I Have A Pump Now

(it only took FIVE FRAKKING HOURS of instruction)

Sorry, it’s not a real pump, it’s a fake one that uses saline – a saltwater solution – instead of insulin. For those of you confused, I have type one diabetes, meaning my pancreas doesn’t produce insulin, which is vital in moving glucose in the blood (that we get from eating food) to the body’s organs; without insulin, the high blood sugars damage my heart, liver, and kidneys, and my organs are starved of the glucose they need to operate, in a more effective one-two punch than the potential for the 2014 Houston Texans defensive line.

Now, I take injections of insulin throughout the day, to counteract the sugar coming in from meals and snacks, but this is a bit hit-and-miss; I get four injections a day, leading to four big insulin spikes a day and hours of little or no insulin, which is a bit of a bodge really. With the pump, a small amount of insulin is released throughout the day, like a real pancreas does, that reacts to minor fluctuations in my blood sugar levels caused by exercise and eating much more effectively than one-off injections. I also control the pump, so I can manually control my insulin levels, like my pancreas would do itself, if it wasn’t broken.

This is both a medical upgrade, a social one – as clunky injections are replaced by the magic of a wireless pod, concealed by clothing – and a practical one, as the pump is much more portable than injections, which have to be carried in a bag.

But right now I’m in a weird place; the saline pump will help me learn how to use a pump, but won’t have any influence over my biology because it doesn’t use insulin, so while I’m using the pump for the sake of practice, I still have to use ye olde injections to actually regulate my sugar levels, which is a phenomenon I’m calling Doublebetes, because it’s double-diabetes.

I suppose this is one of the teething problems I’ll have to get through so that my behaviour can more closely mimic that or an ordinary human being, as opposed to an evolutionary outcast kept alive exclusively by the sort of technological practises that could have so easily be deemed witchcraft back when humans were first figuring out what was ‘normal’ and what was ‘weird’. So I’m going to take this wireless piece of witchcraft, ram it into my stomach, and continue living as a person, functional B-cells or otherwise.

First, I just have to figure out how to change the batteries of the damn thing.


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