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Posts tagged ‘type 1 diabetes’

Sweet Little Lancet.

Sweet little lancet
You are so damn tough.
I keep you until
All your edges are rough,
Until your sharp peak
Becomes dull and harpoons.
Oh sweet little lancet,
I will change you soon.

Sweet little lancet,
You deploy with a thud.
It can take several tries
To get you to draw blood.
And at that point, you’d think,
I’d wise up and swap out.
But sweet little lancet,
You should have your doubts.

Sometimes I forget
I have a vast collection.
No need to reuse!
I’m inviting infection.
I should change you out
Before you get strange,
But it takes a reminder
(Like when the clocks change.)

Sweet little lancet,
I respect what you do.
My supply closet’s stashed
With an army of you.
But in the event
There’s a cure that’s clever,
I’ll repurpose your ass;
I’ll have thumbtacks forever.

“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.

Weak Away.

I accidentally took a week off from blogging, but there are reasons.  And they involve dinosaurs.  Bullet list, because that’s the only way to organize what’s swirling in my brain?  Yeah, let’s do that.

  • Last week started strong – a good visit to Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center on Tuesday to confirm a strong and healthy growing boy.  More on the third trimester of this pregnancy in a bit, but for now, I’m holding very steadily without any blood pressure issues, no swelling, no protein spilling in my urine, and a baby of a healthy and normal size.
  • I think my son has the same nose as my daughter, which is weird to notice in an ultrasound.  And he definitely has my husband’s dance moves, which contributes to his cuteness.
  • The next day, I took a flight out to Salt Lake City (after putting Birdzone on the bus) and then drove out to Vernal, Utah for a diabetes event with the Tri County Health department.
  • Per my daughter’s request, I wore a bracelet she made me while presenting. It is as important as my medical alert bracelet, to be honest.

  • The people in Vernal are nice.  Super nice.  And there was a lady whose due date was the day before mine, so we had the chance to bond over babies.  (Hi, lady!)
  • The drive from Salt Lake City to Vernal is also nice, but extremely rural.  Like there’s one rest stop on the three hour journey on Route 40.  I saw lots of red rock formations.  And Strawberry Reservoir.  The drive through the mountains was beautiful.  If I didn’t have to pee every 25 minutes, this would have been a truly relaxing drive.
  • My cell phone didn’t work perfectly throughout the duration of the drive, so it felt weird to be tooling around in a state I’m unfamiliar with, in a car that’s not mine, entirely by myself, save for the seven month along fetus that was dancing while I drove.  There was a vulnerability to being out and alone that I liked and feared, simultaneously.
  • I did meet Dinah the Dinosaur upon my arrival in Vernal, which was a highlight.  Sending this picture home to Birdy earned me some mom points.

  • I found a dinosaur. #travelbetes

    A photo posted by Kerri Sparling (@sixuntilme) on

  • After presenting in Vernal and having the chance to connect with folks at the dinner, I went to bed and then made the three hour trek back to Salt Lake City for my flight out the next day.
  • Note:  I wore compression socks while driving.  Yep, I’m that old lady with the paranoia.
  • Second note:  The socks at least had a decent pattern, so at least it wasn’t a total loss.
  • Last sock note:  I neglected to remove said socks before going into to grab a snack at a rest stop.  Was also wearing a skirt.  May have looked a little off.  Do not care.
  • Then it was off to San Antonio, Texas for the TCOYD conference, where I rolled around like a hamster in one of those plastic hamster balls.  Only I was the hamster ball.
  • We talked about the emotions of diabetes-related complications, with the conversation tipping in favor of emotions related to diabetes on the whole.  The group attending the session was diverse in age, diagnosis length, and emotional response, which made for a very engrossing discussion.  As always, I learned a lot from my peers.
  • And at the end of the session, I saw people exchanging contact information, helping extend the conference bond beyond the moment.  Damn, that is my favorite part of any diabetes conference: the connection with peers.
  • After the conference, I crashed hard (sure, I may have watched three episodes of OITNB back-to-back before bed – don’t judge).
  • Sunday – Father’s Day – I was back at the airport to make the flight home to Rhode Island.
  • “Did you take a direct flight home?”
  • HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA
  • “The flight home to Rhode Island” isn’t ever direct, unless I’m coming from Chicago, Baltimore, or DC.  Every other location takes a ridiculously long time to get back from.  It took six hours of flying time to get home from Texas.  America, you sizable.
  • And on the first leg of the flight home, a PWD (T1D) in the back of the plane struggled with a serious low blood sugar, causing a bit of controlled chaos on the plane.  Thankfully, there were some smart and capable folks on board who were able to step in and assist, but it was unnerving to recognize that the good samaritan running to the back of the plane had that familiar orange case of glucagon in her hand.
  • Then it was home.  Beautiful, quiet home for a few days before the next leg of travel kicks in.  (See you in Seattle?)

Reimbursements.

“I’m not positive I can make it in for that appointment, since I’m traveling for work for the majority of those weeks.  Would it be possible for me to send my device data by email and have you review it for any issues?”

Without pausing, my endo said, “Yes, we can do that.”

We’ve seen a lot of one another over the last seven months, as my pregnancy has progressed.  Appointments are at least monthly and while we review the same things during every appointment, reviewing these same things is necessary over the next few weeks.  She made a note in the computer system and something occurred to me.

“Do you get paid to review those emails?”

“The emails?”

“Yes, when I email you blood sugar logs and you review them.  Are you paid for that?”

She paused from her typing.  “No.”

I never forget that the issues I have with the hospital system are not related to my endocrinologist specifically.  She’s forced to work within that system, and her ability to flex her capable caregiver muscle is hindered by billing codes and administrative responsibilities.  But I do forget that she goes above and beyond in many circumstances, oftentimes not paid for the work she does for her patients.  And I’m not nearly as appreciative of her work as a clinician as I should be.  It’s not her fault the system sucks.

“Thank you for doing that,” I said.  “I appreciate it.”  Our appointment continued.

Being a patient is hard work.  I didn’t choose this road, and I would not choose this road.  But being an endocrinologist is hard work, and her road was chosen.  I have to remember to say thank you more often.

Fifteen Minutes, Fifteen Grams.

I just needed fifteen minutes, after fifteen grams of carbs.

“I can’t go with you, because I need to eat something else and wait for my blood sugar to come up.  You guys can go without me and come right back, if you want?”

The sentences sounded soft and measured.  Sure, go for the bike ride around the neighborhood, dear daughter and trusted neighborhood friend.  I’ll just sit here and eat fifteen grams of carbohydrate, then wait patiently for fifteen minutes while the food works its magic.

Instead, I was shouting up at them from the bottom of the well, hoping my voice carried in a way that didn’t make my kid nervous, hoping she’s hearing the reassuring tones of my voice instead of the panicked inner monologue that was playing out:

“HEY!  Go on outside and play and don’t watch me mop the sweat from my forehead while I inhale two juice boxes and a packet of fruit snacks.  Ignore me while I fight back the urge to lie down on the kitchen floor and let this weird wave of unconsciousness wash over me.  Pretend not to notice that I’m looking through you instead of at you while I’m talking to you.  Go on outside and let mommy fall apart for fifteen minutes, after these fifteen grams of carbs.”

My daughter and her friend strapped on their bicycle helmets and took off down the street, enjoying the sunshine and almost-summer weather while I stuck a spoon into a jar of Nutella, not giving a shit if this was the best option or healthiest decision but mostly because I wanted to have something sweet on my tongue, reminding me that I was still here and capable of coming back from this low blood sugar and that I could start making dinner soon because I would be capable of standing unassisted, without fear of falling into the abyss, in just fifteen minutes, after fifteen grams of carbs.

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