The Alarm People
The Alarm People aren’t a cult. Well, not exactly. They’re medical device engineers, and their mission is to make sure my insulin pump never shuts the hell up.
I was reminded of this last night at 2:41 AM — almost three o’clock in the goddamned morning — when my pump decided to override its vibrate setting with an audible alarm. These “extreme conditions” apparently warranted waking me up in the middle of the night. You know… conditions like low battery.
Now, I’m not an engineer, but my layman’s brain says audible alarms use electricity, which drains the battery faster — meaning my pump’s idea of solving low battery is to use more battery.
And that’s why I curse medical device engineers. I assume to be one, you need an electrical engineering degree with some post-college specialty work. Regardless of credentials, one thing is certain: medical device engineers must have an unnatural love for electronic alarms. I’m convinced their life’s mission is to design machines that never shut up.
I’ve been tethered to an insulin pump since 2007 or 2008. I was thirty-five-ish, feeling like absolute garbage for two weeks: lethargic, dizzy, bone-deep exhausted, and walking around with a god-awful taste in my mouth. I was starving, thirsty, and peeing like it was my new full-time job.
Finally, I drove myself to the ER, having lost a ton of weight — looked great, felt like hell — and promptly shut down. Blood sugar through the roof. Full-on diabetic ketoacidosis. From that day forward, I’ve been hooked to an insulin delivery system like a space capsule on life support.
In eighteen years, I’ve watched pumps evolve from delivering insulin via an LCD screen to delivering it via Bluetooth. The technology is only marginally better now than it was back then. Marginally. These companies embrace change like it’s an unwelcome dinner guest, because slow innovation means squeezing every possible yacht payment out of their customers.
And apparently, the job description for “medical device engineer” requires two key skills:
Obey marketing’s every whim.
Love alarms the way normal people love puppies.
There is an alarm for everything:
- Low sugar.
- High sugar.
- Sugar that might be low soon.
- Sugar that might be high soon.
- Low insulin.
- Low power.
- Too hot.
- Too cold.
- Occlusion.
- Infusion set change.
- Clock wrong.
- And my personal favorite: Alarm: Nothing has changed.
Or worse — shutdown because nothing has changed.
My pump is in a constant state of unnecessary communication, burning through the battery just so it can loudly tell me the battery is low. I am divorced for a reason — to avoid conversations like this. And yet, here I am at three in the morning, staring at a blinking screen saying, “Yeah, I know. You drained it, you jerk.”
I picture medical device engineering conferences in beige hotel ballrooms — name tags, bad coffee, the works. One guy stands up and says, “You know what this thing needs?” The nurse in the back suggests, “Better control of blood sugar in all conditions?” The room goes silent. Then another guy says, “No, no. Another alarm. We’re possibly putting people at risk by not communicating every real-time condition on the ground.”
From there, the brainstorming takes off:
- Workshop: “Maximizing Panic While Minimizing Battery Life.”
- Breakout Session: “Integrating GIS so Your Pump Can Alert You That You’re Lost.”
- Award Ceremony: “Most Startling Alarm in a Public Bathroom” goes to Carl in R&D.
- And of course, a return of my all-time favorite real feature: the built-in carb lookup tool. Because nothing says “I’m ready to eat” like scrolling through a digital food dictionary in a crowded restaurant. I’m starving, not studying for the stuffed mushroom exam.
So, to everyone at that conference — except the well-intentioned nurse — fuck you.
