When I started using an insulin pump and a Dexcom CGM – and even when I switched to a more modern glucometer – I never really anticipated what other people might have to say about these devices. Yes, I figured that people would notice them, and they’d probably occasionally stare out of curiosity (and sometimes, rudeness).
But I never thought that people would think that they were anything but medical devices. I shouldn’t have so much faith in people.
Over the years, I’ve noticed a pattern when it comes to what people think my devices are…here are the top three things that my various gadgets are mistaken for:
My OmniPod PDM is typically confused for a beeper. A freakin’ beeper? Helloooo, we’re not in the 90s anymore! Honestly, I can’t even remember the last time that I saw a legitimate beeper/pager device…so it really cracks me up when people ask if I’m carrying around such an old-school piece of technology.
My pods and Dexcom sensors look like cigarette patches, apparently. The first time someone asked me if my pod was a cigarette patch, I asked them, “Do I look like a smoker?” (Not that smokers are supposed to “look” a certain way.) I was more amused than offended, but also kind of awestruck that somebody would confuse a patch that from my understanding is fairly discreet/sleek in design with a lumpy pod or sensor.
My glucometer seemingly resembles an iPod nano. Once, a person asked me why I was wiping blood on my iPod. I wish I was kidding. I’ll allow that my Verio IQ meter and iPod nano are similar in shape and size, but the similarities end there.
Truth be told, it’s actually pretty funny when people think my devices are something other than medical gadgets. And whenever a comment is made and I have to gently tell whoever it is that they’re incorrect in their assumptions about the device(s), I can almost always guarantee that they will end up feeling foolish for what they said. I almost feel bad, but…not really. For the most part, at least I can say that all’s well that ends well, because these interactions usually lead to a valuable teaching moment that the other person won’t forget.
And clearly, I won’t ever forget these moments, either!
Here’s another previously published blog post from October 5, 2018. What nugget of useful information can you find here? Well, it all has to do with trusting your gut when it comes to an insulin pod that’s dangling precariously off your body and the subsequent paranoia that happens when you’re not sure whether it’ll still work properly…
I’d only been wearing my new pod for about an hour when my arm brushed up in exactly the wrong way against a chair. Riiiiiiiip!
My pod tore right off – not from my arm, but it lifted up from the adhesive that it was glued to and dangled precariously from the still-intact adhesive stuck to my arm.
After cursing loudly, I asked my mother for her opinion. I wanted to know if she could see the cannula, because that was the component that made me most concerned. As long as the cannula was still stuck under my skin and delivering insulin, it shouldn’t matter that my pod was a little loose – right?
She tried to peek under and around my site, but it was virtually impossible to tell whether the cannula was where it should be. I thought about it for a few moments, and decided that it would be wise to just change out the pod. The notion of tossing one that had only been in use for an hour was unappealing to me, but I know myself pretty well, and I know for damn sure that I would’ve been super paranoid about the pod functioning properly for the following 72 hours. I also figured that it couldn’t hurt to try calling Insulet to see if they would replace the kaput pod. The odds were slim, but why not try?
So after I changed my pod, I dialed up Insulet and described the situation to the customer support representative. And…I got a replacement! I was pleasantly surprised by the rep’s empathy towards the situation and how easy it was to get my replacement. She reaffirmed that I did the right thing, noting that if she’d been in my shoes, she would have called it in, too. It goes to show that when in doubt, change the pod – and don’t hesitate to call for a replacement.
12:55 A.M. I wake up from a deep sleep to the sound of my CGM going off: My blood sugar had just gone above my high threshold. I silence the alert and reach for my PDM so I can give myself a small correction bolus. But it’s not in its usual spot on my nightstand.
12:56 A.M. I tumble out of bed and wander into the living room. Surely, I left my PDM somewhere out here. I dig through my backpack, check the coffee table, and look for it on the counter tops in the kitchen. I can’t find it in any of those locations.
12:57 – 1:00 A.M. I’m searching all over the apartment, like a mad woman now. I’m checking in between couch cushions, inside cabinets, and underneath furniture at a lightning-fast pace. My heart is beating rapidly as I wonder where the actual eff my PDM could be. I shake my sleep and bemused partner awake, fill him in on the situation, and enlist his help in the search. He only has a vague idea of what the PDM looks like (I have too many devices for him to be able to distinguish the difference between them) and isn’t much help, but he does offer a tip: Check the car.
1:00 – 1:03 A.M. I run down four flights of stairs and into the parking garage where my boyfriend’s car is parked. Maybe it fell out of my backpack on our way to trivia at a restaurant earlier that evening? I rifled through the passenger seat, checking underneath it and even in the backseat, but no luck.
1:04 – 1:07 A.M. I practically break out in a cold, panicked sweat as I contemplate the possibility that I took my PDM out at the restaurant and it’s still there. I knew for a fact that I hadn’t used my PDM for anything since I’d eaten dinner hours before at the apartment, but it was worth calling the restaurant to see if they’d found anything. I called, knowing the odds of anyone answering at this hour were slim…only to be proven wrong! I was relieved when a man picked up, and I hastily explained to him the situation. I provided a description of my PDM and waited with bated breath while he searched the area in which my team had sat to play trivia.
1:08 – 1:11 A.M. Crushing disappointment crashes over me like stormy ocean waves as the man tells me, after a prolonged search, that he couldn’t find my PDM. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Numbly, I recited my contact information over the phone, thanked him for his time, and hung up. I was beyond panicked now. My boyfriend was asking me about a contingency plan and all I wanted to do was scream at him, my OmniPod IS my contingency plan!!!!!!!! I start formulating a plan to drive to the restaurant first thing in the morning to search the premises myself, as well as call Insulet and beg them to overnight a new PDM. Maybe I would just have to stick to manual injections the entire next day, though I had no idea what I’d do about long-acting insulin since the Lantus sitting in the fridge expired months ago.
1:12 – 1:14 A.M. My mind was in overdrive and I refused to give up right then and there. I was absolutely certain that I hadn’t taken my PDM out since my dinnertime bolus. But since I did go out that night, there were really only one of three places it could be: the apartment, the car, or the restaurant. It definitely wasn’t in the apartment, which I’d searched so thoroughly that it looked like a tornado had whipped through it, but it was worth searching the car one more time…just to be positive.
1:15 A.M. I make my way back down to the parking garage. I turn my cell phone’s flashlight feature on and scan the seats carefully, peeking under and over and around every possible surface…I didn’t see a damn thing. Defeated, I turned to close the passenger side door when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a gray object wedged between the door would be when it was slammed shut and the seat. It was practically camouflaged, that’s how well it blended with its surroundings. It was…MY PDM!!!
“Relieved” doesn’t begin to describe how I felt. “Elated”, “victorious”, and “exhausted” are all better descriptors. I ran back up to the apartment, told my boyfriend, and breathed a deep sigh, glad that the entire episode had a happy ending. We settled back into bed, though I lay there staring at the ceiling for a long time afterwards. If I hadn’t double checked the car, my boyfriend would’ve just driven off to work the next day, both of us oblivious to the fact that my PDM was there. I would’ve wasted time trying to track it down at the restaurant and calling Insulet, and there probably would’ve been a lot more frustration felt and tears shed.
But thank goodness it didn’t come down to that.
The end results of the missing PDM episode was 1) losing a decent night of sleep, 2) feeling an urgent need to establish a better contingency plan, and 3) feeling an even more pressing need to install a tracking device in that damn PDM, stat…because that thing is just too easy to lose.
The other day, I nearly LOST IT on the phone with an Insulet representative.
I’m not proud of it, but I also was not sure why this particular phone call was taking so long.
I was calling in regards to a pod failure – something I’ve had to call and report many times before, so I’ve become very familiar with how the usual phone call goes:
Me: Hi, I’m calling to report a pod failure.
Insulet Representative: Okay, could I have your first and last name, date of birth, and shipping address?
*I provide the information.*
Insulet Rep.: Thank you for verifying your information. Could you please tell me about the pod failure incident?
*I explain what happened with the pod failure. The rep will ask me a series of follow-up questions, such as where was I wearing the pod? How long was I wearing it before the failure? Did I notice anything unusual about the pod activation? Did I need to seek medical assistance for the pod failure? Typically, this is the list of questions I’m asked, and then I finish my call with the rep.*
Insulet Rep.: We’ll be sending you a replacement pod. We will send it via standard shipping, meaning it will arrive in 7-10 business days. Is that okay with you?
Me: Yes, thank you.
*And then after exchanging pleasantries, the call is over. Standard running time on the phone is about 6-7 minutes. No big deal at all.*
So imagine my surprise, and growing ire, when a phone call that should’ve only lasted a few minutes stretched just beyond 20 minutes.
I still don’t really know why it lasted so long. The agent I spoke with was asking me WAYYYY to many follow-up questions regarding the pod failure, and what made it especially irritating was that I’d already explained every single detail surrounding the whole incident. It was like she was questioning my reporting abilities. Either that or she was really slow with taking notes, and maybe I was talking too fast for her? Who knows. All I knew was that I was calling in the middle of my workday, and I had to get this wrapped up ASAP so I could turn my full attention back to my work.
That said, it was difficult to stay patient, and I probably slipped up toward the end of the call. Actually, I totally slipped up, because my answers to her questions became very curt in my attempt to expedite the call…which didn’t work, by the way.
I felt a tinge of guilt for my brusqueness. After all, I used to be a customer service representative who spoke with her fair share of irate customers. I knew it would be appreciated if I at least said a sincere thank you before hanging up. So I did, and even though I wasn’t exactly proud of myself for losing my cool, I was glad that I could turn my attitude around in the end.
It’s kind of a metaphor for how I’m trying to handle my diabetes these days…allow myself to feel how I want to feel, but then go about handling whatever situation is in my way using a level head. Because that’s how to make things happen, IMHO.
A long, unfaltering, high-pitched beep was emitting from something in the pharmacy. I saw heads turn in the vicinity as fellow customers, as well as myself, tried to identify the source of the noise.
I gulped. Could it be coming from me? Did my OmniPod fail right then and there as I was picking up my prescription?
I anxiously dug through my backpack, my fingers searching for my PDM, until they met it. I pulled it out and prayed that all was well, that my pod was working as it should be.
A quick press of a button, and…I confirmed that my PDM and pod were, indeed, working properly. Simultaneously relieved yet still bemused by the noise, I put my PDM away while I scanned the area around me, determined to find out what was making a sound so similar to my OmniPod.
What was the culprit? Well, you know those little plastic boxes that drugstores encase things like razor blades in, to prevent theft? That was the thing emitting a blaring beep, in this situation. And like I’d initially assumed, it was coming from me: I was holding one of those boxes in my hand (because I was about to purchase razor blade replacement cartridges), and I’d unintentionally obscured the sensor that triggers the alarm to go off.
While it was nice to know that my insulin pump hadn’t failed on me, it was still somewhat embarrassing to discover that I was the cause of the ruckus, anyways.
Lesson learned: Keep those protective plastic cases in plain sight so I won’t have to misidentify what the beep is coming from.
After four years filled with various highs and lows, I had to say farewell to the PDM that was virtually glued to my side, working with me to manage my diabetes.
Our parting was inevitable. Around the Fourth of July, I noticed that the battery symbol on my PDM was low, meaning that the triple A batteries within needed to be replaced. I put fresh ones in, but upon the system restarting, the PDM asked me to input information such as the date and time. And then…the pod I’d been wearing for less than 24 hours beeped loudly, signaling to me that it had failed. I figured it must be due to the battery replacement, but this definitely wasn’t normal. So I did some investigating.
I consulted with my mom and she told me that this was a sign that the internal battery within the PDM, the one that cannot be replaced, was starting to run out of life. She advised me to call Insulet to get a replacement PDM. That’s how I discovered that the warranty on my PDM actually expired in January of this year, and that I’d have to pay a nice chunk of change (about $500) to get a new one, under warranty.
It was a painful process, as I’ve detailed in recent posts, but I finally did get my new PDM. Fortunately, it only cost me $100 (I guess I should be glad I met my $900 deductible so quickly).
I waited to power up the new system until I was due to change a pod – didn’t want to waste a pod if I didn’t have to – and I’m really glad I set aside a half hour or so in order to input all of my settings into the new PDM. It was a bit stressful, really, and just as I was cursing the PDM for not automatically knowing all of this stuff about me, it was set up and ready for action.
It was a strange feeling, disconnecting myself from that PDM I’d relied on for four years. It sounds dramatic, I know, but that PDM and I have been through a lot. As I powered down the system, I had a little moment and felt gratitude toward the PDM (and I suppose all of its little quirks). I put it inside the box that the new one arrived in, and the old PDM now sits in my diabetes supplies cabinet, neatly tucked away so in the event that I need to consult it for old information or data, I can.
And now I can say I’ve got a shiny, pristine PDM that’s under warranty, which I must admit is a relief.
“Yo, I don’t mean to be rude, but what’s that thing on your arm? Looks pretty cool.”
I turned around to face the stranger who was looking at me and asking me this question. It was well after midnight and we were on the rooftop of a fairly crowded bar. It was a balmy, summery night and I was enjoying the atmosphere with my boyfriend and my best friend. I’d had a few drinks over the course of the night, but judging by the state of everyone else on the rooftop, I was probably more sober than most of them.
I could’ve answered his question in a scolding manner; it wasn’t a “thing”, it was a device that keeps me alive.
I could’ve totally dismissed him and told him to mind his own beeswax, because really, it is sort of rude to point out something on another person’s body.
I could’ve lied and told him it was something that it’s not to get him to stop bothering me.
I could’ve launched into an educational breakdown of what an insulin pump is and why my OmniPod looks the way it does.
I could’ve done any number of things, but instead I decided to say, “Oh, this is my insulin pump. I’ve got it decorated right now with a picture of a lighthouse because I like adding some style to it.” I smiled at him as a way of reassuring him that I really didn’t care that he was asking me, because I didn’t.
My straightforward answer seemed to please this random man. He told me again that he thought it was cool, and then we chatted a bit about where the lighthouse is and discovered we both have a connection to Massachusetts. Within a few brief moments, the conversation was over as we went our separate ways.
It was a perfectly harmless interaction that could’ve went a number of different ways, but to me, it’s all about context. This guy was just asking out of curiosity, and I truly don’t think he was trying to be rude about it. So I answered his question succinctly but good-naturedly, because I felt that was the only way to go about it in this busy party environment. Plus, let’s be real here…had I delved into a discussion about diabetes and devices, this drunk man probably wouldn’t have digested a single detail of my description. (Ahh, I love alliteration.) And another important point? He was damn right, my pump did look cool because of the lighthouse sticker!
But man, how much simpler it’d’ve been if I’d just been wearing my “THIS IS MY INSULIN PUMP” sticker on my pod that night.