As A Jaybird

1051853_45298648Naked.

Completely naked.

As a jaybird. (That’s a saying that I heard as a kid, and here’s the saying’s origin.)

It’s rare that I get to be completely naked. You know what I mean. No insertion set. No CGM sensor. Nothing extra to hold or unconsciously shield against doorway scrapes or zippers.

I change my insertion sets every three days and my CGM sensor every ::mumble mumble:: (as long as I can get it to last, but you know, officially it’s seven days…), so it’s not often that both attached to my body items are missing.

I had snuggled under the covers, having done my last BG check of the day and put my Dexcom receiver next to my head. As I slid my arm under my pillow, I felt the tape give way.

“&$#(*^*!”

It was a beautiful run with this sensor (not just for the beautiful graphs for the past weeks, but accurate from start to untimely demise). Nighttime lows are becoming less frequent (and less severe) for me, although I tend to skim the bottom line of my low alert if I’m not careful. Having the Dexcom off my body at night is foreign these days, but I was cozy and comfy and sleepy. The Kid woke me up at 3am. She acted as my backup CGM (she just didn’t know it) and I sucked a juice box down and woke up at 74.

Raise your hand if you feel strange too when you rip that insertion set off your body before a shower!

There’s a moment of “I have nothing foreign on or in my body.”

There’s a moment of “It’s just me.”

There’s a moment of “This is what it used to feel like all the time.”

Then there’s a moment of “I’m glad I have the tech that I do have.”

The stars align sometimes and I feel free from the physical burden of diabetes technology that keeps me safe and healthy and alive.

I also feel naked without them.

As a jaybird.

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