I’m in love with my new insulin pump. I just can’t stand my mother-in-law, the infusion set. The spaceship-shaped inserter makes me long for the elegant simplicity of injections. I think the needles in those inserters must be made of irony: injections hardly bothered me, but because I can’t see the needle in the inserter I find it intimidating. I tried looking at the needle before inserting, but that didn’t help. After I had finally convinced myself that the inserter needle was the same size as my syringe needles, I discovered that it was, in fact, bigger. As a result, I hesitate. Not for a few seconds or even for a few minutes. I hesitate an embarrassingly long time. And when I hesitate, sometimes the inserter fires in stages, resulting in a bent cannula and high blood sugar. When I was home for the Fourth of July, I had three bent cannulas in a row. Ew. Triple ew, actually.
To awkwardly extend and twist my relationship metaphor, I’m having serious second thoughts about my infusion set. I just don’t know if it’s “the one.” It’s not you, Animas Insets; it’s me. Actually, on second thought it’s definitely you.
Of course, when I took a deep breath and just squeezed the silly thing, I didn’t have any problems at all. No pain, no bent cannula, and minimal hesitation. Not so bad. Maybe it is just me after all.