Wednesday, August 3, 2016

There's a New Woodchuck in Town

As many of you long time followers know, we have used the Eli Lilly bag to house Joe's diabetes supplies over the years.  This bag has been affectionately called "Woodchuck".  Why name it?  You may ask.  Well, would you rather yell "get the diabetes supply bag!"  (three words and boring) OR would you rather yell "get Woodchuck!" (one word and much more interesting and dramatic). 


The old Woodchuck was getting a little haggard.

He was dirty.

He has gotten small; well our supplies have gotten larger.  Since upgrading the PDM case to a Sugar Medical,  zipping up the Woodchuck reminds me of  my post-adolescent self, laying on my bed, sucking in my abdomen, trying to zip up my two-sizes-too-small Jordache Jeans. 

So.. it was time to invest in a new bag.

Let me introduce you to the new Woodchuck (Woodchuck # like 8 or 9...I've lost track)..

His exterior is gray and black.  He's like 9"X11"X3"

His interior.  We can fit in all our day-in-the-life needs.
I found this bag on Amazon.  It's from ChillMed.  I have personal experience with this bag, as well.  As a school nurse, I like the clear pouch for placing documents explaining emergency plans and plans for a lockdown situation.  Hopefully, it will be durable for Joe.

A day-in-the-life of chucking the old Woodchuck.

Monday, August 1, 2016


In the hot tub, last night...

Dave and I were talking about Joe's Dexcom.  We are currently waiting for a new receiver, as our last one has lost it's volume.  It seems it is plenty loud to alert for a high, but is barely buzzing for a low.  When our Dexcom has adequate volume, Dave and I will take turns manning it at night.  When I man the CGM, it alarms ... I eventually wake up ... I deal with the alarmed for issue.  When Dave mans the CGM, it alarms ... I eventually wake up ... I kick Dave ... he wakes up ... and deals with the issue.

Again..back to last night...

We were talking about Dexcom-low-volume problem.

Dave:  "It's too bad it doesn't have a different tone for a high and a low."  My eyes kinda go all bug eyed and I then kind of give him the side-eye.

Me:  " does."

Dave:  "It does?" in a surprised voice.  Meanwhile, imaginary fiery hot pokers being ever so slowly jabbed into my eye balls.

Me:  "It has for the whole 7 years he's been wearing it.  Seriously?"

Me:  "In fact, there are three different alarms: a high, a low, and a really low (below 55) alarm."

What I'm dealing with in managing the day-in-the-life.

Friday, July 29, 2016

1:37 am

In the fog of my blissful sleep, I hear something.  It's important.  I recognize that as I slumber.  I try to remain asleep, but my mind searches for the implications of the sound.

It's 1:37 am.

My subconscious knows to to be on "high alert".  Joe just participated in a power skating camp this evening...with a failed site...which resulted in a HIGH blood sugar... which required a new pump site...and a correction dose of insulin.  This may, or may not, end up with unstable blood glucose readings.

Unfortunately for me and more importantly Joe, this will be a rough diabetes night.

It's 1:37 am.  My mind and my body wake from the alarm.  Joe is low.  It's the "MEMMMP...MEMMP...MEMMP!! - Your kid is super friggen low...low alarm".  I'm still a little dazed from my slumber.  I catalogue the day.  The power skating, the site change, the correction are recollected.  This could be bad. 

I stumble into his room.  I'm tired.

I ready his glucometer with the test strip.  I lance his finger, as he sleeps.  The blood is wicked up the test strip.  He is 40.

I turn off his insulin pump for 2 hours.  Four glucose tablets are grabbed from the supply kept in his room for exactly this; our nights.  I didn't even need to coax him to chew the tablets.  In his sleep, he chomps on each tablet.  They are each consumed in short order.  His body knows ... it needs them to survive.

I plod back to my bed.  I lay down.  I know I won't sleep; he is too low for that.  I'll need to know he is OK.  40 is nowhere near "OK" when he sleeps.

I start on my left, turned away from my night stand where the CGM resides.  Eventually, I turn to the right.  I take a peek.  He's only 45, smooth.  I wait.  I turn.  It's about 2 am.  I turn.  50 smooth.  Still, I wait.  I know it will turn around.  I just need to wait a bit longer.  Just a little longer until I'll feel OK.  Just a little longer until I'll feel he'll be OK.  Just a little longer until I can go back to sleep again.  Back and forth I go, peeking at his number.  At 2:17, or so, 63...diagonal up.  The next time I check he's 115 ...diagonal up.

But, is he truly alright?

I need to check on him to be able to sleep.  I prop myself out of my bed.  I plod back into his room.  I want to check his pulse.  Weird, I know.  If it's his carotid (on his neck) it may wake him.  I take his wrist in my hand.  I feel a strong, steady radial pulse.

Finally, I can go back to sleep.

A glimpse of a rough night in the day-in-the-life of parenting my child who has t1d.