Insulin pump

The hidden faces of Dear Diabetes

I am not disabled. I am not disabled. I am not disabled… but wait, am I? For more than 20 years I have vehemently fought the “disabled” label. I am not disabled, I have said. I can do anything you can do and probably even more, I have said. Call me disabled and see what happens to your knees, I have said. But the reality is, no matter how hard I fight it, I do have limitations. Yes, I can do anything I put my heart and sweat into, but I can’t do any of it without Dear Diabetes. I can’t go for a run without diabetes, I can’t go on a hike without diabetes, I can’t have a baby without diabetes, I cant eat at a restaurant without diabetes, heck, I can’t even sleep without the bloody disease. Faces of Dear Diabetes part 1: (clockwise) stopped by a low …

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Bananas and blood gushers

THIS: Ah bananas, they’re like the runners’ go-to fruit. So many benefits: instant energy boost, spiked full of natural electrolytes, and easy to digest… maybe a little TOO easy. For me, bananas have never really been a first choice. I’m quite picky on the type of banana I eat. It cannot have any indication of brown spots forming, but it also can’t be too green. Really, it’s a small window for bananas and me. And following a hard-run race, I can’t even look at a banana, not even at a fully skinned banana; they induce an instant urge to hurl. But on Sunday, just before heading out for a quick-paced tempo run, I noticed my BG plummeting. I needed something quick, and I needed something easy on the belly. The only thing that came to mind was banana. Half of it in my mouth and out the door I went. …

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For shame, Mr. Insulin Pump, for shame

I have a fairly high tolerance for pain – I take needles regularly, I prick my finger multiple times a day, when I broke my wrist, I was in denial, and lasted three days before going to the ER, I frequently encourage my physio and massage therapist to press harder, harder, harder into inflamed areas. But yesterday morning, when I woke up, the pain was so intolerable, I could barely stand, let alone sit! The culprit: Mr. Insulin Pump. I wasn’t gonna say anything, I’m a little embarrassed to be honest, feeling crazy violated, but in the name of fellow T-1s safety, I must come forward. My pump, ahem, took advantage of me overnight. He bloody well got frisky with me; took up shop right at the tender part of my tushy! There was no permission to be had, no pre-arranged agreement, no bloody enjoyment. But rather, a bruised tailbone …

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Mailbag: Singing hallelujah

Please excuse me a moment while I sing what’s been bursting to get out of me ever since a run two runs ago: HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLELUUUUUJAH! Not sure what was going on with the headband here! For more than four years I have been struggling to find a suitable place on my body to store my insulin pump while running. If I clip it onto my shorts, it feels as though it’s gonna tug them right off my butt, or chafes if any skin is exposed; if I clip it onto my winter tights, it slides annoyingly from side to side, and sometimes, without any warning at all, it unclips, yanking at the infusion in my skin; if I put it in my sports bra, I risk looking like I have a third square boob, or risk bruising my breastbone by forgetting to remove the clip (yep, that happened my …

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Battle of the pumps

Ohhh Animas, you had so much going for you. Just a few short weeks ago, you were the front runner pump for replacement, but unfortunately, yesterday’s mishap, well, that was a bit of a kick in the credibility teeth. So there I was standing on the street, waiting for the traffic light to change, when all of a sudden I heard the clank of something falling next to me and felt a tugging at my belly that quickly turned into a full-blown yank. When I looked down – holy freaking bejezus! – there was my pump hanging in the breeze – HANGING!!! – with nothing but my skin keeping it from crashing down to the ground. What the??? And the clank, well that was half of the pump’s clip lying on the pavement, completely removed from the pump, and my waistband for that matter, where it belonged. It broke. Again. For no apparent …

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