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Posts tagged ‘pumping insulin’

That Clip, Though.

I’ve been using the t:slim pump for the better part of a year now, and over the last few months (here’s a handy disclosure that you should read for context on my relationship with Tandem), I’ve appreciated the new set of options that the t:slim has brought into my diabetes life.

… man, that sounds a little formal.  I’m too pregnant for formality at the moment.  (My feet have officially given up on being feet and refuse any covering other than socks or flip flops, and my son is moving visibly as I type, making sitting close to my desk a challenge. Eff formality.)  The reasons for the t:slim being a badass addition to my diabetes management RIGHT THIS SECOND are that I can take a bolus in a matter of seconds without scrolling through fifty different screens, I can edit my basal or insulin:carb needs with a few beeps, and the 300 unit reservoir is going to come in handy these last few weeks of pregnancy.

One challenge I’ve historically had with the t:slim pump, however, is the clip that is shipped out with it.  For me, the clip was a little bulkier than I preferred and also not as secure as I needed.  I wanted streamlined and secure, and as my pregnant body expands and clothing options like “pockets” and “waistbands” have been shoved into the distance.  I need my pump clip to be able to hang on by a thread.

This one works great, though:

I love this clip. #tslim #diabetes #insulinpump

A photo posted by Kerri Sparling (@sixuntilme) on

A friend suggested this clip to me and gave me one of theirs, but since trying it out, I’ve keep a spare or two on hand because it seriously solves all of my pump clip troubles.  The tape is very secure and I’ve had the same pump clip stay successfully stuck for the last six months.  I have no relationship with the company who makes the clip, and this is not an affiliate link or anything like that, but if you want to try out a pump clip for your t:slim (or any other pump) that is subtle, streamlined, and strong, this Nite Ize Hip Clip is worth a shot.

Hey! An informative post! Who saw that coming? Not me. Bring on the cat gifs.

cat filing his nails

“Do You Like It?”

“Excuse me … your, um, arm?  What’s that on your arm?”

Ninety-five percent of the time, I don’t care if people ask about my insulin pump or CGM.  More power to them for being bold enough to embrace the awkwardness and actually ask, instead of assuming.  (And even in the 5% moments of “argh – stop looking, don’t ask,” it usually ends up being a moment of discussion and disclosure I’m grateful for.  I should be more open to discussing diabetes in a public setting.  Hang on a second … let me start a blog real quick.)

“On my arm?  That’s my insulin pump.  I have diabetes.”

I was in line at Starbucks, grabbing an iced coffee (under the gestational lock and key of decaf for just a few more weeks), escaping the blazing summer temperatures for a few minutes before heading back to work.  I was wearing a skirt and a tank top, with my infusion set connected to the back of my right arm.  My body – thanks to third trimester expansion, has run out of subtle places to stash my insulin pump, so it was casually clipped to the strap of my tank top.

Kind of noticeable, but in a “who cares” sort of way.  It’s hot outside.  And I’m wicked pregnant.  And I have no waist anymore.  You can see my insulin pump?  Good for you.  You can probably see my belly button, too.

“No kidding.  Diabetes?  Is it because of the pregnancy?”

“No, I’ve had diabetes way longer than this pregnancy.  I was diagnosed when I was seven.”

The guy paused for a second, his eyes lingering on the infusion set on my arm.  “So you do that thing instead of shots?”

“Yep.”

“Do you like it?”

That question always throws me a little.  Do I like it?  The pump?  I do like the pump.  I like not taking injections.  I like not whipping out syringes at the dinner table and exposing my skin.  I like taking wee ickle bits of insulin to correct minor highs.  I like running temp basals to beat back hypos.  I like people wondering what it might be instead of assuming it’s a medical device.

“I do like it.  It works for me.”  I paused, already envious of the coffee in his hand.  “I like coffee more, though.”

He laughed and finished paying for his coffee.  “Can’t blame you for that.  Good luck with the baby, and try to stay cool in this weather,” he said.

I don’t like diabetes.  That’s for damn sure.  That shit is exhausting and I’m burnt out on the demands it places on my life.  But the pump?  Yes, I do like it.  It’s  a streamlined delivery mechanism for a hormone I wish my body would just cave and start making again.  It handles diabetes so I can go back to trying to put my socks on without tipping over.

Everybody Beeps.

(With deep, deep apologies to R.E.M. and Everybody Hurts)

Everybody Beeps

When your day is long
And the night, the night is yours for sleep.
When you tuck yourself in bed
For some rest … well hang on

Don’t close your tired eyes
Cause you wear a device
And everybody beeps … sometimes.

Sometimes reservoirs are low
And need to be refilled.
So you get up out of bed (set off, prime on)
Remove the older site (prime on)
You fill with what you need
For three days … well hang on

Everybody beeps
Takes comfort in the tech
Everybody beeps
Don’t throw your pump, oh no
Don’t throw your CGM
You feel like you’re alone?
No, no, no … you’re not alone.

If your islets are a mess
And you’re doing the best you can
When you think you’ve had too much
Of the beeps, well hang on

Well everybody beeps, sometimes.
But you are not alone.
Community is here.
All the time.
We’re here all the time.
All the time.

So hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on
Everybody beeps

Untethered, After a Fashion.

Around 8.30 am, I took an injection of Levemir.

At about 9 am, I switched my basal profile to “OTHER” and disconnected my insulin pump.  The OTHER profile has me at 0.025U basal rate per hour (as close to zero as I can get on my pump) but still holds all my other settings.  I kept the pump in my purse and the infusion set attached to my body, with one of those pump caps (there are two that come with every box of Insets) to keep the site closed.

At 9.03 am, I put on a skirt with a loose waistband that had previously been tugged down by the weight of my insulin pump BUT NOT ON THIS DAY.

Throughout the day, my basal needs are served by the Levemir injection, but I reconnect the insulin pump to deliver my boluses (allowing me to take my meal boluses and correction doses with precision and also without piercing my skin another time because the infusion set is still in place).

Around 9 or 10 at night, my Levemir injection is pretty much toast (over the years, I’ve seen that Levemir leaves my system after 12 hours, so I usually split my dose completely on pump vacations), so I reconnect my insulin pump and spend the overnight connected, receiving the basal bump at 5 am that is delivered to combat the dawn phenomenon my body experiences.

And then, depending on what I’m doing the next day, I’ll decide to keep my pump on or off during the day.  The Levemir pen in my toothbrush holder serves as a reminder to take a morning dose, if that’s my jam.

I like having a choice.  Can’t un-choose diabetes, so having a choice as to how I deliver my insulin is a plus.

It sounds complicated, but it works for where I’m at right now, because I am aiming to make good on the whole “fit diabetes into life, not work life around diabetes.”  And as petty and superficial as it may sound, it made me bananas (read: super angry, not yellow and slippery) when I went to get dressed for the sticky, summer heat and didn’t have a good place to shove my pump.  On the waistband pulled my skirt down.  Between the cups of my bra made for weird lumps and also unnecessary warmth.

This kind of frustration is the shit that can send me into a week-long DBM (Diabetes Bad Mood) and I am trying to mitigate as much of that as possible.  So off came the pump.  On came the highly structured plan to untether in the most graceful way possible.

Keeping an eye on my CGM showed when things were working and when things need tweaking, and I felt at peace with my diabetes instead of Rage Against the Islets.  Which, while a solid band name, doesn’t do much for my emotional health.

Couched.

“Can I lay here?”  I pointed to the almost-available section of the couch, where if Chris moved his legs juuuuust a little bit and Siah got her fat furry butt off the cushion, I could curl up and let my brain go quiet after a full day of writing.

“Sure thing,” and Chris adjusted his body.

“No,” was the message Siah sent me with her cat telepathic powers, but I snuggled in anyway.

And in one, seamless movement, the couch cushion leapt up and grabbed the infusion set from my arm with its teeth and ripped it off.  The couch’s fangs were gigantic and its talons just as daunting, determined to keep any diabetes device from properly resting against my skin.  I was livid – this infusion set was only a day old! – but I knew I was no match for the couch.  It was huge, and it had an agenda of rage.

I eased away from the cushion slowly, trying to keep from agitating the angry beast.  The couch snarled and tensed, poised to make a play for my Dexcom sensor if I dared to get comfortable against its fabric again.

“You okay?”  Chris asked.

“Yeah.  The couch ripped off my infusion set,” I started to say, and then I felt the slow drag of couch claws against my shin, warning me to embrace silence.  “I mean, I ripped off my infusion set.  I did it.”

The couch quieted and settled back against the floor.  And I went upstairs into the bathroom to put a new infusion set on.  And when I came downstairs, I sat on the floor, the steady breath of the wicked couch prickling the hairs on the back on my neck.

“Next time …” it panted like Dr. Claw.  “Next time.”

 

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