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Posts from the ‘Dexcom’ Category

Dexcom SHARE: First Impressions.

“Your thing is going off.”

Though nondescript, that phrase is a loaded one.  It is Chris-speak for, “Your Dexcom is making an alarm of some kind; you need to take a look at it.”  And now that the Dexcom SHARE application is feeding my glucose results to my husband and a few other authorized viewers, when the thing goes off, other things go off and people are notified.

And by way of notification, I’m disclosing right here and now that I have a relationship with Dexcom.  It’s kind of serious, and I look forward to when they meet my dad.  Details here.

I’ve been using the Share for a few weeks, and have had some time to give it a good once-over.  My take on the SHARE 2 application itself:

  • Overall, my data transmits pretty seamlessly from the receiver to the phone, but there have been weird times when the data just stops.  (When I’m on a plane, this makes sense.  When I’m at my kitchen table, it does not.)
  • Essentially, that means I am poking this fine little fella in the face several times a week, to help jump start whatever is borked in transmission.  If he were less cute, I wouldn’t feel so bad about jamming my index finger into his jaw.
  • It feels weird to have to put my password into the app in order to access the “followers” screen.  Why protect that specific screen, but not the others?
  • I thought having the option to only add five followers would feel limiting, but in fact, the ability to share my CGM data has not made me want to broadcast my stuff to the world.  Five followers is fine so far; right now, I have my husband, a close friend, a doctor-who-is-not-my-doctor-but-we-are-trying-something-out-for-the-sake-of-SCIENCE, and myself.  And yes, I have added myself because I wanted to be able to access my data alongside the data of those who I am following when I go into the Follow app.
  • (Does any of that make sense?  Let me know if it does not.)
  • Also, iOS only?  Frustrating because anyone who is not using an iOS device can’t be added to my network.
  • The alarms that are issued through the phone are wicked loud, and very useful.  I recommended that Chris keep my high alarms off and only receive notifications for hypoglycemia, which is working out reasonably well.  (Especially when I am traveling, and can respond to his, “Eat something,” texts with a quick, “Already did.”)
  • The application doesn’t seem to eat up my battery life on my phone or on my receiver, which I appreciate.  I feel like the Share receiver holds battery life better than my previous receiver.  I charge it once a week and even then, it’s not drained.
  • I forget that the application is on and working because 85% of the time, it’s on and working.  I rarely switch it off because it doesn’t impact my battery life (or actual life) much to keep it on.  Except when it becomes emotionally charged, which is a whole different point and one I tackle a bit further down.
  • Using the receiver that’s Bluetooth enabled versus the dock you had to plug into the wall is obviously an upgrade, and contributes to ease of use.  Also, it’s easier to pack.  And harder to forget.

And my take on sharing, in general, with this application:

  • Sharing data is personal.  Wicked personal.  And it’s a choice, one I’m grateful I can make.  Again, I can’t rework my islet cells, but I can decide what devices and treatments I use to manage this disease.
  • And sharing makes me feel a little ashamed, at times.  I can reason as to why it should NOT, but it’s a reasoning I find difficult to follow through on.  Keeping my blood sugar data devoid of emotional valuation is difficult for me.  I was raised on “good” and “bad” blood sugars, not “in range” and “out of range,” and seeing a graph that pings and pongs all over the place makes me feel weird emotionally as well as physically.
  • For example, two weeks ago I had a urinary tract infection (much like this epic one).  It was nasty, and both the infection and the antibiotics for it sent my blood sugars into the stratosphere.  This glucose saturation was sent up to the cloud and pinged out to the people I trust.  None of them knew I had an infection, but I felt the need to say something about said infection so they’d understand why my numbers had gone bananas.  I felt good about having people I trusted so much that I knew they wouldn’t judge me, but at the exact same time, I felt the need to explain myself.  My knee jerk response of justification kind of flies in the face of the security and trust.  And it’s not because of them or how they judge me, but because of me and how I judge me.
  • Same goes for the following week, when I was on another medication (everything is fine, by the way – just a flurry of things all at once) that caused wicked blood sugar spikes.  We’re talking HIGH with arrows still pointing up.  I took a bolus that put every other bolus I’ve ever taken to shame.  And after a few hours, I mentioned this medication to those with access to my data because I felt the need to explain the numbers.
  • Which opens up my “what the fuck” mental folder, where emotional responses to diabetes end up filed.  On the one hand, I really like having a loved one or two able to see my data because that their access offers up a safety net I’m very grateful for (and have written about several times).  Also on that hand is the accountability that works to my benefit.  As I told my friend who has access to my CGM data, the commiseration angle is empowering because it makes me want to rein things in faster than if I was the only one looking.  Blood sugars on display are ones I watch more carefully, for whatever reason.
  • But on the other hand is my desire to turn off the data sharing because I want to let my blood sugars stutter and splutter without scrutiny.  I want to fail, or do what I perceive as failing, in private.  Sometimes I want to leave the Sharing option on only throughout the nighttime hours, or exclusively when I’m traveling, so I can keep a foothold on my dignity.  Not that my numbers are shit all the time, but the past two weeks have been tough even for me to see, and I’m familiar with my own bounce.  (And there I go again, explaining away the things that make me feel ashamed.  This is part of the fuckery, because my management does not come easily to me, and I try every single day to work these blood sugars out.  I test and exercise and track and eat well and truly make efforts and yet blood sugars bounce.  I can blame diabetes, but since the due diligence list is so long, there’s always something I can look at and blame myself for.  Which is a fun dance.)
  • Have I mentioned that sharing data is personal?  Let’s go back to that for a second, because it is.  And the level of sharing that works for me on days when my blood sugar is 94 mg/dL and holding steady is very different than when I’m riding out a 287 mg/dL for three hours.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I appreciate options, and the option to Share is one I’m happy to have.  Coming full circle, I can choose to share or not share.  I can also turn off accessibility to others with the click of a button.  Honestly, I am grateful that I have a network of people I trust with this kind of personal data because it’s some soul-baring kind of shit.  And as an adult, I can decide how these data are dealt with because they are mine.

Maybe, with time, I’ll stop viewing these data as little dots of validation and instead as information to help me live better.

 

Potent Potion.

Turns out I’m not unique in experiencing the dreaded “Dexcom rash.”  (Which sucks for anyone else who gets the major sensor scratchies, but at the same time, the diabetes community is innovative as eff.  We work around the workarounds.)

When it comes to dealing with my own Dexcom rash, wearing the Toughpad underneath my sensor helps a ton, but it doesn’t remove the reaction entirely.  Which means that after a seven days, I will peel off a sensor to find a raised, slightly irritated area underneath.  (And that patch of skin usually gets worse the next day, particularly after showering or if I’m in recycled air like in an airplane.)

After talking about the rash with my endocrinologist, I asked her for some recommendations for lotions to use after the fact, when I need to soothe my skin post-sensor removal.  She said that Amlactin was something that she’s used in the winter when hand-washing causes rotten skin, and suggested I give it a go.

So I did.

Magical rash healing powers.

A photo posted by Kerri Sparling (@sixuntilme) on

And it works better than I had expected.  It’s not the best smelling stuff (kind of like a stick of butter mixed with stale toothpaste and a dash of freezer burn), and it sometimes makes my skin feel hot for a few seconds after application, but if I slather this stuff on my sensor-irritated skin, it helps so much.  Rashes that took a week to properly mend were fine after two days, and the rapid-healing helped keep the curb appeal of my skin real estate intact.

There you go.  A post about a lotion that helps deal with Dexcom rashes.  No, it’s not sponsored.  Yes, it’s kind of boring.  But this shit works for me.  And it might work for you.  So go forth and slather.

Here’s a flying cat, just in case you wanted one:

The Last Straw.

“Mommy … I had a nightmare.”

She shows up in the middle of the night sometimes, evicted from her warm bed down the hall due to a nightmare.  “I had a dream about a blue monster with no arms and popcorn on his feet.”  She’s clutching her blanket, her water, a flashlight, and a stuffed animal; clearly she’s in for the long haul.

I moved over in the bed and she started to climb in.

“Oh and mom?  You’re low,” she said, handing me the vibrating pump.

The fog of feeling sleep lifted immediately and I recognized the symptoms of this hypo.  Sweaty hairline, fumbling fingers, my sight reduced to a tunnel, and my hearing razor-sharp, hearing the shuffle of my daughter’s feet, the steady breathing of my sleeping husband, and – finally – the buzzing buzzery of my CGM alarm.

“Do you need something?” Chris asked from beside me.

“Yeah – can you grab one of those juice boxes from the shelf?”

Birdy was already snuggled in beside me, nestled close against my hypo-damp shoulder.  A few seconds later, Chris returned with a juice box in hand.

Habit, habit, habit – I am a creature of it.  When my blood sugar is low, I go through the motions to treat it, and if anything gaffs up the routine, I’m thrown.  Lows in hotel rooms rock me because the bedside table is five inches farther from me than at home.  When I am home, having the glucose tabs on the table itself instead of in the drawer can be enough to confuse me thoroughly.  (Lows make me the least-sharp knife in the drawer.)  In this case, I grabbed the juice box firmly and reflexively used my other hand to reach for the little plastic sleeve with the straw tucked inside.  Only I grabbed it a little too firmly and juice shot out all over the bed, because my forward-thinking husband had already stuck the straw inside the foil hole.

“Shit …”  My pillow was wet with juice.  And so was my daughter, because I managed to (ocean?)-spray her in the face during this transaction.  “I didn’t know the straw was already in there.”

“Do you need another juice box?”

“No, this should be okay.  Only a little bit flew out.”  I drank the rest of the juice box, per routine.

“MOM. This is not OKAY.  I am all WET.”  (Even at 3 am, my kid can be indignant.)

“Sorry, baby.  You can go back to your own bed, if you want?  That bed doesn’t have juice in it.”

She thought for a minute, then buried her head under the blankets to issue a muffled response.  “No WAY.  The monster had popcorn feet.  NO WAY am I going back to my bed.”

 

 

All Night Long.

Some nights just plain suck.

In related news, I brushed my teeth ten times last night.

Practice Turkey.

Chris and I are both from big families with piles of aunts and uncles and cousins at every birthday party.  Part of being part of a flurry of people means big holiday gatherings, and Chris and I are prepping ourselves to start hosting some of the holidays.

Problem is, I’m a terrible cook.  Or, better stated:  an inexperienced cook.  Cooking hasn’t ever brought me joy or satisfaction, and I’m not interested in the time it takes to perfect a recipe.  I cook for form and functionality (read: make sure my family doesn’t survive on garlic salt and overripe bananas), not for fun.  I’m not good at making the effort to learn.

But if we want to start hosting holidays, we need to learn how to prepare some of the main courses.  Which brings me to the Practice Turkey:

Practice Turkey is currently taking up residence in our freezer, and my goal is to use him to teach myself how to properly prepare a whole turkey.  (Sidebar:  Animal is in our freezer because Birdy is afraid of him, but refuses to let us donate him or throw him out.  She wants him in the house, but entirely contained.  So he lives in our freezer and has been there about a year.  I always forget that he’s in there, until someone comes over to visit, opens the freezer, and subsequently goes, “OOH!!”) In the next week, my plan is to practice my culinary witchcraft on Practice Turkey so that when we host holidays this year, I’m not in a huge panic because I can be all, “Oh, the turkey?  I know how to do that.  I’m all over that!”

I need to actually do it in order to make sure I can do it.

Same goes for technology hiccups in my diabetes management plan.  I use an insulin pump and a CGM (hellooooo, disclosures), and with that convenience and data comes an influx of autonomy and the sacrifice of my autonomy, if that makes sense.  The devices give me a lot of flexibility and freedom, but if I rely on them too heavily, I forget how to manage my diabetes on my own.

I need to be my own Practice Turkey, relearning the details of diabetes.  I need to make sure I know how to calculate a bolus, check my blood sugar regularly by finger prick, and finagle basal insulin doses if my pump ever breaks, or if I ever want to take a CGM break, or if my will to wear devices breaks a little.  And over the last week, I’ve been on a bit of a device break (thank you, winter skin issues), realizing once again that a refresher course on how to drive the stick-shift version of my diabetes (so to speak) helps me take better care of myself overall.  Taking an injection before I eat makes me think twice about the food I’m putting into my body, and also help me remember to pre-bolus (because it’s a process, not just the push of a button).  Using the treadmill instead of a correction bolus to fix a 180 mg/dL keeps exercise fresh in my mind.  3 am checks aren’t always necessary, but doing a few of them helps me spot-check my overnight basal rates.  I appreciate my devices, but I needed a reminder on what they do for me, and how to continue to do for myself.

Practice (turkey) makes perfect.

[Also, today has been unofficially designated as a “day to check in” (hat tip to Chris Snider) with the DOC blogs that we’re reading.  I read a lot of diabetes blogs, but I don’t often comment because I usually want to say something meaningful, instead of “I like your post.”  (But I do like your post!)  But instead of finding that meaningful comment, I usually roll on and forget to return to comment.  NOT TODAY!  Today I’m commenting on every blog I read, because that’s the name of the game.  I love this community, and today I’ll show that through comments.  So please – if you’re here, share what your favorite word is, or just say hello.  And thanks for being here.]

It’s a Good Tune.

“BEEEEP … BEEEEP… BEEEEP!”

“Mom, your Dexcom is making noise,” my daughter says casually, as we’re kicking the soccer ball around in the basement (because we’ll never, ever go outside again because snow).

“It is. Hang on a second,” I told her. A click shows that my blood sugar is over my high threshold, with a few yellow dots taking up residence on my graph. I’m not totally worried, though, because a check of my pump reveals some insulin still on board. I decide to let things play out and see where I land a bit later.

“I’m fine, kiddo. Let’s keep playing.”

The Dexcom has been part of my daughter’s life for as long as she can remember. When she was very small and figuring out her letters for the first time, I remember her running a tiny fingertip along the bottom of my receiver – “D-E-X-C-O-M spells … whaasat spell, Mama?”

“Dexcom. That’s the name of the machine.”

(Unlike most kids, my daughter’s list of first words included “pump,” “Dexcom,” and “diabeedles.” Maybe she’ll grow up to be a doctor? At the very least, this knowledge base has given her a leg-up on winning a few topic-specific spelling bees.)

As Birdy grew older, she started to understand some of the information that different diabetes devices provided. We’ve talked a little bit about how three digit numbers on my glucose meter that begin with “2” most often require me to take some insulin from my pump (same goes for the ones that begin with “3,” only those also come with some curse words), and how when the Dexcom makes an alarm sound, I need to check it and take some action.

“But that alarm – the BEEEEP … BEEEEP… BEEEEP! one – is one we can ignore, right Mom?”

“Ignore?”

“Yeah. When it goes BEEEEP … BEEEEP… BEEEEP, you don’t always look at it. But when it goes like this,” she raises her hands up in front of herself, like she’s sneaking up on something, “BeepBeepBeep really fast, then you look right away and get some glucose tabs.”

Funny how much she notices, how much of my diabetes self-care ritual has become a natural part of our time together.

“Kind of. The long beeps mean my blood sugar might be higher, but it’s not an emergency. The short beeps mean I have low blood sugar, and I need to get something to eat so it doesn’t become a big deal. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah.”

The sounds of the low and high alarms ringing out from my Dexcom receiver have become familiar, like a subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) soundtrack for my diabetes life, but I didn’t realize until recently that they are also sounds that remind my daughter of her mother.

The other morning, I heard Birdy walking into the bathroom to brush her teeth, and she was humming a little tune to herself, one that I recognized.

“Hey you. Are you singing a song?”

“Yeah. It’s the Dexcom beep song. It’s a good tune.” She grinned at me, toothbrush hanging out of her mouth.

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