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It’ll Pass

One of my favorite book series is Anne of Green Gables. In one of the later books after Anne is married she befriends the old sailor Captain Jim that runs the local lighthouse. Captain Jim is a lovably simple fella, but sometimes he says things deeply profound. One of those quotes, which I am sure I will butcher, has stuck with me and always comes to mind on particularly rough days. He said something along the lines of “Even on those days when I’m hurtin real bad I feel sorta cheerful cus I know sooner or later it’ll pass.”

Sooner or later it’ll pass.

Captain Jim would know–he weathered plenty of storms in his time as a sailor.

So far in my life I’ve always found this to be true. All the pain I’ve felt–migraines, broken bones, surgeries, sprains, strains, infections, gallbladder attacks, unbearable cramps, gastroparesis, depression–no matter what the pain or the cause of it, always it has passed.

Sometimes in the moment of extreme pain you can’t imagine it ever will. It seems it will last forever–that there never has been and never will be anything except this all-encompassing pain. Hundreds of times I’ve felt like I couldn’t make it til it passed, I couldn’t handle one more second of pain. Somehow I always did. Always do. And then eventually it always eases. Always passes.

I’ve been thinking about that with this cough. I’ve already been sick for more than a month. It seems so long and yet it could last for much longer still.

At the absolute worst point–when the coughing fits came about 40-50 times a day and each one left me gasping, choking, crying and each cough was agony to my ribs–I felt then I couldn’t handle it. Each time I felt like I couldn’t take even one more coughing fit. I wondered how I was supposed to keep going with my classes–or at all really. Each of the jabillion times I woke up in the night to cough and choke and choke and cough one thought kept going through my mind. This Sucks.

But each time I handled just one more coughing fit. One more day. One more night.

And then this past week something awesome happened. All the sudden it started to ease. Coughing fits were less intense. I stopped needing my handy vomit bags so much. I felt like eating more (something about regularly coughing up part of whatever you last ate makes it not very appealing…). Then coughing fits came less frequently. Somehow by the middle of the week I could go an hour, or two even without a single fit! Suddenly I could go to all of my classes and it was hard, but doable. Without even realizing it at first I had made it through the worst and it started to ease.

Believe it or not, it looks like even whooping cough passes. And it might even do so before the hundred day mark!

So head up, feet forward and be a little cheerful, cus sooner or later it’ll pass.

A Baby Disease Busted My Rib

Ok so remember how I said I had a bad case of bronchitis and then disappeared a couple weeks ago? Well it turns out I did not have bronchitis. I do almost definitely have whooping cough.

Technically the swab results from my seven hour stop off at the ER this past Wednesday

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A rare action shot of an ER patient hoping that the footsteps she hears is someone coming to tell her something useful. Also yes I’m doing hw. French.

haven’t come back yet, but my symptoms are dead on AND there has been a verified case of whooping cough at my school. Add to that my incompetent immune system that doesn’t gain immunity from vacccines annndddd. Boom. You’ve got a twenty-two-year-old with a full-blown case of whooping cough.

From the very first week of school there’s been a bad “cold” going around. I’m thinking that really, most people have had a watered-down case of whooping cough. But luckily for me, other zebras and new-borns, you don’t need to have a full case of whooping cough to give the full-blown thing to someone else.

So what does a full-blown case of whooping cough look like in an adult?

Well first you get a “cold.” It’s really not even that bad of a cold. Then after about a week you start getting a nagging cough. That gets worse for a couple weeks until you find yourself having anywhere from 15-50 coughing fits a day that are so intense you throw up and gasp for air as seemingly infinite amounts of sticky mucus obscure your airways. (In my case the very worst of the attacks only lasted for a little over a week.) Then things get just a little better. Your coughing fits are less frequent. You aren’t choking, gasping and throwing up quite so much when you cough. You stop feeling like you’re going to black out with each coughing fit. That’s where I’m at now. Apparently this bit can last anywhere from 2-10 weeks.

Oh yeah and I forgot to mention–you might cough so hard that you break, bruise or dislocate a rib or so. It freakin hurts, but don’t worry there’s not much they can do about it.

That’s maybe the worst thing about whooping cough–there’s almost nothing that can be done. If caught early enough a course of antibiotics can lessen the severity of the case, but otherwise you basically just have to ride it out.

In China whooping cough is known as the 100 days cough, because it often lasts for three months or longer. So I pulled out my calendar and counted 100 days from the day I got sick. According to Chinese tradition I should be better by December 19th, give or take a few days. I have no idea why I thought that would help. I guess I can start a count down or something. At this point I’m at least a month in so… only 70 more days to go!

This is definitely not how I wanted to start off the semester. Or finish it… But it is what it is. It’s not going to make for the smoothest semester, that’s for sure, but I’ll do my best. And that includes making a sincere effort not to vomit or pass out in class 😉

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We swiped a bunch of the ER vomit bags so we could feel like our trip hadn’t been a total waste. I carry one around everywhere to catch whatever comes up during a coughing fit.

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Doing the nebulizer. This thing is almost as old as I am and it’s still kickin! We call it the Darth Vader machine.

I Earned My Stripes with a New Zebra Record (Or Two)

Friday at , at long last, I got my Ig meds and was able to do an infusion. It had been exactly three weeks since my last infusion, beating out my previous record of time-without-an-infusion (since I’ve started infusions that is) by several days. It’s been a long three weeks.

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Had to celebrate the end of the nightmare with some Fro Yo!

Amazingly, I did not get seriously sick or get an infection this time. My previous record of two-and-a-half weeks without an infusion got me a horrible gi infection and a partially paralyzed stomach. So my family and I had good reason to be a bit worried this time, but even with classes starting and sickness already going around campus I managed to avoid any great catastrophe…

Friday night I actually set another record–the longest it has ever taken me to do a sub-q infusion. It was my first infusion of Gamunex-C (I had been on Gammagard, Aetna made me switch).

At the historic event Thursday of at last being able to set up my shipment, the nurse informed me that the rate tubing I’ve been using with Gammagard is off-label for Gamunex and so I have to use a different tubing and discard my old ones (I got to be honest this is very unlikely to happen). If you’re wondering what the difference between F900 rate tubing and 120 rate tubing is, it’s just a difference of about six inches and 2 hours. Normally I infuse (or did infuse) two 50ml syringes and each syringe takes about 30 minutes. Add in a short break in between syringes to discourage leaking and my entire infusion took 1.5 hours (not counting set up). Friday it took 1.5 hours PER SYRINGE. If you’re keeping up with my extremely complicated math, you’ll know that means it took 3 hours to infuse Friday!

Now I know what you’re thinking–shouldn’t I just be grateful to have anything to infuse? Well I am. I super duper am. But nonetheless I feel it necessary to be true to human nature and find SOMETHING to whine about, no matter how small.

How long it took is really my only complaint with the new med. Well that and I had the exact same side effects from Gamunex that I had when I infused Gammagard at twice the rate. Otherwise the only thing wrong with Gamunex-C is that it is a change–a change from a med I was very happy on and a routine I was accustomed to. But oh well. Life goes on.

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The new med!

What To Do When You Can’t Get Your Ig Meds

I apologize for not posting last week. The beginning of classes combined with Aetna drama has made for some significant insanity.

As of Friday I’ve gone two weeks without an infusion. This is not the first time that insurance problems have caused a gap in my Ig treatment. Actually it is the third time in 3.5 years of treatment, so if my experience is any indication, it’s hardly a rare occurrence. So what do you do when you run into insurance woes and experience a gap in treatment?

1) You freak out.
tumblr_neiak7IgW71svfqeco1_500If you don’t have PI you can’t fully understand how terrifying it is to go without Ig treatment, but let me try to help you: imagine that everyone is born with a car, but you were only born with half of one. Most of the time you have a supplemental second half that, though not as good as a regular car, allows your car to function. Now let’s say your car insurance hasn’t re-approved your supplemental second half, so it is taken away temporarily. Do you know what half a car is good for? Nothing. That’s what. It can’t drive. It can’t even keep out the rain. Right now I’m driving in half a car (so by “driving” I mean just sitting there hopelessly. But I get lost in the metaphor).

 

2) You prepare for battle.IMG_0002

Ok freaking out time is over. Now it’s time to get down to business. Until you receive your infusion you will be fighting a war of insurmountable odds on two fronts: on the Western Front you will need to pull out all the stops to defend against viral and bacterial invaders–AKA you’ll be trying not to get sick. So dig some trenches and fill them with hand sanitizer, germicide wipes and Vitamin C. On the Eastern Front you’ll be on the offensive, trying to infiltrate the insurance company and get access to your Ig meds before the germs overwhelm your defenses. As it is only a matter of time before your weakened immune system is smushed, your offensive efforts are especially important.IMG_0001

 

3) You harass your insurance company into submission.

This is your offensive plan: you call them everyday, multiple times a day. You ferry messages between your insurance adversaries and your doctor’s office, hoping you’ll be able to find a resolution. You write down the names of people you’ve spoken to so you don’t get lost in the vast sea of insurance employees playing hot-potato and phone-tag with you. Yes, your ears will bleed from the grating, static-filled hold-music you spend minutes and hours and days listening to. Yes, your brain will be battered by the ever-changing information you are told ping-ponging around in your head. Yes, you will burn with frustration and anger as hour after hour of effort turns fruitless. But when you sit once more in front of the TV with your Ig juice flowing through the needles in your legs or tummy it will all have been worth it.IMG_0003

 

4) You breathe and hold onto the knowledge that this is just a temporary setback.IMG_0005

Every time this happens to me each day without Ig coverage seems endless, the insurance maze seems unsolvable and the sickness that results from lack of treatment feels as if it will go on forever. But every time the lack of coverage comes to an end, the insurance puzzle is solved, treatment resumes and health eventually returns. That being said it is still perfectly acceptable to break some stuff, punch a wall and/or cower in an extremely sanitized corner holding a can of disinfectant spray–that my friends is an inescapable part of the process.IMG_0004

 

5) You eventually emerge bloodied but victorious.IMG_0006

Congratulations. By now you probably have caught a virus or developed an infection, but at last you get to resume treatment. Your insurance woes are behind you for at least another 6-12 months. Now you just have to deal with the all the stuff you normally do, plus the physical and psychological destruction caused by your war with the insurance company. Feel free to melt into a puddle of relief that the nightmare is, for now at least, over.

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Starting off School PI Style

Monday morning I got my allergy shot, put my allergy serum in a cooler and headed to Buena Vista, VA. Well really there was a bit more to it than that. Like a whole ton of procrastination that led to a whole ton of last minute packing and general scrambling. But in the end I made it and so far it doesn’t appear that I forgot anything super duper important. So we’ll pronounce that a win.

Tuesday morning I called Aetna Specialty Pharmacy to set up my monthly shipment of infusion meds and supplies. On the bright side, I did reach an actual person relatively quickly–something I never quite achieved when I called last week. That’s where the bright side ends though I’m afraid. From there on it was all bad news.

Bad News 1) Your doctor hasn’t submitted the necessary forms to renew authorization on your infusions so your authorization has expired and you can’t get your stuff until that is fixed. Unless you happen to have a few thousand dollars lying around to pay for the whole thing yourself… (I do not)

Bad News 2) Aetna hates you and the medicine you are on because you are both too expensive. So you have to switch medicines. Also you have only one option as to what to switch to. Basically this is a medical dictatorship. Be grateful that it is illegal for Aetna to get rid of you like it has your poor Gammagard. Just in case you should probably be on the look out for assassins hiding behind piles of medical forms and bills.

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When I think of dictators…

 

Bad News 2.5) Bonus: your copay assistance is currently coming from the company that makes Gammagard so that goes bye bye too. Your new medicine also has copay assistance, but there’s no way you’ll be able to get it for this month because the application process takes several weeks and your infusion is in three days (if you even get your shipment by then, which is somewhat doubtful). So basically you’re screwed. But just for this month.

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Don’t worry though, this week isn’t all dictatorial doom and gloom. There is always some rebellious patches of sunshine. Like:

  1. I made it to school again against all odds! (namely a killer migraine Monday and a crazy amount of traffic)
  2. When I was unpacking I thought that I had forgotten one of the containers with my infusion supplies in it–I did not! All infusion supplies made it safely to school with me.
  3. I managed to muscle my way in to the family practice clinic in town this week so I can start getting my allergy shots there next week despite the influx of students trying to get last-minute physicals, etc.
  4. Did I mention I’m at school again? Yay so excited!
  5. I have spent the last two days under a figurative (and sometimes literal) pile of allthree of my adorable nieces and I get to spend the whole year with them!

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    Like this but with little girls

  6. I had a dream that when my new med came (Gammunex-c) it came with a box of awesome stuff like Minion-shaped Benadryl and Harry Potter bandaids. So I feel better about having to switch and fully expect my dream to come true. (But also in the realm of reality I talked to people in my CVID Facebook group and everyone on Gammunex-c seems to be happy with it)
  7. I got a bunch of my school books and I’m SO EXCITED to read them. (Remember I’m and english major so I get to read good stuff most of the time)
  8. Last month my IG levels were checked and they were really good, so even if my infusion is late I should still be in pretty good shape.

I could go on indefinitely, but I’ll control myself. The point is this week has been crazy, stressful and hard, but also awesome.

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Real

Here’s a poem I wrote a while ago. I’m no poet, that’s for sure, but I think the message is pretty clear despite my iambic inadequacy.

P.S. the line with “gall” is a gallbladder joke–I wrote this just before gb surgery 😉

Make of me what you will,

Administer another pill,

Promise this one to bring relief,

Another lie to cross your teeth.

 

Cut me open, take it all-

It’s yours to have with no gall.

I’m in pieces anyway,

Slowly crumbling day by day.

 

Put me under, let me sleep,

I’ve been under-in too deep

For an age or five or ten,

Encased in my fleshy pen.

 

Look at me, rambling on,

Screeching out my sorry song,

Bitterly biting in the ear,

A tale we try not to hear.

 

An illness real, with no romance,

Waste of time at a glance,

No one wants to really see-

No one wants reality.

 

Instead we look to Hollywood,

Make it shining, show us could!

Present it as always, everything,

Everything always glistening!

 

My song not so sweet to the taste?

Suck it up, give me a break!

Beauty is in everything,

But not as a gory romance teen.

 

Don’t twist life in a knot,

Making it something that it’s not.

Sorry are the eyes can’t bear to see,

Real pain, real beauty.

 

 

 

 

 

Good News Annie, You Can Stay

Annie is a cat, not a person. It didn’t actually occur to me to ask them to test for an allergy to other people. I’ll have to look into that some time. It seems likely, especially an allergy to people who *gasp* don’t like Harry Potter or chocolate or other extremely important things.

Just in case that introductory paragraph didn’t make things crystal clear–I had skin allergy testing done Tuesday. Technically, redone, since I was also tested my senior year of high school. The first time everything was negative. Initially it was a let down, but it turned out to be a good thing because it enabled us to do further immune system testing…which led to my PI diagnosis.

This summer I reluctantly asked Dr. C if we could repeat the skin testing. I was kind of embarrassed to even ask, since I’ve had so much allergy testing done over the years and it’s almost always been negative. But my recurrent sinus infections and everything-resistant nasal congestion this year made me desperate enough to venture once again down that allergy avenue of insanity–doing the same tests over and over again and expecting a different result.

Well I didn’t really expect a different result. I fully expected it all to be negative. I expected this because I secretly hoped that something would be positive; I’ve found it best in the medical world to expect the exact opposite of what you hope for, so that it’s a little less demoralizing when your hopes once again fail to be realized. That may seem rather pessimistic, but it doesn’t really matter–I can never fully manage it anyways. No matter how many times I’ve been disappointed, it’s awful hard not to hope.

So when the nurse exclaimed, “Dang. One of them is trying to start reacting already!” before she walked out of the room I fought it. It probably will go back down before the fifteen minutes are up, I thought. That itching is probably just the histamine control. No, bad hope! Get back where you belong–outside of the Dr.’s office!

Hope must be a cat because it never listens. Even as I sat there freezing in my little paper gown and reading about poor Edmond Dantès and all his hopes being destroyed I couldn’t control it–hope settled in on my chest purring and kneading me repeatedly with its sharp, little claws. What if? it purred to me. What if?

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Well hope you little rebel, you were right this time. I reacted to one thing–the Aspergillus Mold. And really, I might add, I did a pretty thorough job of it.

The bad news is that Aspergillus Mold is a primarily outdoor mold that is just about everywhere all the time in Virginia. The good news is that I get to try allergy shots for it! Naturally, I expect that the allergy shots won’t help that much…because I secretly hope that they will help both my sinus infections and migraines a lot.

To prove to myself how little stock I was putting in the allergy shots, I kept my ENT appointment for yesterday. Unfortunately that kind of backfired because after hearing about the results of the allergy testing the ENT told me I definitely needed to do the allergy shots and then patted himself on the back for a job well done. So it was a bit of a wasted appointment, except perhaps, for the ENT since he got to feel very accomplished over doing absolutely nothing.

10 Things Not to Say to a Zebra

1) You Should Have More Faithms-h4t1vN

  • By telling me that you are exercising too much faith that I will not smack you in the face. Faith isn’t a fix-all substance. If having faith meant you never had any problems then there would be no need for you to have faith.

 

2) You Should Get More Exercise

  • You should exercise your brain more–out of the two of us, who do you think knows better what my body can handle and what is appropriate for it?

 

3) A Couple Germs Aren’t Gunna Kill You

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  • Probably they won’t, you’re right. But they have a very good chance of making me very sick. And if your “harmless” germs make me very sick then they might just end up killing you, albeit in a roundabout way.

 

4) So When Are You Going To Be Better?

  • Please visit a dictionary entry for the word “chronic.” You also might want to stop by the term “genetic” and perhaps try a google search for “how to have a filter.”

 

5) You Should Try *Insert Diet Here* I’ve Heard It Heals Every Health Problem Ever

  • No. Just. No. I can’t do this with you right now–ever.ms-oyjwvd

 

6) You Need To Gain Some Weightms-TfNOJd

  • Would if I could, next. But also, did you know that it’s possible to be insensitive about someone’s weight even if they’re not fat?

 

7) I Could Never Deal With That

  • I can often never deal with a paper or other school assignment…until the night before it’s due and then I have no choice, and somehow I always manage to face what I couldn’t the day before. Either I face it, or I fail. And I really can’t face failing.

 

8) You Should Just Try Getting Up Earlierms-bLCjjx

  • For someone who has chronic illness, getting more tired does not automatically equate to getting more/better sleep. It does often lead, however, to getting sick or having a flare.

 

9) You Should Come/Should’ve Come

  • I promise you that you are not fun enough to merit a migraine, a virus, an infection, etc. If I felt like I could go (and wanted to), I would.

 

10) You’re Too Young To… Feel Like That, Be That Sick, Be That Lame, etc.ms-QyCRGr

  • Oh thank goodness! I’ll just inform my body of that and then it will realize its error and poof magically into alignment with your views of what it means to be young.

 

 

If you’re wondering what you CAN say to a zebra then try this:

If they confide in you about their illness say those two magic words–

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If they don’t then just treat them like a normal person!… Sick people are also just, well, people.

You Can’t Go Back

The other day I got some good news. When my dad got home from work I excitedly told him about some extra scholarship money I’d been awarded because of my academic performance. My 14 year-old brother, who was in the next room playing Battlefront (and evidently eavesdropping) said, “you should get a scholarship for sports.”

I pointed out the teeny flaw in that master plan: “I don’t play sports anymore.”

Look we all know that teenage boys can be more than a bit obtuse, and my little bro is no exception. Currently he is in the sports, fitness and body image obsessed stage. He tells us how he is “teased” by his friends about his muscles being too big; he works out way more than he should, and he flexes A LOT. Another thing he does a lot is make insensitive inquiries such as, “when you gunna start running again?” Or, “Are you ever gonna play basketball again?” And even,” When you gun’ get back in shape?”

I get it. He misses the older sister that he could be proud of. He misses the girl that ran five miles a day and was known for her white-girl hops on the basketball court. He misses the sister that could do as many pull-ups as the boys and who’s life revolved around the court and the gym.  I get it because I miss her too.

I also get that it’s much cooler to have a sister who plays college basketball than one who gets good grades and blogs about being sick.

I get it, but he doesn’t. I’ve tried to explain it to him several times: “I’ve tried to get back in shape but I keep getting infections.” Or, “I’m trying but my body gets very sick if I work out too hard now.” And even the hardest one, “No, I don’t think I’ll ever play basketball again. Not for school anyways.”

He doesn’t understand how before, even with the PI, I could do all these things (even though he doesn’t realize what a struggle that was) and now I can’t. For a while neither could I.

Then I figured it out: you can’t go back.

I can’t go back. My body’s not the body it was before I got sick. I’m not the person I was before I got sick. No matter what I do, I can’t erase that year.

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My parents weren’t good at action shots, so they had to wait for a FT. Also I think a teammate’s parent took this.

Years of running, lifting, sprinting up and down the court–they’re all gone, unraveled and eaten away by months of deconditioning, sickness and undernourishment. The muscles I worked so hard to build over years of training were metabolized to keep my organs going. My heart, which once propelled me through miles with ease, withered and weakened so much that mild cardio now gives me shaking chills. It’s like the first 18 years of my life never happened–like the strong, athletic version of Miranda never even existed.75051_530260573738353_2147077193_n

On the other hand those long, lonely nights when I was too sick to sleep–they’re with me still. They’re with me when I close my eyes. They’re with me when I walk through the Blue-Ridge sunshine to class. They’re with me as I smile down at my sleeping niece. They’re with me when I feel, as I often do, full to the bursting with a life worth living. Those nights, those hardest moments of my life, they’re a piece of me now.

You can’t go back.

So you go forward.

I can’t play basketball anymore, so I put everything I’ve got into my school.

I can’t run out my feelings anymore, so I write.

I can’t do intense workouts anymore so I do yoga, walk, bike and build up slowly.

I can’t work as hard at a lot of things as I did before, so I work smarter.

I can’t be the person I was before so I try to become someone better, someone stronger, someone kinder.

You can’t go back. It’s hard, but it’s probably a good thing.

 

 

What a Bloody Mess!

“What a mess!” I thought. “What a bloody mess!” I wasn’t British cursing–I meant literally bloody.

I had settled into the recliner after getting my infusion going last Friday. Needles in? Check. Pump started? Check. Blanket? Check. Gatorade? Check. Anne with an E? Check and check.

I got caught up in the show, continuously thinking “this didn’t happen in the book,” and cringing in second-hand embarrassment from Anne’s antics. I neglected to check my sites as often as I should have–at all in fact, until I felt a weird trickle running down my left leg. Crap. Crap crap crap. I knew what that meant. I stuck my hand into my sweatpants and felt the left side of my leg where I had placed the needle half an hour before and was greeted by a wet, sticky mess. That confirmed it. My site was leaking.

With a groan, that for once had nothing to do with what Anne was doing on the TV, I got up and went into the kitchen to assess the damage further. Down went the sweatpants. Up went the leg of my bball shorts. Another Mormon curse word or two as I saw that I wasn’t just leaking Gammagard, I was also leaking blood. Rather a lot for such a teeny, tiny hole in my leg.

I’ve done more than 150 sub-q infusions by now. I’ve had leaking medicine, blood in the tube from hitting a blood vessel, asthma attacks, headaches, chills, extremely painful needle sites that rub too close to the muscle, bent needles, needles falling out mid-infusion, faulty tubing–just about everything. But this was the first time I ever leaked blood.

As always before starting the pump I checked to make sure that my needles hadn’t landed in any blood vessels; once the needles are in I pull back on the syringe and if blood comes into the tube, that means trouble–I can’t use that site. I had done this on Friday as usual and it was all clear! So I shouldn’t have been bleeding… but I was.

I talked to an infusion nurse about it Monday. She said, “that’s weird.” (If I had a nickel for every time a health care professional has said that to me…) Usually when leaking occurs it’s because the needle isn’t long enough–it’s not getting deep enough into your fat tissue. But based on my weight and height the nurse was pretty sure that wasn’t the problem, and we were both reluctant to go up to the next needle size–12 mm (yikes).

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This is a 9mm needle

Instead she recommended I try using more sites. For a while now I’ve just been using two, which I know is pushing it. You’re really only supposed to have 15-30ml of fluid per site; with just two I’m demanding each take about 50ml. That’s a lot.

Friday after I discovered the leak, I had to pinch off the tubing and take the needle out of that side, so my right leg had to take about 80ml of fluid. That was seriously ouchy. I should have taken a picture–it was pretty hilariously swollen–but I didn’t. Just imagine an angrily red grapefruit on the side of my leg and you’ve about got it.

So now I have to use a three needle set.

 

Which is fine. I actually used a four needle set for the first couple years I did sub-q, then I switched because I liked only having to stick twice per infusion. I’ve never used the trifurcated sets much because, well, it’s silly but the lack of symmetry bothers me; with three needles there’s always one side with two and one side with only one. It’s weird. But since my skin is done with this 50ml-per-site foolishness I guess my OCD side will just have to deal.

The question is then: how do I decide which side to torture more?… Flip for it? Eeny, meeny, miny, moe? It’s a conundrum alright.