Pausing to breathe

With holiday time upon us, I am reminded of the type of world that we find ourselves in, and the technology that is part of it. Whether the latest Nintendo, tablet or the handy robot vacuums that wander our houses, something is always competing for our attention.

Actually, I kind of wish my pump looked like this. Pump manufacturers, take note

When you have type 1 diabetes, even more technology makes demands on you everyday, all day. Remember those tamagotchis? Feed me, pet me, play with me now, or you will be sorry. If you treat me well, I might play nicely. For a while.

But there comes a time when it just seems to much. This past summer, this reached a critical level. My pump and CGM seemed to be nagging, demanding, day and night. One in particular went rogue. Rogue because there seemed to be no discernible benefit, because it was wrong much of the time, so after more lost sleep, I wondered what's the point. I put it aside for the time being, but when I upgraded my OS on my Mac, Carelink, which is used to upload boatloads of data, was ill prepared for the upgrade, and was deemed broken; the last straw. My colicky tamagotchi babies were laid to rest.

So I hauled out my Ping out of my trusty Dbox (my treasure box of diabetes supplies and retired equipment), programmed it up, ordered supplies, and I haven't looked back. Mind you, I still don't have a CGM but one day I will do something about that. I have mixed feelings about ramping up the technology again. I am rather enjoying the relative peace that the Ping provides.

I admit, some technology does improve quality of life. But one day, barring a cure (ha!) (sorry that was a cynical slip), I hope to only have to worry about the feeding and watering of a Diabetes Alert Dog. Not only will that dog give me peace of mind, but an occasional appreciative wag of the tail after a long walk, which would be much more than my CGM could ever give me.

Bad Word Wednesday: Redacted Edition

Infusion set failures. Let me tell you about them.

For those who pump insulin, you know what that can mean. For those who don't know, it can lead to high BG readings that don't want to budge, not because you had that second brownie and didn't bolus the requisite amount of insulin, but because some [redacted] piece of [redacted] plastic failed to properly insert another piece under my skin properly. But instead of, say, trying to deliver for 5 minutes, and then telling me, "Hey, over here! I'm not working so well!", it lets me carry on with my bedtime routine. Until…

4:30-something [redacted] a.m.

Beep beep beep. 

I roll over to check the phone on my bedside table. Not time to get up yet. I roll over to go back to sleep, knowing my trusty first alarm is scheduled for 5:55 am. 

Beep beep beep.

I reach over to poke my phone, trying not to wake up too much.

Beep beep beep. 

Then I realize that it's my [redacted] pump. I squint in the darkness, and see the dreaded No Delivery alert. 

No this is a perfectly acceptable notification if it is, indeed, out of insulin because I hadn't loaded it up with insulin. However, I inserted the set right before bed. Something had gone wrong with the installation of said set, and I had to do something about it. Now. 

[redacted]

So out of bed. Which means there's a required trip to the bathroom (yeah, because I am of a certain age), and downstairs to the Diabetes Supply Bin, unwrap a new infusion set, find a good spot on my body with my eyes squinting in the [redacted] too bright light of the dining room. 

Next comes a BG test to find out where I'm at.

16.9 mmol (300 mg)

[redacted]

... and a lot more profane words than that were going through my head. And [redacted] that, I'm annoyed and starting to wake up too. This is just a piece of crap. 

Nonetheless, I bolus the suggested amount and crawl back into bed. I think I noticed that it was just after 5 now. Less than an hour before the first alarm. 

Fast forward to breakfast time. 6:20 am. Time to test, and THIS is what I get?! 

[redacted]

BTW 15.9 mmol = 286 mg = not much [redacted] difference from 1-1/2 hours ago.

Ok, moving on....

Little Whispers

I am not a jealous person, or even an envious one.

Ok, maybe I'm lying a little bit.

I admit I feel a twinge of envy as my friends dig right into the lukewarm leftover pizza after a meeting, without a care in the world. They don't wonder how many carbs is in a Meat Lover's slice from Pizza Heaven, or how much insulin will cover that for the time being, or how much to extend a bolus over the course of several hours when the Post Pizza High comes back to haunt them.

I know it's childish of me, but I'm envious, just a little.

I wish I could sketch too//envy alert//: Source Unknown

On reflection of my "career" with diabetes, I can't remember ever having a good an in-range HbA1c. Ever. That's almost 25 years of numbers over 8% and sometimes much higher, representing blood sugars 10.2+ mmol (183+ mg). Ideally, we are told, someone with diabetes should an A1c of 7%*, representing blood sugars in range of 8.6 mmol (154 mg).

*Sidenote: This recommended amount is general, and varies depending on your physical condition, age, and a host of other factors. 

I am well versed in the concept that I should have a lower A1c. Really I am. Now it certainly is my endo's job to remind me of this, (although senility has not yet set in - I do recall this fact all by myself). But for some reason, just about every other medical professional seems to have a vested interest in what My Number is, often adding their respective specialty's list of what could go wrong if I don't get That Number down.

Life should be so easy, eh?

Just another side note for anyone about to jump on the lower-number-is-better bandwagon: Just because I have a higher A1c than "recommended", it does NOT mean I haven't been trying. The value of how much I try does not correlate to my A1c level.

So, when I see my fellow diabetes friends share Their Number achievements, I am truly happy, even excited for them. I know how much work goes into even lowering it by just a little.

One could actually argue that I don't know, because I've never got there myself, but I will leave that discussion for those eager to make that point.

But, as I celebrate those successes with my friends, there's a little devil, sitting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, "Don't you wish that was you?"

However, I am a lucky person. I also have an angel sitting on my other shoulder, reminding me that I can do this, and perhaps one day I will be able count myself among those who celebrate our successes.

Envy is the art of counting the other fellow's blessings instead of your own.

 ~Harold Coffin*~

*See what I did there? Seriously, the author's name is really Coffin!

Fatherly Reflections

My Dad is my biggest fan here at InkStain'D. He was my very first subscriber, and I know he will get a notification that this post has gone live. So, on this Father's Day, I think it is only right to give a little back to him.

My Dad is the coolest 82 year old that I know.

In addition to putting up with my own nonsense for a lot of years, he frequently would take his grandchildren to the park, accidentally getting one stuck pushing them endlessly on the swings, melted softened their ice-cream in the microwave, supporting lego building marathons, and has spent countless hours job searching for more than one of his children. He would play cribbage with my mother and my grandma, even though he hated cards, with hardly a no complaint. He is a patient listener, offering his advice when we seek it out and sometimes when we don't.

He is smart and knows about just all kinds of things. Technology doesn't phase him. He has used a computer for many years, and he does way more than check email. He's set up devices like Apple TV, and yes, he even tweets. He stalks follows me on Twitter to make sure I'm doing ok, and if I am MIA for a while, he faithfully checks in. And he loves to read, everything from blogs to historical books.

Where was this guy during those Lego marathons?

The one thing he loved, that drove me crazy (yes, I was an ungrateful child!) I under appreciated as I grew up, was his love of the pipes. No, not the kind that Toronto Mayor Rob Ford allegedly has used according to some missing video out there someplace, but yes the bonafide bagpipes. He has a kilt, and suffered through endless questions of what pipers wear under their kilts (think about it, what would you wear under it all if you were wearing a kilt?)

So as a nod to my biggest fan, this Father's Day, I'd love to share a story with him that blends two of his passions - the pipes and history. So just for my Dad on this Father's Day I'd like to share this story about the pipes and D-Day. He might already know it, because he knows just about everything. But I'll share it anyway ;)


And before I start, for clarification, I don't mean D-Day as in Diabetes Day, as is the norm for this blog. Certainly there is no shortage of "D" things mentioned here. I mean D-Day as in the D-Day.


Now, due to stupid copyright laws and such, I'm going to share the story by link, because I'm just very sure the Economist wouldn't give me license to reprint here. I'll start with a question.

What was the last tune they had piped on D-Day in Normandy? 

Read all about it here.

As I reflect on my years since he brought me onto this planet, I see little bits of my Dad in me. But one day, I hope that I can be as smart and cool as him.

Happy Father's Day, Dad!