It’s officially summer in Florida. This means that it will soon start to storm every day around 2:45, our local weatherfolk will be all up in our faces about whatever new tropical disturbance is hovering offshore, and fleets of enormous winged cockroaches have just begun planning their residential takeovers. For me in particular, summer in Florida means sweat.
I feel like I sweat all summer long (and here, “all summer long” means “through October.”) I sweat while I’m walking the dog, I sweat while I’m driving home from the grocery store, I sweat while I’m sleeping. I probably sweat in the shower. I imagine I go through summer looking like an extra in a Civil War drama.
Yesterday I tried to re-tape a sensor that I’d been wearing for five precious days, and the whole thing just slid off. It was no longer a sensor; it was a full-on swensor. See, during the other three seasons of the year, I wear a continuous glucose monitor sensor. In the summer, however, I wear a swensor. Which is to say: I wear a sensor covered with tape and/or IV3000 that is always either collecting, soaking in, or leaking sweat.
The word “swensor” is the newest entry in my own list of Diabetes Terms of Endearment, and comes from the same lexicological order as “swass,” “swarmpits,” and worse. As in, “I’ve been sitting in that plastic chair for over an hour; I’m working some serious swass.”
Short of moving to a colder climate or dousing myself in aerosol antiperspirant on a daily basis, I’m at a loss. It hurts to lose a s(w)ensor before you feel you’ve milked it for every last semi-accurate transmission possible. And it never feels good to know that, in addition to your pump and your glucose meter and your glucose tabs, you’re walking around with little patch of gross on your person.
The good news? I’m still working toward meeting my health insurance deductible for the year, and every single swensor gets me a tiny, sweaty bit closer.