We’re a little over 20 weeks into this pregnancy, which means that I’m over halfway done baking (baking? brewing? percolating.) the new little Sparling. The last twenty weeks have been busy:
Doctors appointments. There are many of these. We started with the visits to the fertility clinic, where I had a lot of assessment visits and then, once we were actually pregnant, a series of progression checks before they felt comfortable releasing me to the wilds of a “regular high risk pregnancy.” I’ve seen my endocrinologist monthly since finding out about the pregnancy, my OB/GYN up in Boston every three weeks (approximately), my eye doctor once (with another exam on the books), a dietician once (this appointment involved plastic food, which was predictable and sad), and have appointments coming up for an EKG (for me) and a fetal echocardiogram (for the baby).
Having so many appointments is a blessing and a curse for my mental well-being. On one hand, it’s good to have all of these confirmation moments that the baby is growing well and that my health is holding steady. And in the event that something crops up as problematic, I’m glad I’m in the good hands of Boston doctors to help me see things through as best as possible.
But on the other hand, every two weeks I feel like I’m going in for a test, and these are not tests I want to fail. With so many milestones to mark and tests to take, it’s a constant reminder of how such a natural process can take unimaginable twists and turns. I feel like I’m in a cycle of gratefulness and panic, with little reprieve on tap until late summer. (When a new set of WTF and panic hits.)
Growth spurts. The baby is growing according to plan and is right on track. I, however, am growing much fasting in the belly department than I did when I was pregnant with Birdy. I felt like I was “showing” at 8 weeks, and now at 20, getting up from bed is not a direct bend but more of a roll. (In my mind, I look like a superhero rolling stealthly into a pose worthy of the movie poster, but in reality, I think I look like a dachshund trying to steady itself.) There’s a definitive belly going on. I had forgotten how quickly pregnancy changes my body, and it’s weird to look at photos from December where I look like myself to now when I look like a determined wrecking ball.
And it’s predictable, how infertility has shaped my view of my shape this round. With Birdy, I felt every bump of my expansion and worried about the change. This time, it’s weird how the itchy skin of abdomen expansion makes me feel unbelievably grateful.
Blood sugars. Diabetes was a pain in the behind last week, when highs came calling and refused to back down. But this is where I’m oddly thankful for my decades of diabetes experience, because I can be more nimble with my doses. Waiting to see my doctor to tweak my insulin ratios is ridiculous when my needs are starting to change every few days. I had forgotten about the increased insulin needs, but am reminded every few days, when a sticky 175 overnight on a Wednesday turns into the same thing on Thursday, which means a basal bump on Friday night because f*ck the bullshit.
But it’s working well because my A1Cs are exactly where I’d like them (for once), and despite highs here and there, I’m solidly in range the majority of the time, which makes me feel like the effort in is worth the outcomes.
There are still a lot of weeks to go before this baby escapes, so I hope I can keep the momentum and grateful-vibe going. Or, I may end up hiding in the closet with a container of Cool wHip until this whole thing is over.
Birdy. Birdy has named the baby. (We talked her out of Spiderman, laughed when she suggested “Peter Parker?” instead, and finally settled on a name that we plan to keep offline, per protocol.)
She’s excited to share her Batman bathroom, her frazzled parents, and her life with her baby brother. And hopefully she still feels that way after the first time he spits up on her.