Left to my own devices
Putting my teeth in to gum down a banana ... it will make sense by the end of this essay.
A few weeks ago, I put a new infusion set into the back of my hip. The site location was a departure from my preferred back-of-the-arm location as I need to be better about site rotation, and my hip skin was supple and hungry for insulin. (That sentence is so gross. Supple? Hungry for insulin? Nasty. Stop, Kerri. I’m picturing these guys — the clacking sound as the hippo mouths crashed against the plastic game board part of the soundtrack of my childhood.)
Ignore my nostalgia and skip to this paragraph: The new infusion set was good to go except ten minutes after putting it into my skin, I totally forgot it was on my hip instead of my arm and handily ripped it off while changing my clothes.
Cool, cool.
But I hadn’t made that stupid move in months, so I didn’t feel rage-filled. I was mellow. Ha ha, no worries! I took out a new infusion set and embedded the cannula into the soft, familiar real estate of the back of my arm.
“Grab an extra infusion set,” the must-plan-for-everything part of my brain whisper-screamed. I obliged, throwing a blue spaceship into my bag and then heading to a physical therapy appointment (yep, getting older and developing shoulder bursitis is super fun and I recommend it to everyone).
Sitting in the waiting room at the PT office was fine until the doctor came out and asked if I was ready, and I jumped up and somehow caught my infusion set on the back of the chair and ripped it away just enough to visibly pull the cannula loose.
The physical therapist winced, an audible “ouch,” escaping him.
MF1. But yay for planning for all the variables? A quick stop to the bathroom and a “fill cannula” moment had me back up and running in a few seconds.
Until I ripped it out again, by accident2, on the front door of my house way later in the evening, which prompted a site change right before bed. (Never my favorite move.) Of course a very gnarly series of lows hit on the overnight.
On a physical level, this series of unfortunate events required poking in a new infusion set three different times in one day.
It also required the shoving of calories in to my face. Four juice boxes aren’t great for my teeth. Neither are the fruit snacks. Or the peanut butter sandwich that was consumed. Or the banana. (Didn’t bolus for a stitch of this, by the way. The lows were as sticky as my infusion sets weren’t.)
On an access level, three ripped out infusion sets becomes three infusion sets less in my stash. Which means I may run tight on supplies at the end of 90 days. The realization is instant, when the infusion set rips out and the pain registers, then the financial cost registers. Copays and deductibles, not to mention issues of delays with medical supplies, are as much a pain point as the actual piercing of skin. And it lingers longer.
On an emotional level, the lows were very low (in the 40s, not the 60s) and hypos that trench-y feel terrible in a special way. I’ll experience a low-hangover from just one of those episodes. Four of them feels like a wrecking ball made of tightly-packed fruit snacks shaped into a sphere and then thrown at my head with ferocity.
… I don’t have a creative, fun way to describe the feeling of being lower than 40 mg/dL and resisting the urge to close my eyes. It’s scary. It’s just fucking scary to be in that moment. Full stop.
And during the third low, the one that felt the most intimidating, my brain did the disservice of hit fast-forward, picturing my life as an older woman with diabetes. I’ll be doing this when I’m old. I’ll be stumbling down the stairs3 to the kitchen, after depleting the glucose stashes on my bedside table, fumbling for snacks when I’m in my 50s. In my 60s. In my 70s and 80s, Banting willing4.
There will be a time when I’ll struggle through arthritis to put a straw into the foil-covered juice box hole. That thought made me feel overwhelmed.
I’ll have to put in my teeth in to chew a banana.
And then I started laughing at the sheer chaos of the whole mess. Like for real laughing. How dumb this disease can be, gumming down a banana to treat a low blood sugar.
Diabetes is humbling as fuck.
motherfucker
I didn’t even know half the curse words I muttered. I became a mashup of Yosemite Sam and the kid from A Christmas Story as he punches the red-headed bully.
Maybe Chris and I will move to a one-level home, and I’ll have pictures on the wall lined with Twizzlers as their frames. For easy grabbin’.
This is how I pray.
It's not so bad... says a 75 year old. Hardest part is opening the G7s.
Thanks for the smiles.
Just checking… are you using one of those silicon jar openers or potholders to unscrew the g7 cap? Slice the little seal tape with a letter opener or fingernail, set the g7 cap-side down on the silicon, press and twist. That lets the table do half the work.