I am snuggled safe in my bed, with my insulin pump tucked up against me, working just fine.  I wish I was aware of this.

But I'm not. 

I am in the living room of my Aunty Dot's house in Weymouth, MA.  The purple seventies style shag carpeting growing up between my toes like grass.  I am leaning on a plaid recliner.  My brothers are there.  We're kids.  And we're with my dad.  We're eating chinese food.  Only my chinese food is pink.  If I explained all of the things wrong with the above scenario (for example: my Aunty Dot has been gone a long time and she never actually had a shag carpet), the pink chinese food would seem perfectly fine. .

Amazingly, it's 1970-something and I have an insulin pump.  A gray cozmo.  I take it out to bolus for the food I've just eaten.  But for some reason known only to my subconcious, I unscrew the tubing from the top of the canula, just to be sure that it's working properly.   And that's when all hell breaks loose.  Insulin pours like a faucet turned-on full force from the top of the pump.  It squirts me in the face and flows onto my food before I can do much of anything.  And the panic rises in my chest..

"No."  I say out loud.  "Aw, come on."  And try pluggin the leak with my thumb.  But to no avail.  The insulin continues to pour.  I try pulling out the battery.  That doesn't work either.  .

Someone says "Is it broken?".

"Ah, yeah, it's broken."  I snap back.

I look at the screen which fits in the palm of my hand, but seems as large as the screen of my laptop.  There are some choices on the screen that will supposedly help me determine what the problem is.  I scroll around, picking the one that best describes the flood - something like "Insulin leaks - won't stop."  I'm hoping there will be an easy solution here.  "CALL COMPANY FOR REPLACEMENT PUMP"  it declares.

And I throw the pump across the living room and into the fireplace, while I start to cry.  

"What is wrong with you?" Says my father...

I babble something about "No syringes, no insulin, damned pump!"  The tears streaming down my face.  My mind races.  Maybe we can get to a drugstore before they all close.  Maybe I got some insulin before it started pouring out.  Maybe I'm low, why am I so panicked?

And before waking, safe and sound in my bed, with my pump tucked up against my hip, I feel helpless.  I feel as if I am a slave to diabetes and its tools.  I feel angry and frustrated.  And I wish - again - that it wasn't so.

This is the kind of diabetes nightmare I have on occasion.  The kind that leave me sitting up beside Bob, shaking, my face covered in tears, feeling sick to my stomach.  The kind that leave me feeling reminded (vividly) of the responsibility even after I realize that all is well.

What kind of diabetes nightmares do you have?