Usually putting in my CGM sensor isn’t that big of a deal. Okay, I’ll admit it did take me about a year before I didn’t need to stop and psyche myself up before insertion because the needles is like a freaking whale harpoon and apparently even after 30+ years of diabetes jabs I’m still a baby. But by now, I’m over the harpoon fear and I don’t think anything of launching said harpoon directly into my . . . . blubber seems to be the correct word to carry out my whale harpoon metaphor. *sigh*
Last week I inserted a new CGM sensor right before leaving for Friends for Life. It was no big deal, until I pulled out the needle. Holy Thar She Blows . . . . blood squirted out like water from a blowhole!! I debated pulling the sensor, but the bleeding stopped so I attached the transmitter, taped the whole thing down with Tegaderm as usual, and that was that.
But that wasn’t actually that. Because somewhere along the way the bleeding started again. I got out of the shower one morning and saw a lot of blood beneath the Tegaderm. I debated pulling the sensor completely, but I didn’t pack a spare with me and Pete was nervous about me going sans CGM for the rest of our trip. I was a bit nervous too, considering I’d been having some pretty low lows without symptoms. Besides, the ugly bloody mess gave me the perfect excuse to opt out of a trip to the pool with Pete in the muggy unbearable Orlando heat . . . . . I was quite happy to nap in the air-conditioned room so my gruesome CGM didn’t scare any innocent children.
When we got home, the first thing I did was remove the icky sensor. No, wait, the first thing I did was snuggle my little cat for about an eon . . . . . but next was the yanking of the sensor. I was not prepared for a repeat Thar She Blows, but that’s what I got. I have never had a gusher like this one. I can usually tolerate the sight of my own blood, but this time I got a little dizzy as I watched the puddle form on the floor despite clapping my hand firmly over the spot where the sensor had been. Pete had to come help me because it was quite a while before I could take pressure off . . . . eerrrr . . . my blowhole(??). And I’m still sporting the ugly bruise on my leg.
Things I’ve learned from this experience? If a sensor gushes like a whale’s spout upon insertion, it’s probably best to take it out and try again. And when you blog about it, you might not want to pick an analogy that casts you in the part of the whale . . . . .