My rune of pancreatic confusion (Based on a true story.)
I simply ate toast
sugar, sky high;
Devoured a doughnut
blood glucose low
warning, eat more sugar;
on an exercise bike
pump alarm (alarm!):
check for occlusion, BG too high;
rollercoaster (one that goes fast, and upside-down);
Dramatic recitation and/or interpretive dancing based on poem will occur following readers’ requests.
So, I’m back on the needles. (At least for a short while until I can resume my old pumping ways.)
Oh, the syringe and the vial. How I miss those days when jabbing myself in the stomach and thighs was a thrice-or-more-daily part of life. Completely freaking out strangers at parties by whipping out that little 31 gauge needle and prepping it like a pro. Causing friends and acquaintances seat-shifting discomfort at the dinner table as I drew blood from my finger and flicked the syringe to rid its barrel of pesky bubbles, all while participating in the mealtime chatter.
And it’s in this state that I start my betes blog. I’m 23, I’m type 1 diabetic, I have an insulin pump (usually), I struggle to afford it and sometimes pretend it doesn’t exist. But I’ll openly talk to anyone who’ll listen about how many clicks it’ll take for me to safely eat this bagel, or just how low my blood sugar went the other night when I woke up amidst an empty carton of ice cream and orange peels like Bruce Banner coming to after a night of Hulk-ing.
No, it’s not a pager. It’s not an mp3 player, I don’t have to remove it in airport security, and it [usually] doesn’t hurt.
The rest, I’ll leave to Wilford.