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by Alison

The sound of diabetes in the wild

29 November, 2012 in Living with diabetes, Mildly amusing

Avid diabetic spotters like myself are always on the look out for our fellow pancreatically challenged types. It brightens up our day to spot another of our species out in the wild. But it’s not always the visual clues that give us away. Sometimes it’s the sounds…

  • The slurp of a juice box being emptied at speed
  • The rustle of fruit pastilles wrappers being opened
  • The clunk of the finger pricker
  • The bleep of the meter
  • The anguished screams of fury when the result isn’t quite what I was expecting
  • The space invader-esque CGM alarms indicating you’re rising or falling quickly
  • The kerklunk of the infusion set inserter, which reminds me of the terrifying clunk of the Autolet, the vicious guillotine style finger pricking device from the dark ages
  • The buzzes and beeps of my insulin pump
  • The bang of insulin pump colliding with doorframe
  • The sigh as I realise we’re going to have to repaint the doorframes again soon
  • The groans of disappointment as I miss the test strip in the middle of the night and put another spot of blood on the bedsheets
  • The muffled middle of the night conversation “You ok?” “I’m a six” “Snore”

Any more?

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by Alison

I’m a diabetic spotter

2 August, 2012 in Living with diabetes, Mildly amusing

Alison in full diabetic spotting mode

I admit it, I am a secret diabetic spotter. I’m not quite at the anorak wearing, binocular carrying stage yet (despite photographic evidence to the contrary), and I haven’t ever kept a log of my sightings, but I am always on the lookout for others who are playing at being a pancreas.

I’ve known about this habit for years, but it really came home to me quite how bad I’ve got it when I realised I was watching Sir Steve Redgrave carrying the Olympic torch, and my main interest was trying to spot where he’d hidden his pump.

It’s not just on TV though, I’m like this in real life too. A glimpse of another pump out there in the wild is enough to make me smile. Spotting someone doing a blood test in the same row as me in the cinema? I feel all warm inside.

Sightings of other diabetics at diabetes events are always enjoyable, but not as satisfying. It’s a bit like a naturalist seeing an animal in a zoo – it’s a fascinating encounter, but not the same as seeing one in the wild.

I’m never quite sure what to do when I spot another diabetic. My instinct is to rush over to them, shouting “me too, me too!” but apparently this is a little frightening for people and could ultimately lead to them calling the police. So mostly I just observe, like a creepy diabetic stalker. I have been spotted numerous times by other diabetic spotters. In points terms, I would be quite a low score for a spotter because I’ve always tested and injected in public and my pump is usually hanging off my waist with tubing flailing around everywhere so I’m hardly an undercover diabetic. Normally I notice them staring at me mid blood test, injection or bolus and when I smile at them, they confess all and we have a nice chat.

Diabetic spotting is of course a great family sport. We’ll be sitting in a restaurant and the husband will whisper “blood test, man in blue shirt, table to the left”. My parents return from holidays with tales of insulin pumps they spotted. Diabetes may be an invisible disease, but the signs are there if you know what to look for.

Do you spot diabetics in the wild? Please tell me I’m not the only diabetic spotter out there.

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by Alison

The terrible smell

10 July, 2012 in Living with diabetes, Mildly amusing

After yet another diabetes related bed sheet incident I am now starting to think that diabetes and sheets are simply incompatible bedfellows. This time there was no visible problem, no massacre-like blood stains or mysterious slime. Oh no, this time it was the smell. Thankfully not the smell of my toes rotting off or my kidneys frying, but stil not a fragrance I like to have around the house.

I’m sitting on my bed (which I’d only changed the day before) getting ready to change my infusion set. I have no concerns about blood spots getting on the sheets because the set I’m removing is on the top of my thigh. If I remove a set from my buttocks while sitting on the cream duvet, I can almost guarantee it’ll bleed and leave tiny red marks on the duvet. But my mind is clear of such concerns today.

I fill the reservoir with insulin and squirt a bit back into the bottle to remove some air bubbles. Then I draw a bit more insulin into the reservoir to make sure it’s full. Then I get a bit carried away and pull the plunger completely out of reservoir, emptying 300 units of insulin all over me and the bed in the process.

I don’t tend to notice the smell of insulin any more. Apparently 300 units is enough to cure my olfactory fatigue. I can confirm that it stinks. I finish the set change and naively mop up the insulin thinking that’ll sort the problem. Afterall, despite probably being enough to kill 4 ShootUp readers should we split it between us and inject it all at once, 300 units isn’t really very much. It’s just a few spoonfuls.  

Having washed my hands, I return to the cleaned up bedroom. The smell is overpowering and showing no sign of abating. I strip the bed and resign myself to having to wash the sheets. I also change my clothes. I carry on with my day, but there’s a lingering smell wherever I go. Even with clean clothes on, I still stink. I take a shower. I start planning what we can have for dinner that’ll overpower the insulin smell – curry and garlic perhaps?

The husband comes in. By now the house is full of wet washing because the British summer monsoon is raging outside. But that doesn’t really matter, because there’s no hope of smelling the washing over the overwhelming stench of insulin. From the way the husband recoiled as he crossed the front doorstep, I guess the smell is still pretty powerful. We open all the windows and go to the pub.

Thankfully the smell seems to have gone now, but I’ve learned my lesson. From now on all insulin will be stored in a safe box in the garden shed and only used when wearing full safety gear.

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by Alison

Correspondence with my pancreas

29 June, 2012 in Living with diabetes, Mildly amusing

A reasonably smooth period of diabetes control leads to a fiery exchange between Alison and her pancreas.

Dear Alison

I am not impressed. At the age of 4 I decided you were mature enough to take over responsibility for being your own pancreas, and I went into retirement having trusted you with the job.

I will admit, at an operational level your performance is acceptable. You have done the job adequately over the years. Results are within range and you don’t often endanger limbs or reputation by going hypo. However, when I gave you this role I expected you to dedicate yourself to it. Diabetes was to be your number one occupation, your raison d’etre, your first thought in the morning, your last thought at night and the majority of the thoughts in-between. This has not been the case lately. I cite several examples as evidence:

• You completely forgot the 29 year anniversary of my retirement. You should be ticking off every day you’ve managed to survive since my leaving, not brazenly getting on with your life, unaware of major milestones.
• You missed Diabetes Week. To be fair you were out of the country at the time, but even so, you should be clutching at every opportunity to share your misery with fellow pancreas impersonators.
• You went on holiday and aside from a few minor inconveniences with that plastic pancreas imposter of yours, barely thought about the important role you play as a pretend pancreas. This is a dangerous game lady, you’ll have the Pancreas Promotion Society on your back if you continue to make it look like you can do their job and live a happy life at the same time.
• And on a personal note, I don’t know how you expect to maintain the stream of tedious twaddle you spout on the blog if you’re just going to take it all in your stride.

Sort it out, I need to be top of the list.

Your Pancreas

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Dear My Pancreas

Your arrogant, self-centred attitude is only what I’d expect from someone that walked off the job without giving any notice or induction training. As you might have noticed, doing your job for you takes up a significant part of my brain power. I work hard at it, but you’ll never be number one. You’ll always be in second place, right behind having a life. Deal with it.

Alison

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Dear Working Pancreases

If you think you can do a better job than me, please do drop me an email. Applications for the role of working pancreas or diabetes manager are always welcome.

Lots of love

Alison

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