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Posts tagged ‘diabetes in the wild’

Your moop or mine?

The first flight out was jumbly, with the plane riding into some kind of air pocket right after takeoff, eliciting audible screams from some of us.  (No, not from me.  Turns out that, if things get scary, I resort to frantically saying the F word under my breath whilst clutching the arm rest.)  Once the plane hit some smooth air, everyone breathed a little easier and tried to mellow out.

In the silence of folks calming down, I heard that low, moop sound that the Dexcom G5 app makes when it is ready to be calibrated, like the sonar ping from a submarine.  It’s subtle but unmistakable.

Moop.

My sensor was fine when I boarded the plane.  I pulled out my phone anyway, just to make sure my CGM wasn’t crying for attention.  Huh.  Not me.  Sliding the phone back into my purse, my peripheral vision caught the movements of the woman next to me, who had her phone in hand and I could see the little pigeon head I knew by heart.

“Type 1?”

She grinned.  “Yeah.”

“Me, too.  Since I was seven.”

“I was 13.”

“I thought it was my CGM that needed to be calibrated,” I said, gesturing towards my phone.  “But it was you this time.”


It’s the thread that runs through all of us, that instant and unfettered understanding of the thing that simmers on the back burner some days and threatens to burn the house down on others.  I know that feeling. So did the woman next to me.

Instantly, she became familiar. I didn’t know her name or where she lived or what kind of history she brought on board with her, but there was an instant connection of, “Yeah, me too. I know that thing you have. I also moop.  And beep. And check. And worry. And celebrate. And dose. And fight. And laugh. And keep perspective. And move on.”

“Don’t you all know each other?”

A few weeks ago, we were in Venice and I almost walked right into the canal because I saw a lady with an insulin pump on her waist and a CGM sensor on her arm, speaking Italian to the shopkeeper and casually wearing her pancreas on her hip.

The flurried rush of emotions – excitement, understanding, the urge to shout “one of us!” – flooded me.  I grabbed my husband’s arm and said, “Hey DID YOU SEE HER PUMP?!” and he was all, “No, where?” and I pointed my finger while trying to make it look like I was itching my nose.

And my daughter said, “Yeah mom, I saw her!  And her pump! Do you know her? Don’t you all know each other?”

(You know, I wish we did.)

And even though we don’t all know one another yet, we can contribute to the growth and collective power of our diabetes community by participating in Diabetes Blog Week.  Sign-up details are on Karen’s blog – this is the 8th year! – and topics will be provided throughout the week.  And if you’re not into running a blog, you’re welcome to guest post here on some of the topics, if you’d like.  (Email me!  kerri (at) sixuntilme  (dot) com. )  Also, you can shape-shift the topics to fit into 140 characters on Twitter, or through Instagram, or other social sharing platforms.  Don’t let the “blog” in blog week keep you from sharing your story.  All voices are welcomed!

My Tail.

Do you know the source of this image? Please let me know so I can link!

“Miss!  Your tail!” the lady behind me called out, touching my elbow.

I looked behind me and sure enough, my insulin pump tubing – my tail – had come loose from underneath my shirt and wrapped itself around the metal shelving at CVS.  I was two steps away from pulling out my site, three steps away from jacking up the shelf of Maybelline cosmetics.

“Thank you!”  I said, walking back quickly and disengaging my tubing from the shelf, not before knocking over a display of wide-eyed Beanie Boos.

Awkwardness.  Maybe she’s born with it.  Maybe it’s diabetes.

Wild Krattsabetes.

Wild Kratts have invaded my house in a big way.  It’s okay, because Birdy loves watching them and she learns all this random stuff about animals.  (“MOM! The lion’s mane is the same color as the savannah grass,” yelled from her car seat as we’re driving.  So I’m learning too, apparently.)  She dons her version of a creature power suit and goes leaping all over the basement, pretending to be a lemur or some other critter.

“MOM!!  He has a Dexcom!!” she said one morning.

“What’s that?” I asked her, coming over and sitting next to her while she’s watching television.

“Look!” and she points to the screen.

Sure enough, the wrist communicator that the Wild Kratts use to talk to their team back at the Tortuga looks almost exactly like my Dexcom receiver.  (Please forgive me, because that whole sentence made complete and absolute sense to me.)  See for yourself:

“You’re right, kiddo!  That looks a lot like my Dexcom!”

“Yeah, but they use theirs not to keep an eye out for whoa blood sugars but to talk to Aviva.”

“Who?”

“Aviva.  She helps the Wild Kratts by building their creature power suits.”

And here I thought Aviva was a glucose meter from Roche.

 

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