My night with Bob and Marjorie

Whenever I read this title, I think it sounds like I spent the night with two old people. I DID NOT spend the night with two old people. Marjorie is a fancy name for my pump (and yes, I name my medical equipment. I figure if you're stuck with it, you may as well try and make the best of it) and Bob is the name of my undiagnosed disease. Again, if he's staying, He needs a name.

It was the wee hours of the morning. I hadn't slept at all yet (Can anyone say insomniac?) Suddenly, she began beeping. Loud, shrill beeping. I groaned, fumbling for the light. No food, no food. Her cries echoed out over my empty room.

I calmly pulled my tired self out of bed, stumbling around in the dark on my way to the kitchen.

Just kidding. I took the pillow and smacked it before grumbling and groaning all the way to the kitchen.

I turned on the light and began rinsing the line. If at first I didn't succeed, I tried again.

Just kidding. After a few failed attempts I began to cry and wanted to start looking for the hammer.

After my failed attempts, my mom came out and tried to fix it. I sat on the counter and patiently waited as she tried to fix it.

Just kidding. After more failed attempts I suggested the hammer again.

We finally got it to work and I returned to bed, holding my breath, feeling like I was praying for a miracle. I lay awake in the dark, longing for sleep that never came.Eventually sleep came, and I drifted into dreamland for a few blissful hours before I had to wake up to begin my day.

Pretty soon I forgot that my night with Bob and Marjorie had ever happened, soon forgetting that this wasn't the way that normal teenagers spend their nights.

Except that I didn't.