I have been pumping insulin since 2003, making the move from multiple daily injections to an insulin pump in pursuit of a healthy pregnancy and a cute baby. (Scored on both accounts, thankfully.) I love pumping. Such a nice change from busting out those orange-capped syringes and injecting into my skin every few hours. Even when I’m having trouble hiding the pump in a dress or feeling frustrated with the hardware aspects of things, I still prefer it 100% to injections.
In the last seven years of pumping, I have gone on vacations to tropical islands, gotten engaged, walked down the aisle to marry my husband, traveled to Spain, gone hiking in the wilds of Maine, and even spent nine months pregnant with my beautiful daughter. All with the pump attachedfirmly to my skin, delivering the insulin I need. (Unless the stupid cat bites through the tubing, which has only happened once.) It goes to bed with me every night, and I wake up with it every morning. It works out with me at the gym. It goes out to dinner with me when my husband and I have our Date Nights. It goes on trains, planes, and automobiles without batting a pumpy eye.
But last week, I did something I have never, ever done before. Not even once in the seven years of pumping have I done this. But when I think about it, it’s amazing that it’s never happened before.
I’m not sure how to relay this information without venturing into “TMI Land,” but the set-up is this: I was making my morning excursion into the ladies’ room for a routine urine evacuation. Upon completion of said evacuation, I stood up and grabbed the waistband of my shorts. Upon grabbing of said waistband, my pump decided it was done hanging on to my shorts and made a jump for the toilet. Which was, at the time, flushing. It hit the toilet with a clatter and started to roll into the bowl.
Awkward, Over-Sharing Kerri yelled, “Nooooo!” and lunged for the pump in slow motion as it careened towards the watery abyss of … urine. (You thought I was going to rhyme there, didn’t you? I can’t lie – thought about it but edited for the sake of keeping things kid-friendly.) I grabbed the pump tubing at the last second and reeled that sucker in like it was a giant marlin. The tubing, with its forgiving elasticity, sprang back into m hand and I rescued the pump from fully submerging.
I stumbled out into the kitchen, horrified at the potentially germy pump clutched in my hand. “Ew, ew, ew, ew …” I fretted, grabbing the no soap cleansing wipes we have on hand to wipe the baby’s toys clean.
“What’s the matter?” my husband asked, watching me spazz out.
“I just dropped the pump into the toilet. I am so, so grossed out,” I said, scrubbing the pump wildly with the cloth wipes.
“That’s a first.” He smiled at me ruefully. “Lucky that thing is waterproof.”