Pump: Should it Stay or Should it Go Now?
If it stays, there will be trouble. And if it goes there will be double.
That's how we're feeling about the pump these days. We're at a crossroads. I know it's only been two months with the pump, but we're losing our patience. We're just not seeing the progress we had hoped to see. The wife is so fed up, she's even set a 6-week deadline. If it doesn't clean up its act, it's outta here.
We're still waiting to see the pump in action. Waiting to really see it do its thing. In the past two months, we've tinkered with our settings ad nauseam. It's just so damn frustrating that we still can't get it right. Sure, Charlie has decent blood sugars occassionally, but rarely for a full day from beginning to end. Very often there's at least one part of the day when he's too high or too low.
We want to see the pump keep his blood sugar level overnight, when food is not a factor. But we almost always find ourselves running in circles. "OK, tonight's the night," well say confidently, doing our best to stay positive. But it never fails. We almost always have to intervene in some way. The result often makes him too high or too low.
"Wake up, Charlie, you need some juice."
Or we just flatout lie, taking advantage of the foggy, dreamy state he's in.
"Charlie. Charlie! Here's the juice you asked for. C'mon Charlie, open your eyes."
We're not waking him up because he's low per se. But he's about 110 with still some active insulin working. So we feed our little lab rat just 2 ounces of apple juice because we don't want him too high, don't want him too low. Want him JUST right. Charlie falls back heavy on his pillow and is out.
Half an hour later he's 88. Fuck! More juice.
"Charlie! Charlie, wake up. Here's that juice you wanted."
He sits up, his eyes still closed. He moves his lips and reaches blindly like he's playing an imaginary saxophone until we manage to navigate the juicebox straw into his mouth.
My wife will get up again and test him at 1 am and again at 3 am. Somewhere in between that or after that (it's all a haze), we'll get up again to change his clothes because he's soaking wet with pee because of all the juice we force-fed him.
7 am comes and my wife looks like a beaten up heroin addict. I do the honors.
"What is he?" she asks weakly.
"Not bad. 119," I say proudly.
"Huh," Susanne says. "Was a pretty good night."