Superhero Strength
2005
15 years with diabetes.
The trip was a month in Europe with my 22-month-old son, a mix of work and play. I had concerns about how I would entertain this toddler for such a long flight. I had read on a parenting blog to wrap a toy for each hour of travel. I wrapped upwards of 14 different toys, some old and some new. The airline seated us in the bulkhead seats, providing more room for him to sit on the floor and play.
We were several hours into the flight. My son sat on my lap and had just unwrapped a wooden brainteaser puzzle. He liked these kinds of toys, the ones that challenged his mind. As he sat focused on manipulating the parts, I recognized my mouth was extremely dry. I let out a long sigh. I knew what this meant. Most people living with diabetes know this moment, the moment you become aware something is off. Since being the primary caregiver to my little one, At times I would forgot to dose for my meal. Eating time had changed for me as a Mom. In the beginning after having him, if I took my meal insulin at the recommended timing for stable glucose levels, about 15 minutes before eating, two issues became quickly apparent. My timing around when I would eat was typically off entirely. Pre-kid, I decided when I would eat. Post-kid, often the needs of the child took precedence. Also, an estimate of what I would consume before the child's needs required my attention, rarely matched my insulin dose. After several post-meal low glucose episodes once becoming a Mommy, I shifted when I took my insulin. Often I would choose to take it after my meal to solve these issues. I checked my pump; I had taken insulin for my last meal. Hmmm.
I sat there on the plane, toddler on my lap, him happy. I reached for my small handbag, grabbed my meter, and checked my blood sugar. The reading indicated my glucose levels were elevated. After a confirming re-check, I took the number on my glucose meter and entered it into my insulin pump for a correction dose. My pump automatically calculated the amount of insulin to deliver using a correction factor I program into the pump. For every 50 mg/dL my glucose level is above the target; my body requires 1 unit of additional insulin. I giggle even writing this sentence, as though that calculation is exact; it never is, but working from a baseline is a start. I hear the click, click, click on my insulin pump; it is delivering the dose.
Holding my toddler with one hand, I use my other to grab the water bottle. I chug a bunch of water as dehydration is a result of elevated glucose levels. I don't feel great. I'm tired. I was up late packing and getting things organized for being gone for a month. I know it will take several hours to get back into target with a stable glucose level.
The wooden brainteaser puzzle lasted perhaps 15-20 minutes. My son was getting tired, and after some milk, he fell asleep in my arms. It was peaceful. An hour or so had passed since I took my insulin, and I re-checked my glucose levels. Surprisingly, they had gone even higher than previously. This information didn't make sense. Living with diabetes prepares you to deal with the information first; making sense of it can be made later. I picked him up, grabbed my diabetes bag, and headed for the bathroom. He didn't want to be moved, and he began to cry. I knew I would need my hands. I returned to my seat and grabbed the Ergo baby carrier. As mothers do so well, I somehow wiggled and clicked and got him settled back into sleep mode and headed again for the bathroom.
Fitting into the small airplane bathroom felt like a live Tetris game, but I somehow fit with a sleeping baby and was able to place paper towels into the sink to allow for more space to spread out my d-gear. My insulin pump infusion set was located on the back of my hip, right at the top of my butt. Upon inspection, dried blood was visible under the infusion site. After a deep breath, I proceeded into a superhero-like action mode.
First, I grabbed a syringe from my diabetes bag and filled it with enough insulin to bring down my glucose levels. I took the injection into my thigh right through my jeans. I have never had an issue with drug use, and I mean no disrespect for anyone who has traveled that journey. But when I take an injection with this kind of haste, I feel desperate. Once I deliver the injection, I get a sense of calm as I will now be ok. I know it will take upwards of an hour to have a meaningful impact but just knowing brought me relief. I needed insulin, and I needed it quick. I hypothesized carrying my son for extended periods through the airport on one hip and handbags on my other wasn't conducive to subcutaneous cannulas on this day.
I removed my old infusion site from my hip. A geyser of blood followed. The cannula must have hit a blood vessel as the area quickly pooled with blood and began dripping onto my jeans. This one wasn't tender, just highly inconvenient. I grabbed paper towels from the dispenser next to the sink, and applied pressure. From experience, I know these take a few minutes to subside. I take a moment to look at my lovely son and his ability to remain asleep during the chaos.
Once the blood stopped, I refilled my insulin pump reservoir, primed the tubing, inserted the new infusion site on the other side of my hip, removed the needle, and primed the area. I made the executive decision to replace my insulin in my pump to rule out another variable, perhaps contributing to my elevated glucose levels. I monitored my glucose levels regularly for the trip duration while taking care of my son on the airplane flying across the Atlantic.
The wrapped gifts for my son kept him partially entertained on the flight. We both got some sleep at some point. I arrived in Geneva, Switzerland and, with him and luggage in tow, found our train to our next destination.
Diabetes is a disease that requires love 24/7/365. I had a lot to deal with that day already. It wasn't convenient to do an insulin pump change in the bathroom on an airplane while holding a sleeping toddler. I was tired. I felt like shit. I had every reason to be angry, frustrated, mad, and evidence to loathe my disease. Sitting on the train in Switzerland watching my son look out the window at the cows, his smiles, excited to see new things, I noticed the superhero on his t-shirt. I felt this strength in what I had accomplished already on our trip that very long day. Perhaps even superhero strength.
Super Logan is in the photo. He has been with my son since 2006, a gift from his preschool teacher Margee Yeager. He is wearing a red cape, as all superheroes should be.