Pump Start Day, DEC. 18, 2008

Here is a funny pic of the twins, who picked thier "fanciest outfits" from the dress up bin, to go xmas tree shopping in, to honor the holiday spirit. I didn't have the heart to explain that the dresses might not go over well, so we just rolled with it. My kids don't care, thank god, about lame gender associations with clothing, and the like. This horrifies my mom, but what can I say? They are my kids. Love 'em, this is who they are!

Well, as many of you know, today is the day I have been waiting for, for so long! I bet you are looking for a super funny and glowing post! That is why I put the pic of the boys dressed up, above, to buoy up your spirits before reading our recent adventure.. into HELL.

(Well, not really Hell. It was just a tough day.)

I have been looking foward to it for so long, I am at a loss to all of my tearful moments, my panic attack during the training, and the “restimulation” of the worst feeling I have ever had, as"a Mom who is hurting my kid on purpose." I wasn't expecting that to come up.
Yes, he needs the insulin.
But OH.
It sucks to watch him struggle, cry, and finally turn to terror and beg me NOT to hurt him.
But I’m getting ahead of myself, the class itself was fine, and Logan spent it showing 11 year olds how to win the levels on Lego Star Wars in the “sibling playroom”.

The class was done very well; an organized group training, followed by individual trainings from a rep from our chosen pump manufacturer. We had the Omni pod rep, and we were feeling pretty great. A bit overloaded with info, but psyched.
Then the first girl in the room, with her family, got her pump attached. Logan was still waiting in the playroom (thank GOD) but as she wailed, begged, shrieked and then pleaded over and over for them to stop... I felt the BIG BAD DARK DOOR of FEAR open in my chest. “I remember this”… a voice in my head said. “This is where you do what to have to do, to keep your kid alive and well. You are the grown up who has to absorb all that raw emotion, all the stress of change, the rejection of the scenario, or just his rejection of us personally.” I know Logan well enough to know, he will need to rid himself of the demons of his fear and powerlessness.

This is not a door I like.
I like a hobbit door, sweet, round, full of silliness- like the snowball fight we had last night, or the sledding “as a family” all crunched up on one sled. (It was awesome!)
But I hadn’t realized there were still unpacked boxes of fear rejection failure, guilt and my own needle phobia/terror... Just lurking. Waiting behind the dark door that cracked open when the first little girl started to scream and beg.
Now why they have all these families do this in one big room, it’s beyond me. I suppose a lack of space, or something.
So Jan, our Omni pod trainer, says brightly “O.K! Shall we go get Logan from the playroom, and do this thing? I think we are ready!”
Jer and I: (hesitant but eager, even over the crying around us) “Sure! “
So I learn how to fill the pod with three days worth of insulin, and create a sterile zone for pod changes..while Jer fetches Logan. In he comes, a bounce in his step, and a big ‘ole smile.
You couldn’t ASK for more cooperation.. he picked a site, (his upper bum) he yanked down his pants and undies and said, “Let’s do it!” We got the pod attached, and then came the moment when we had to push “start” on the remote, for the needle and cannula to be inserted under his skin. The needle retracts back up into the pod, and leaves a thin, clear, flexible tubing about 1 inch long under the skin.
This “poke” was a lot worse than Logan expected. Or we expected. Or the baby Jesus himself promised me would NOT BE PAINFUL to Logan.
So thus began the descent.
It was painful.
It hurt so bad he kicked and writhed, turned beet red, cried, beat up his stuffed animals and howled. All of my prior firm resolve just fled the room like a puff of smoke, and suddenly, there I am, body hugging my struggling child, who is begging me to ‘take it off, stop, please IT HURTSSS” At this point the rep said something about his blood backing up into the catheter, and that was the last word I heard. I shut down, I yanked up Logan’s shirt, and I gave him gentle touches on his back and just hummed to him. I couldn’t deal in that moment.. no, not at all. Of course, I have the luxury of being a wuss when Jer is around, strong and semi-okay. My psyche knows this, and picks it’s time to check the fuck out if need be. ( It needed be.)
Haze of emotion, flashbacks, and a flurry of papers, and we are on our way. Terrified, I realized the hospital is just a scary maze of larger than life clowns, zoo animals and trains.. all blazing their glory across every surface. I am lost, Jer is irritated, we are trying to find the gift shop and I am still NOT in my body.
Logan, by this time, is “over it”.

(Here is the Pump, all decorated up for Christmas.. a la Logan and some stickers.)

Skipping, chatting, pushing elevator buttons, saying his pump “Hurts but I am okay with it” which I translate to mean he can feel it on his skin. Logan is extremely sensitive to touch, so I know it’s going to bug him some.
As we head to the cafeteria, having decided we need to check the second gift shop too, but after food. We join a mish mash of people, kids, doctors, and trainers, all in a mad dash to get their salads, soups and chicken strips before having to return to work.
Up. Creeps. Panic.
My coat is too hot. Too long. My scarf is chocking me, I can’t balance the water on my tray. Where is Logan? I seriously need to get the hell out of here, stat.
We pay and sit through a tense lunch, where Jer hisses “What is WRONG with you??” under his breath, to which I artfully respond.. “WHATEVER,DUDE”
I’m not sure where I was going with that, but it felt mean at the time, and it sounded tough.
By now I had decided that since Jer was not having as bad of a reaction as me, he was probably Satan himself.
I saw horn marks.
I could feel the evil dripping off of him, as he confidently and deftly manipulated the insulin delivering device, and slipped in its carrying case and put it in his pocket, LIKE HE’D BEEN DOING IT HIS WHOLE LIFE!! .
Glowering doesn’t begin to cover the look on my face as I eat my salad and meatballs.
I was trying to emanate pure hate. Of what, I didn’t’ care. Maybe the yonder fish tank. I wanted to steam in my own blend of confusion and misguided blame, just for a while. Because really, Diabetes is nobody’s fault. You can’t get mad at it very well, I just don’t feel like it responds well enough. So if I can figure out a way to get mad at JER… well there’s a fight I can sink my teeth into. A handy focus for my newly acquired skills in the dark arts of hate that I am practicing while eating my salad.
Maybe I will become a witch, I muse, while eating edemame, and put some spell on him where he is like, the town fool. And I CRUSH HIM WITH SOME KIND OF.. I don’t know! REJECTION!! Then, I can make my horse talk! AND…. My fantasy petering out, I kind of notice that Jer is struggling too. Logan kicks up a fuss about his cookie, and we have to leave.

At City Peoples, I started to come around when I spotted some really cute xmas decorations. I grudgingly took a deep breath when I was staring at the glitter encrusted snowflake ornaments, and it came out in a relaxed, blissful sigh.
It was working.
Shopping is a wonderful tool for healing.
I purchased a mini tin of “Obama mints”.. There. Back on track.
Obama said we are going to be okay, and I am going to believe it. Jer holds out his arm to me in the parking lot, a gesture of love and support, and Logan pipes up with "I love you guys, and I do love my pump." My dreams of vodoo dolls in shapes of Jeremy fade, as I realize we are all just doing the best we can in each moment that is handed to us.
Mints in pocket, we head home through the snow to start a new chapter of our adventures in this land of Di-ba-leet-eez... the adventure of pumping insulin.