Insulin Pump Woes

Just before Joseph left school on Friday, his blood sugar was 118. In the 45 minutes he sat on the bus, and the five minutes it took for him to walk the half block from the stop to our house, his blood sugar dropped 81 points-- to 37.

Of course, we did not discover this fact immediately.

"Mom!" Joseph called out as he walked in the door. "My pump alarm went off twice on the way home from the bus stop. It said ‘Warning, No Prime.’"

"Okay, let's take a look."

"Oh, and mom, I think I might be a little low."

While Joseph washed his hands and prepped the meter, I looked over his pump. According to the history menu, we had primed it the previous night (when we changed his set). Okay then. To be on the safe side, I re-primed. When I turned to give Joseph his pump, a beep sounded from his meter indicating that his sugar had been tested.

"Wow . . . I guess I'm really low."

So, what is it with 37? We've seen this number three times lately (in and among some 40s and 50s). It's like, if he's gonna go way low, it's gonna be a 37.

I don't know.

Anyhow, we treated the low, and Joseph was back up in 15 minutes.

Needless to say, the thought of him walking home alone at 37 was more than a little frightening.

Something else bothered me too. Something that's been needling at me for two weeks. On August 19th, when we'd gone through airport security in Spokane, a security person had actually tried, too late, to prevent Joseph from passing through the security screen. Strangely, he said it was "for his own protection." That's never happened when we've flown before.

Since that day, Joseph has had many precipitous blood sugar drops, despite pulling back his insulin to pre-vacation levels. I had assumed the lows were due to the honeymoon factor-- that his pancreas was simply spitting out higher levels of insulin. But maybe I was wrong.

You see, for one day, our first day back from vacation, the pump recorded Joseph's bolus and basal doses in the previous day's history. In other words, for one day, it experienced an odd malfunction. After I reset the date and time, it worked fine, but still . . .

So, because I was feeling upset, and fearful that his pump might not be functioning properly, I called Animas. After explaining the above to a pump support person, she said, "I can really sympathize with your concerns, but it sounds like the pump experienced what I like to call a 'hiccup.' If it was bumped or dropped, sometimes it loses its prime, and just needs to be re-primed. "

A hiccup. Hmmmm.

"You know I think I'd feel more reassured if we were just talking about a toaster. But we're not. This is my son. And this is his insulin pump."

"Yes, I know. And I understand. But they're really picky about the reasons for sending out a new pump. This really isn't a good enough reason."

"Okay then, " I said curtly, as the anger that had been churning in my stomach finally reached the boiling point, "what is your name?" And then rapidly, "Because I just want to make sure I know with whom I've spoken, in case we need to follow up here. In case there's a problem."

After giving me her name, "um . . . well you know, I was just thinking . . . that um, we might want to do this. Well, it's not something we normally do, but it might be a good idea here. I can send you a loaner pump so that you're not without a backup over the long holiday weekend . . . "

The loaner pump never came.

Fast forward to this morning. I went downstairs to make Joseph his lunch for school, and to go over his overnight sugars with Ryan. As I walked in the kitchen, Ryan was there waiting. And he did not look happy.

"Joseph's pump display is fading," he said, in a defeated tone.

I sat down.

"What?!"

"The left side of the display is gone. I don't know if what's left will make it through the day. He can see enough of the screen to do boluses, but I don't know for how long . . . "

Violently, I grabbed the phone.

Joseph's new insulin pump – his third in seven months – will be here tomorrow.