugar testing session.  Just as it makes me moody when I have to splice some glucose tabs into my afternoon article-writing session. 

Do you, my fellow pumpers, make efforts to hide your pump? 

It can be a pain.  Sometimes in superficial ways that I hate admitting.  But, when I’m looking at my bloodsugars and I’m 85% content with their progression, wearing this machine is worth it. 

It's fashionable to be healthy.

Posted by Kerri. at 03:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (45) | TrackBacks (0)

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That I should learn to sew.   Pockets in every pair of pants, tricky little places sewn into skirts to drop in that little pump.

About little kittens and their affinity for the tasty tubing. 

That the infusion set needle wasn’t this enormous horse needle that would pierce me straight through.  Instead, it’s a small, thin intrusion that pulls out as quickly as it entered, leaving behind the plastic cannula that I can hardly feel.

That I could house the infusion set somewhere other than my abdomen.  If I had known I could use my thigh, my arm, my hip, and my stomach, I may have switched sooner. 

That my pump consultant was serious when she said to check for air bubbles in the tubing.  One little teeny air bubble can be the difference between a bolus of five units and a bolus of three. 

That I should buy more than one pump clip, because one bounce in the Bouncy Castle at my cousin’s family cookout sent the pump clip flying across the castle and left my pump dangling from my waistband.  (Yes, I was a bit too old to be bouncing around in the bouncy castle, but that is not the point.  And I would definitely do it again.)

Doorknobs.  It’s like they have hands and they reach out specifically to grab pump tubing.

That the phrases, “I’m pumped,” and “Pumped up,” would send me into a fit of giggles and smirks for the few months after the pump came in that big FedEx box.  Pumping has made puns even more delicious for me.

To add a syringe to my kit, just in case the pump malfunctioned and I needed to draw a dose from the reservoir itself.  (The syringe fits neatly into the top of the reservoir and you can draw back from it, just like you would a bottle of insulin.)

To get an insertion device right off the bat.  I spent two full weeks fussing with bent cannulas because I wasn’t manually inserting the sets correctly.  That QuickSet thing makes life much easier.  I have three of them in various places in my house, car, and office.

That I should be thankful for my breasts because they have successfully hidden my pump between them at many fancy functions.

Oh, and that thigh thing contraption that wraps around my thigh and has a pocket for the pump.  I own three of them and use them at least a few times per week.  They make dresses and skirts a snap.

That the tubing is resilient and strong enough to withstand the pump dropping from my hand.  But the tubing is not a yo-yo string and the pump cannot “bounce back up” if I give the tubing a snap.

That it is easy to disconnect and set aside. 

That calling myself “A Robot” to my nephew generated a laugh.  Same response from Chris.  And my mother.  And me, to be honest.

That both Chris’ niece and my beautiful nephew would nod understandingly when I referred to my pump as “my medicine”:

"Okay,” my nephew Connor said.  “Let’s go play zombies.” 

Chris’ lovely niece stared for a minute, then asked if she could wear my pretty diabetes bracelet.  (Which, of course, I let her.)

That I no longer needed to wear a watch because the pump kept such exquisite time.

That I could use the backlight on the pump in my darkened hallway at night when I’ve slipped out to the kitchen for a glass of water and need more than mental breadcrumbs to find my way back.

That pumping isn’t right for every diabetic and just because someone isn’t pumping doesn’t mean they aren’t taking the very best care of themselves.

That the little plastic cap that comes in the infusion set packaging was the best thing for me to wear in the shower and the ocean when I’m disconnected, and that (again), little kittens love those tasty things.

That wearing the pump and my bikini would be a pain in the ass, but I would still be on the beach every weekend of the summer.  And that the white infusion set would leave an equally white tan line when I moved the site around. 

That I could leave an infusion set in for more than three days.  And I wish someone had shown me how to refill a reservoir right off the bat.

That this shit is EXPENSIVE and to be prepared for exorbitant costs and battles with insurance companies.

That the little boop beep boop noise of the pump trying to get my attention would become something I said conversationally back to the pump.  “Boop beep boop,” says the pump.  “Boop beep boop to you,” responds Kerri to the inanimate object. 

That Duracell batteries are crap and to not bother buying them, even though they were on sale at CVS and significantly cheaper than their Energizer counterparts.  Little did I know, they would be sucked dry within four days.   

That my body is still the same, except for this white plastic circle that is less than an inch in diameter.  Maybe it’s healthier.

That sex wouldn’t be ruined because of my pump.  That my partner would find my body desirable and sexy and wouldn’t be phased by the fact that I disconnect an insulin pump before we make love.  That I felt almost a little bit sexier because I felt like I was in better control of my diabetes.

That someone can say, “I love you,” and I know they mean every little bit of me, including my smile and my laugh and my ambition and my pump.  That the same person can also say that they don’t think about diabetes when they think of me.  They think of just Me.

That it would drop my A1c by a half a point within six months.

That it isn’t as big as I thought it would be.  I pictured something not unlike a toaster oven, clanking from my hip and sounding a siren when my bloodsugar was cresting out of range.  I wasn’t prepared for the little beeper sized machine that I could hide in my pocket.

That when people catch a glimpse of the pump, they might stare.  But I couldn’t blame them.  If I wasn’t diabetic, I would probably stare, too.  It helps to smile at them.

But I can’t mislead you.  Some days it feels like the pump accounts for most of my body.  Some days it doesn’t hide neatly in the folds of my skirt.  Some days it falls from my hand and bangs against the floor, tugging the tubing and causing the site to ache.  Some days the boluses burn and the sites ooze infection.

Some days I feel like I want to toss it against the wall and watch it explode into a thousand little pieces.  Some days I feel like I am exploding into a thousand pieces.

Posted by Kerri. at 10:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (27) | TrackBacks (0)

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I changed my infusion set last night, moved it from one thigh to the other.  No big deal.  Except upon inserting the cannula into my thigh, I felt this icy cold feeling.

“Weird.  This is weird.  Hey Chris, this is easily the most bizarre feeling I’ve ever had from a set change.”

He stopped typing on his computer and looked over at me on the couch.  (The couch that should be in our living room but is instead stuck in our den.  More on that later.)

“What’s the matter?  Did it sting?”

“No.  This is strange.  It doesn’t hurt, but the bit where the little plastic tube is … it feels ice cold.  I can feel my pulse in it, like when you cut your finger and it throbs.”  The quiet, icy feeling was not enough to make me want to rip the set out, but I kept touching the plastic cap to make sure it wasn’t leaking.

Posted by Kerri. at 01:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (0)

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A brief synopsis:  There’s this prince who is looking for a bride and he’s on the prowl.  Any woman up to snuff is a bona fide princess, and he’s not budging on that one.  He scours the countryside and finds no princesses.   

Slightly bummed – because he wanted a real princess pretty badly – he comes home and sits in his castle as a rainstorm thunders outside. 

Then, comes a knock on the door!  A woman, soaked to the skin and completely bedraggled, asks for a room for the night to wait out the storm.  She claims to be a real princess, but seeing her in such a disastrous state, the Prince’s maid scoffs. 

“Real princess, my ass.  Sleep on this bed and let’s see how you fare,”  and she puts but one pea on the boxspring and piles twenty feather mattresses on top. 

Next morning, the claimed-to-be princess doesn’t look much better for the night’s sleep.

“What’s the matter?” asks the maid.

“No offense meant, but I didn’t sleep a wink last night.  I kept tossing and turning but couldn’t get comfortable!  There was something in the bed that was so hard it has bruised my whole body!”

Everyone gasps and clasps their hands and the Prince realizes he’s got the Real Thing here because only the skin of a princess would be so fair as to notice a pea under 20 mattresses. 

So they get married.  And the pea is put on display in a museum.  And everyone lives happily every after.

Fast forward to last night:  Woke up in the middle of the night, so uncomfortable.  The skin on my back was tender to the touch.  Leaning up this morning, I reached around and felt my pump lying on the bedsheets, biting and burrowing into my back all night long.  It must have come loose from my shorts while I was sleeping.  There is already a blueish-yellow, baseball-sized sort of bruise.  The imprint of the tubing wrapped around my waist, the words “Medtronic Minimed” branded on my lower back. 

Feeling much like the princess with fragile skin.  And a little whiney, to boot.

I can't be the only one who has woken up with their pump wrapped around them like a boa constrictor.

And do boa constrictors have some sort of vendetta against princesses?

Posted by Kerri. at 09:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

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Sunscreen?  Check.

Bathing suit?  Check. 

Blanket?  Check.

Day off from work and finally no freaking rain?  Check and check.

Earlier this week marked my first visit to the beach of the season.  Blue skies, bathing suit rescued from the depths of the suitcase we took to L.A., and my infusion set sitting snugly against my right thigh, we traversed to South County, RI and enjoyed a day at the beach.

While we laid out on the blanket and talked, I noticed how little and white the infusion set looked.  Stark contrast against my tanning skin.  And so dreadfully medicinal. 

Then I remember those little "patch" things I had read about on The Diabetes Blog and on LaLa's HiLo Blog... Groovy Patches.  I had mentioned them in my last dLife article about pumping at the beach. 

I was intrigued. 

So I emailed the President of Groovy Patches LLC and she was extremely kind and accommodating in providing me with a few Groovy Patches of my own to try out. 

They came in this lovely packaging (yes, that is my thumb with the nail bitten into oblivion).  I tore into the envelope like a kid at Christmas. 

The concept is this little circle that covers the white infusion set patch.  I received twelve different designs, including tropical fish, flowers, flames, a leopard pattern, and stripes.  You just peel this little sticker off, line it up on your pump site, and reconnect the pump. 

So here's the "Before" shot, Pre-Groovy Patch.  (Yes, those little dots are my infusion set marks.  I love a good thigh site.  And I also love a good tan, because in about a week, those little suckers will barely be noticeable.)

And here's the "After," once I had been properly Grooved.

I'll be the first one to admit that I don't care much for flashy pump cases and I chose the most basic colored pump.  Most of the time, my pump is completely hidden in a pocket, a bra, or a MacGyvered gizmo, but at the beach, I wear it in public.  It's out there. 

These patches make my normally mundane and medicinal pump site a little more fashionable and fun. 

I'll admit it:  I felt groovy.

Has anyone else checked out these patches? 

Posted by Kerri. at 11:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

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It was short.  It was low cut.  It was ever-so slightly slinky.

It was the opening gala for the Newport Film Festival and the dress code was "a little bit dressy."

Seriously, when can you go wrong with a little black dress?  It always looks classy and simple and suitable for almost every occasion.  I had a beautiful one from Ann Taylor in the closet.  Just grab a pair of black heels, some sparkly (fake) jewelry, and slip into that dress.  No problem.

... No problem until I went to slip into my Something Most Comfortable: namely, my pump. 

Most often, I don't have problems wearing a dress and the pump at the same time.  Usually I tuck the pump safely between my ... in my bra and that's the end of it.  Or I utilize the thigh thingie that straps around my leg and has a little sleeve for the pump. 

This dress, however, was too low cut to hide my pump discreetly in my bra and the damn thigh holster wasn't cutting it.  (I think the velcro in that foolish thing is clogged up and is un-velcro-y now.  Damn it.) 

I debated forging forward with the bra attempt and started planning answers:  "Yes, it's very nice to meet you.  I loved your film.  Um, yes.  I was born half robot but I usually don't speak of that to strangers," or "I'm actually taping this conversation with my boobs," or "I, too, enjoy injecting hormones.  Seriously.  I'm hooked."

I couldn't do that.  Besides, the little peeking loop of tubing clashed with my necklace.

I tried to set the pump in the waistband of my underwear, but that proved to be both nearly impossible and completely visible under the form fitting bodice of the dress. 

Damn it, damn it.

I had no long acting insulin at the house.  I didn't want to disconnect and be forced to test and piggy-back boluses all night long.  I wanted to wear the pump and get on with it.

The Solution?:  I rigged up a little contraption using the clip on straps to a convertible bra (thank you, Oh Secrets of Victoria), the case from the thigh holster, and the tiniest piece of duct tape.

The pump stayed put.  The film party patrons were none the wiser.

And MacGyver's got nothing on me.

Posted by Kerri. at 12:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (0)

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