Twist and shout
Over the past year or so, I’ve been finding it much more difficult to put infusion sets in certain parts of my body — namely, my lower back and upper butt.
The routine used to go like this: I’d twist my waist, torso, and neck so I could get a good view of the spot that’s about to be traumatized by the long insertion needle. Then I’d jab, remove the adhesive covering, and retract the needle. Easy.
Nowadays, I rotate my waist as far as I can, wincing from the pain and resisting the urge to scream, keep my torso straight and solid, and then I crane my neck in an attempt to get the site in my peripheral vision. Next, I jab, probably at a less-than-optimal angle (causing more pain), remove the adhesive covering, retract the needle, and curse what old-age has done to my body.
All the while, I’ve slid my glasses down from the bridge of my nose so I can get a better view. I look, and feel, like a cranky old geezer from an earlier generation.
If this is what diabetes at 39 feels like, I hate to see what happens when I turn 40.
I suppose loss of flexibility just happens when a person gets older. Perhaps my regular amount of exercise (none) just isn’t enough. Maybe some routine stretching or aerobics would help my flexibility (while, at the same time, the increased muscle mass would reduce the already sparse locations on my body suitable for traumatic insertion-needle jabbing).
Seriously. Finding adequate real-estate for a new infusion site on my scrawny frame is like a developer looking for a vacant parcel of land on Long Island for a new shopping mall. It seems there’s nowhere left. Yet, somehow, we both squeeze it in. Somehow.
But if my ability to twist becomes even more limited than it is today, and the entire back half of my body becomes off-limits, I’m totally screwed.
That thought really freaks me out.