I wake up in the night and the back of my left arm is irritated. Taped down against my skin is a small filament that measures the sugar in my interstitial fluid. This device is a medical marvel but at 2:30am the desire to rip it out is strong. I do it, knowing that within the next day I must recharge the transmitter and move the site anyhow. Lights bright in my bathroom, I pull out alcohol from the cabinet and lightly clean the slightly inflamed CGM site wondering how many spots like this will dot my body by the time the next tech comes out. Scar dots all over.

I’m up before the fam. Everyday I’m up before them, and now I contemplate where the next CGM site will be, rotating mentally from arm to arm to stomach (no), boob (giant no), and thighs. The company that manufactures my supplies doesn’t approve of the thigh, but it offers a lot of real estate. I also have to use this area for my once-a-month two-syringe stabbing for rheumatoid arthritis so, mindful of that unfun task, I swab with alcohol again, load up the sensor into a device, and click the button against my leg. I feel nothing.

I’m oddly proud of this process. The positioning, the taping, the looking for a green light, the applying of more tape. It was so hard to do at first that I would sweatily stand over a manual, flipping pages and breathing heavily before making the next move. As with any repetitious action, it got easier over time and today I only misplaced one piece of tape. I can now problem solve most issues on my own. And that I did this morning as my pump didn’t recognize the transmitter for awhile. I faithfully read users’ experiences with this system however. I troll a Facebook page daily, reading up on problems and solutions, and their wisdom (and folly) has kept me afloat. There’s an 800 number, a trainer’s phone number, an endocrinologist’s office also on standby, but I’d rather not call any of them if I can work it out. Today I succeed. Each success is like a little firework saying “I got this.”

I’m glad for those small fireworks because there’s so much I absolutely don’t got. For instance, the deeper I embrace medical technology equals my complete dependence on the company that sells me the parts. I play a game in my head where I whittle down my needs to the bare minimum. I could get by with insulin and a syringe and a glucometer. That’s the minimum. I’m far beyond that at the moment however; there are a lot of moving parts to my new bionic self. To get those parts, I must have great insurance and I must be involved in a lot of plastic and cardboard packaging. Why do I value independence so much? Why does it bother me that I rely so heavily on this one company and how they function? I think deep within my psyche I’m a survivalist, always looking to move freely and without damaging the land. Ha! It’s time to let that fantasy go, girl. I’m the opposite of a survivalist. In all those apocalyptic tv shows and movies? I’d just say “nah” and take off the blindfold or go hug a zombie or whatever. Type 1’s, even hopeful ones, are realists.

So now there’s a sensor and its accompanying transmitter taped down on my thigh. It’s Day One of the sensor—good for a week officially (and more than that unofficially if you’re savvy). Day One is nuts between transmitter re-charging time, a two-hour warm up time, multiple calibrations, and blood sugar checks. Reminder to self: turn off the pump’s audio during church. Last week I got a few nice alarms during prayer that I didn’t appreciate. I am grateful times a thousand for this technology, but I’m still coming to terms with it. I’m different because of it. I have a dedicated section of my brain to problem-solving all those alarms, and it’s intimately connected to the brain parts dedicated to the rest of diabetes. Basically, I have a mere 10% of my brain for the rest of life. So far so good. Despite all the challenges, every night as I sleep this new system charts something incredible on the screen of my pump: a flat line. We T1s joke that it’s the only medical flat line anyone actually wants to see. I sleep and my glucose sits between 100 and 120 all night long.

That never happened before.

This little system, so obnoxious with it’s alarms and unexpected moments of troubleshooting lets me fall asleep without being afraid of dropping into a low blood sugar and never waking up. I never even knew I was holding my breath with that fear until I used the pump to its fullest capacity at the start of December. Two months in and I am still marveling.

I’m dependent on insulin.
I’m dependent on my pump company.
I carry a bag everywhere I go.
And multiple sources of sugar are always nearby.
I don’t leave meals to chance.
I need to know how much exercise is involved in everything I do.

And yet, here I am. Dependently alive. Alive and happy to be so. Thank you, God.