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.
“Are you feeling the insulin injecting?”
“I don’t know. It’s strange, though.”
The night progressed and my bloodsugar, which was a sticky 200 mg/dl after leaving my pump off too long after the gym, had climbed to 313 mg/dl after the set change.
“I feel like shit. I’m not sure if the insulin is even getting in my system.”
Quick trot to the bathroom to check for ketones.
“No ketones. I’m not wasting this site. I’m going to bolus hard for this and test in the middle of the night to make sure it’s working. If I’m still high, I’ll rip the site and redo it.”
Lace in four units. The icy feeling is gone now, for some reason. We work on our respective computers for a little bit longer until it’s almost one-thirty in the morning. I test: 265 mg/dl. On the downslide. I wonder if that icy feeling had anything to do with that persistant high? Was something blocking the cannula? Hmmm…
Tucked into bed. Still no ketones. Stick a sports bottle of juice on the bedside table. Feeling exhausted from the extended high bloodsugar. The sweaters on my teeth are revolting and I’m wrapped up my Red Sox t-shirt to protect me from the chill of my hyperglycemia.
Three-thirty in the morning.
“Kerri.” Shakes me gently. “Kerri, wake up.” A little harder this time. “Kerri. You have to test now.”
“Whaa… what’s the matter?” I roll over and ignore his request, my sweaty forehead against the white pillow.
“You need to wake up and test.”
Propelled purely by learned instinct, I fuss open my black meter case and load a strip in. Click of the lancet device. 41 mg/dl.
There is suddenly a bottle of juice in my hand and I’m throwing it back. Lay back down. He rubs my back as I wait for the juice to do its thing. A few minutes pass.
“I need you to test again to make sure you’re coming up.”
“No. I drank the juice. I don’t want to waste a test strip.” Damn insurance.
“Okay. I’ll wait up until you’re okay.”
And I drifted back to sleep, the fan whirrs beside the bed. Abby and Siah lounging on the floor, flat like manta rays. My boyfriend, always at the ready, keeping watch to make sure I’m okay.