Tuesday, my husband and I took our son to insulin pump class. I have been interested in getting my son on a pump for a year, but my son wasn’t so sure. He already wears a CGM (continuous glucose monitor) and being attached to yet another medical device had little appeal. “I’ll feel like a cyborg” he quipped, and I wanted to respect his views. But we attended class nonetheless because the next one would not be held until September. We learned a lot at the class and my son was able to try out an infusion set to see what it would be like to wear a pump. He left feeling positive and quite open to the idea of getting a pump. But he still wasn’t 100% sold on the idea. That is, until last night.
Last night, while most people were warm and cozy in their beds, my son’s CGM alarm went off four times, requiring me to sleep walk to his room, check his BG and, during the last of the four treks, to treat a low blood glucose level. The first three alarms weren’t exactly false alarms–my son’s BG was under 100 mg/dL and was heading downward slowly but surely–but the BG wasn’t low enough to treat…yet. What stinks is that the first alarm sounded at 11:30 PM and the last, the one that required treatment, was at 4:15 AM. And I was utterly helpless in between, waiting for the inevitable, not wanting to treat too early and have his BG skyrocket afterwards, and not wanting to sleep too deeply, lest I miss an alarm, THE alarm, that would require intervention.
Nights like last night are exhausting and frustrating for both my son and me. Once insulin is dosed via syringe or pen, there’s no taking it back. However, if my son were on an insulin pump, I would have had some recourse in such a situation. I could have, at 11:30 PM, turned off the insulin drip for a half hour or so, thereby preventing my son’s BG from continuing to drop.
The night’s events renewed my sense of urgency in getting my son on an insulin pump. My son confessed this morning over breakfast that he, too, wished he were on a pump. I thought he had slept through it all, but he remembers quite clearly me shoving a straw in his mouth and demanding he take a few sips of milk. “I hate milk, you know,” he complained over a piece of toast and protein shake. “Call that lady and get me the Omnipod” he demanded. Happy to, my dds.