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Ah! It's a new day and my fasting blood sugar comes in at a sweet 103 mg/dl. "Not too shabby," I think, maybe feeling a bit arrogant.
I go about the business of the day - exercise, hop in the shower, dry the hair, feed the cat - get in the car for work. Drive 30 of the 45 minutes it takes to get there.
And then I think - caught in a wave of abject panic, "Where is my pump?"
I do the pat down, you know the one. I pat with flat, frantic hands at my bra, my hip, my waistband. And I know then exactly where my pump is. On the shelf in the bathroom, pumping insulin into oblivion instead of into me.
"Man." I think. I also think. Alright, maybe I say aloud - a number of colorful words not suitable for a family website.
And I head back toward home, calling the office to let them know that I've been delayed.
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Olivia told me the other day that she had a motor error on her pump. I didn't think much of it - she said it exited out automatically. The pump seemed to be delivering insulin ok - she had some highs and some lows, but no more than usual.
Tonight it did it again, so I called MiniMed. Turns out, I should have called the first time it happened because MiniMed doesn't like motor errors.
They are shipping her a new pump and it will be here on Monday morning, when, of course, I should be at preschool with the little girls. It's too bad I can't drop them off and come back, but with my luck, the UPS guy would show up while I was driving them to or fro.
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I guess I spoke too soon a few days ago when I declared my love of pumping, claiming it was so simple and my blood sugars were perfect.
While the machinery (and all the cool things it does) is still quite awesome, I forgot about good old human errors. Just a few hours after I posted about loving pumping, my blood sugar was high. Not terrible, 180, but still higher than my two hour goal of 120. I figured it was the meal--pepperoni bread made with whole wheat dough, which is essentially pizza--so I corrected and went along my business for the afternoon.
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