Tag Archives: insulin pump

feeling like a human pin cushion

It’s probably a common feeling among diabetics, but really: it’s ridiculous feeling like you’re in a cartoon and the next time you take a sip of water you’ll just start leaking from little holes all over your midsection.

The quick story: My stomach is starting to hate me for jabbing it with insulin pump insertion sets so much. It’s growing some tough tissue and thwarting every cannula I try to insert, bending it in half with its mighty power so that no insulin can be delivered. That means super high blood sugars and a constantly cranky me.

Even the new fancy kind I’m trying (the mio) that automatically jabs the cannula under your skin when you press on the sides is no match for my [physically, not metaphorically] thick skin.

If six years on the pump causes this much grief and body rebellion, I’m a bit nervous about the future.

Can some please find a cure already? Gosh.


when the diabetes doesn’t make sense (a poem)

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;
I exercised
on an exercise bike
pump alarm (alarm!):
check for occlusion, BG too high;
Unpredictable, erratic,
rollercoaster (one that goes fast, and upside-down);

Dramatic recitation and/or interpretive dancing based on poem will occur following readers’ requests.

“we bonded over pumps.”

It’s a connection that’s often sought after, but rarely achieved. It’s a cosmic collision of two insulin-dependent forces, the chance meeting of two strangers drawn together by broken beta cells. It’s the betes bond.

We discussed where our pumps were hidden (her momma gave her a little more to shake than mine did, so hers was concealed in cleavage, mine was awkwardly placed in my armpit); we reminisced about nights of low-sugar fridge-raiding that ended in consuming things we weren’t proud of (cough::spoonfulsoffunfettifrosting::cough); we admitted we maybe sometimes don’t change our pump insertion sets quiiite as often as directed (and we both felt less guilty about it); and we realized that she was a fan of my shamefully abandoned blog.

Hence, this update. Nothing like a Sally Field “they like me” moment to get a girl’s butt in gear. In fact, it’s so in gear, I’m going to post twice this (gasp!).

And here’s a treat–an image I’ve been saving to use on this very blog at just the right moment (which is apparently right now):

the ancient insulinosaurus. roar.

(Thanks, Courtney, for letting me use it!)

be an ironic diabetic for halloween!

Still searching for that perfect Halloween costume? Want to possibly offend anyone who lacks a sense of humor and a functioning pancreas? Look no further: I have the get-up for you. Impress your friends with your betes-expertise and your wit by going to your October 31st house party as: The Ironic Diabetic!

The unbreakable rule: NO sassy/sexy/scantily-clad version of this costume must be produced, or I will hunt you down and punch you right in the pancreas.

Step 1: Dress as a nerd or an old person, since clearly diabetics are either nerdy pager-wearin’ sugar-phobes or Price Is Right-watchin’ AARP cardholders who order from Liberty Medical. Duh.
Step 2: Fashion an oversized insulin pump out of cardboard wrapped in tin foil (or something like that), and be sure to make its label obvious and eye-catching, like BIONIC PANCREAS or ROBOT PART or NOT A PAGER. Attach a string or a long cord and tuck it in your clothing. Voila, you’re a pumper! (Note: technically if you’re type 2 diabetic, like Wilford, you won’t need a pump, but this is Halloween, so rules can be bent and broken.)
Step 3: [Here’s where the irony comes in.] Eat candy. Lots of candy. And anything else with carbs. Since I, one of the diabetic folk, have given you express permission, it’s acceptable, don’t worry about being insensitive. Just carry around a giant Slurpee, a king-sized Milky Way, a couple Hostess products–whatever you see in your local convenience store that screams from the shelf, “I will give you so much diabetes!!!” And after each gluttonous bite, make sure to make an exaggerated motion of pushing the buttons on your pump. Remember, you need insulin to cover the sugar you’re eating, and in this case, that means turning it up to 11, if you know what I mean.
Step 4: Leave a trail of test strips (they look like this) everywhere you go. Ask anyone I’ve ever lived with: these things show up every.where. And not just in my bed, or on my desk, but in my roommate’s shoe, or on the front steps. I’m telling you, they spread like pollen. So throw those suckers around, mark your diabeterritory.

Possible accessories:

  • a Wilford Brimley cat
  • anything else Wilford Brimley-related
  • Liberty Medical shipment box
  • Glucerna drink
  • Jonas Brothers t-shirt (with I ❤ Nick written in puff-paint on the back)
  • a friend to follow you around and say, “Um, can you eat that?”
  • a copy of Diabetes Forecast

As for me, I’ve yet to decide what to dress up as on All Hallow’s Eve. If all else fails, I can bring the Betesaurus costume out of retirement.

Betesaurus rooooaaaarrr!

Betesaurus rooooaaaarrr!

my pump & me: a story of friendship, insulin-dependency, and robots


We’re attached–spiritually, emotionally, and by 23 inches of thin, semi-stretchy tubing. We go everywhere together. We sleep together, go to work together; to the park and to the beach; in cars and on trains; to the mall and out to eat. And when I’m in the shower, it waits patiently in its spot on my dresser, ready to be plugged in, right where it belongs, when I’m clean.

Sometimes, it fits snugly into my jeans pocket, other times it braves the day tucked inside a bra, and every now and then it gets to try out its little black case, attached to a strap that velcroes around my thigh, hidden away like a sheathed weapon.

I even give it nicknames, like insu-pod (because it looks like an mp3 player from 2001), Jiminy Click-it (because its cute buttons make clicking noises when I dial in a bolus), or my little pager (Only drug dealers and doctors have beepers, right? I never tire of that joke!).

My pump is just so adorable, from its MS-DOS–like display screen to the way it gets all vibrate-y when it’s hungry [out of insulin] or tired [in need of a new AAA battery]. Like most humans, sometimes it needs things, like new reservoirs or infusion sets, and while those can clean out my wallet, it’s a small price to pay for a friendship such as ours.

Before my pump came along, I was hanging out with a less savory crowd–the syringe gang. They were a dime a dozen (or, rather, $10 a box, but it’s all the same). They were always around, at breakfast, lunch, dinner, and before bed, but they didn’t stay by my side. They came, the poked and pinched my arms and thighs and stomach, and they left with the next day’s trash, never to be seen again. Then there were the times they’d show up in my purse, and I’d grab one accidentally and offer it to a stranger or coworker in need of a writing utensil. They made me look more than a bit sketchy.

But those days are over, and now it’s just me, and my beloved pump, robot-and-human friends ’til the end.

bowie, bars, and bras: times i’d like to just blame the betes

Sometimes, I like to keep my diabetes quiet. I like to focus attention elsewhere (“Hey, is that David Bowie from the 1986 movie Labyrinth?”–jab the needle in, take it out–“Oh, nevermind, just another super-tight-panted man with eyeshadow.”), sneakily eat some glucose tablets without anyone asking if I’m okay, or order an ice cream without the line of questioning that starts with, “You can eat that?”

And then there are times I wish I had DIABETIC stamped on my forehead, just for clarification purposes.

I'm still trying to figure out how this will work with bangs; so is David Bowie.

I'm still trying to figure out how this will work with bangs; so is David Bowie.

Here are three such instances.

Scenario 1: When ordering a drink at a bar. Bartender, I’m not trying to be difficult. I just need to ask (eight times) if that’s diet soda, because if it’s not, we’re likely to have a problem. No, I’m not a super weight-conscious diet freak; I’m not an Atkins-ite afraid of carbohydrates; and I’m not accusing you of doing your job incorrectly. I just really don’t want to go home with my blood sugar at 300. Is that too much to ask?!

Scenario 2: Deciding where/when to eat (especially in large groups). I know it’s hard to find a restaurant that suits everyone. There’s menu, price, location, seating to consider, and nobody wants to be responsible for the decision, just in case it turns out to be a regrettable decision. But for the sake of all things holy, we’ve been walking around for six hours and I need a place to sit and some complimentary dinner rolls. …And I really want to avoid pulling out the look-at-me, look-at-me diabetic card, which tends to cause the “‘ohmygod I forgot, I’m so sorry,’ if there were a gurney accessible I’d be strapped to it and wheeled to the nearest place selling anything that resembles food” reaction.

Scenario 3: Keying a bolus* into my insulin pump—when said pump is stashed in my bra. I’ll just give you the details of one particular mortifying event: a co-worker walked into my cubicle and saw what, to an outsider, most likely appeared to be me self-administering a breast exam. In reality, I was repositioning my pump, which was at the time living under my arm/inside my bra. But, the horrorstruck look on my face when I realized what it must have looked like prevented me from being able to explain that. After a few seconds of awkward silence, we commenced with the work-related conversation, ignoring the fact that my hand had just been down the front of my shirt. Way down.

*bolus (n.): incredibly gross-sounding word that really means chewed up food, but, in the Encyclopedia Diabetecum, refers to a mealtime dose of insulin

alyce and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad betes-day

Alright, so perhaps I’m being a bit melodramatic. But there are some days I just can’t take it anymore.

I’m running late, but I still have to make time to jab a big needle in my side and–woops!–that didn’t go in right. Do over. That’s a wasted $20 and a bitch of a sting in my side. It’s finally in, now time to check the sugar so I don’t pass out on the walk to work (because, of course, I am out of glucose tablets/granola bars/easily portable & sugarful snacks to throw in my bag in case a “situation” should arise). But the blood just WON’T COME OUT of my finger! I squeeze and I prick and still, the gross, calloused fingertip skin will only spew a spot of bright red liquid–not enough. Finally I’ve milked (yes, that’s a legitimate term used when teaching patients how to use glucose meters, no joke) enough and I get a reading…in the 200s. Awesome.

At least I have my pump, my little pal who will bring that blood sugar right down to where it needs to be. But, my dear pump, where will I put you today? I’m wearing a dress to work, so no pockets to stick you in. That god damn velcro garter belt/pump holster device I paid fifteen bucks for is not the most comfortable on a hot summer day, and I’d really like to avoid looking like I have a tumor on the side of my boob, but, well, you’ll have to live in my bra today because there’s nowhere.else.to.put.you. You god damn thing! Why must you be attached to me every second of the day? I’m getting a little claustrophobic in this relationship; I think I need some space. Oh, that’s right, all the space you can give me is the length of your 23-inch tubing–and that would only work if I had a handmaiden/small child to walk near me holding you all day. Nope, that wouldn’t be awkward at all.

And it’s days like these I don’t want to punch diabetes, I want to annihilate it.



End scene.