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Posts from the ‘Diabetic Mommy’ Category

Month 8,455 of Pregnancy.

It’s been very quiet here on my blog, and this is because my body and mind entirely are being slowly devoured by the baby.  I’m nine days away from my scheduled c-section (but past 38 weeks, so could go into labor on my own any time) and my body hasn’t ever been this pregnant before.

The baby apparently likes being in there, though.  He’s content.  Happy.  Laid back and chillin’.

… good for him because I’m not as content or comfortable, by comparison.  My body isn’t tiny to begin with, but a full term baby in my not-very-tall frame is making me waddle.  And whine.  And I might have burst into tears when I had to pee for the third time in thirty minutes while taking Birdy school shopping.  Or when I realized that I saw 1 am, 2.30 am, 4 am, 5 am, and 6 am as a result of waking up and needing to scurry off to the bathroom multiple times due to a baby hanging out so low in my body that he could touch up my pedicure with ease.

And then there’s that weird rush of guilt for not feeling consistently hashtag blessed or hashtag grateful about the opportunity to experience pregnancy, to be having this baby.  Getting this baby going was the longest and hardest thing I’ve ever done, clocking in at almost a full three years between the “hoping for baby” and the “holding baby in my arms.”  I am beyond excited to meet my son.  I am also beyond grateful to be bringing another little friend into our family.  But here at the end of the pregnancy moments, I’m very, very whiny and my brain is in a dark space that I hope lets up a bit once I’m not as physically pressured.  I’m gigantically pregnant and I kind of feel like a blob of discomfort.  I’m beyond tired of sharing my diabetes with someone else, the pressure to be in range exacerbated by the panic of having diabetes adversely influence my child’s development.

I’m sort of emotionally done being pregnant, but my body isn’t quite done yet.

My body and I are at odds about this fact.

Weirdly enough, my body is completely fine with still being pregnant.  Blood pressures were good in the first trimester, low for the second trimester, and have just started to creep back up a tiny bit in the last week or two, but I’m still not on any kind of blood pressure medication (was taken off it at the beginning of the second trimester, once my pressures were registering so low that it was causing exhaustion), so that’s a success.  During course of this pregnancy, the protein levels in my urine are checked weekly and they’ve only flagged as suspicious once (about two month ago) and even the twenty-four hour urine collections came back entirely negative.  My weight is stable and in range (though still WHOA because 38 weeks pregnant).  I barely have any swelling in my feet and ankles.  My A1Cs have been a source of pride for me, and hard-earned at that.  Even my dilated eye exam (they do one every trimester) came back so unremarkable that I’ve been “downgraded” to visiting the eye clinic once a year instead of every three months.

This pregnancy, when pitted against the one with my daughter, is much healthier, by comparison.  And for that, I am really hashtag blessed.

But today, at 38 weeks along and the weight of his little world on my pelvis, I’m hashtag tired.  And hashtag done.  And hashtag secretly hoping they decide that tomorrow is a good birthday for the little nugget because that would be fine by me.  Once I am able to give him a good snuggle and kiss his head, I’ll be hashtag grateful all over the place.  And hashtag complete.

Spring-Loaded Navel Gazing.

(Edit: I had originally written “naval gazing” instead of “navel gazing.” Thus illustrating the point of this post, which is that my mind is quickly becoming mush. Thanks, Bobby, for the edit. 🙂 )

It’s week 35 of this fetus party.  All I have left to give are bullet points.

  • My stomach moves.  Often.  To be more precise, it’s my baby who is moving, and making my stomach look possessed in the process.  It’s jarring to look down and watch the swirling storm of baby boy moving around happily in there.
  • It was also slightly jarring to be onstage for a panel last week in NYC and to have the baby going berserk while I was trying to talk.  I hope attendees thought I was trying to emphatically state my case instead of trying to dislodge the baby from my ribcage.
  • (I may have been doing both.)
  • At this point with my daughter, I was already in the hospital on pre-eclampcia instigated bed rest, so it’s weird to be home.
  • Don’t get me wrong:  I AM HAPPY TO BE HOME.  Bed rest sucked and I have no desire to repeat that experience.  But the last time I was 35 weeks pregnant, I was trapped in hospital; this time, I’m home and trying to be a productive member of our household.  I have no concept of what I should/shouldn’t feel up to doing.
  • Problem is, I have a bit of a nesting problem.
  • If you click on that link, notice the picture of the lady who is showered and wearing make up and has combed her hair and is happily – serenely! – dusting the front of her cabinet. That’s not the kind of nesting I am feeling.  No serenity here.  I want to rip all the weeds out of the front garden with my bare hands, name them all, and then jam them into the compost bin.  I want to paint the upstairs hallway.  I want to crochet a tea cozy big enough to put over my car to protect it from bird shit.  The urge to reorganize the books in my office by color and then by author’s favorite ice cream flavor is taking over my brain.
  • And yet I can’t sit still long enough to answer more than five emails at a time.  There’s a disconnect between “productive use of my time” and “full-out hormonal spazzery.”
  • Being home instead of the hospital is great, but is bringing about a new set of worries that I didn’t experience with my first pregnancy.
  • Like “what happens when your water breaks?”  My water never broke the first time. My daughter arrived via scheduled c-section after a few weeks of close monitoring, so I never even had a contraction.  The first contraction I ever experienced was when I miscarried last summer, making me feel even more uneasy about contractions.  Mentally, I’m unprepared for labor.
  • Physically, I’m as prepared as I can be.  I am delivering at a hospital that is about two hours from my home, so the journey there can’t be delayed.  I have a suitcase packed.  So does my daughter (so she can spend a night or two with my mother while we help her brother escape).  But the idea of that drive on top of potential labor stuff makes me twitchy.
  • (Of course we have a more local, true emergency, plan, but I want to deliver where my established care team is, so that’s our goal.)
  • I am also in bi-weekly appointment mode with my high risk maternal fetal medicine team, which means I am in Boston twice a week to check on the baby and for any potential issues.  I have been told to bring a suitcase to those appointments, too, as they may decide it’s go-time based on a single appointment, and I won’t have another four hours to go back and forth again.
  • Which means I’ve been living out of a suitcase for the past week, and will continue to pack-and-repack the same suitcase until the baby is born.
  • Thankfully, I only have about three outfits that fit somewhat properly, so it’s an easy cycle of packing and unpacking.
  • And I still have diabetes.  Yep, still there.  Still chronic.  Still want to shove it into a tin can and send it down a garbage chute.
  • My total daily dose of insulin is up significantly from pre-pregnancy numbers, but not quite in the triple-zone that I hit before giving birth to my daughter.  With Birdy, I was taking just about 100 units of insulin per day to achieve solid numbers.  This round, I’m taking about 65 units per day so far, though numbers still might climb as these last few weeks progress.
  • My insulin:carb ratios are getting crazy, though.  I was at 1:12 before pregnancy, and am already down to 1:6 so far.  That ratio change is increasing my TDD the most, as my basal rates aren’t too ramped up.
  • A1C remains exactly where I want it.  As does my blood pressure.  My weight is … weighty, but my son is in a very good percentile, so that’s my main concern.  I’ll gain a few extra here and there so long as he is fine.
  • And I remain afraid to put my infusion set into the taut, bulbous chaos that my stomach has become, so my insulin pump has been rotating around my hips and arms for the last few months.  Thankfully, as I get bigger, real estate options expand as well, but it gets harder to install new sites when I can’t exactly bend at the waist.
  • HA!!  Waist.  I don’t have one of those anymore.  It was left behind back in May sometime.  See ya.
  • Siah thinks the baby’s room is HER new room, which is bullshit.  Even when we have the door shut, she picks the lock and eases herself in there, sleeping on the toy box in the corner and burping occasionally.
  • These cats have no idea what they’re in for.  Again.
  • Truly in the home stretch now.  “Stretch” being the operative word, as I have real concerns about the stability of my belly button.  I fear that if I cough or roll the wrong way, it will launch from my body and hit the wall, like a champagne bottle cork.
  • Bring it on, kiddo.  I’m ready to meet you soon.  And to be reunited with a view of my feet.

 

Fifteen Minutes, Fifteen Grams.

I just needed fifteen minutes, after fifteen grams of carbs.

“I can’t go with you, because I need to eat something else and wait for my blood sugar to come up.  You guys can go without me and come right back, if you want?”

The sentences sounded soft and measured.  Sure, go for the bike ride around the neighborhood, dear daughter and trusted neighborhood friend.  I’ll just sit here and eat fifteen grams of carbohydrate, then wait patiently for fifteen minutes while the food works its magic.

Instead, I was shouting up at them from the bottom of the well, hoping my voice carried in a way that didn’t make my kid nervous, hoping she’s hearing the reassuring tones of my voice instead of the panicked inner monologue that was playing out:

“HEY!  Go on outside and play and don’t watch me mop the sweat from my forehead while I inhale two juice boxes and a packet of fruit snacks.  Ignore me while I fight back the urge to lie down on the kitchen floor and let this weird wave of unconsciousness wash over me.  Pretend not to notice that I’m looking through you instead of at you while I’m talking to you.  Go on outside and let mommy fall apart for fifteen minutes, after these fifteen grams of carbs.”

My daughter and her friend strapped on their bicycle helmets and took off down the street, enjoying the sunshine and almost-summer weather while I stuck a spoon into a jar of Nutella, not giving a shit if this was the best option or healthiest decision but mostly because I wanted to have something sweet on my tongue, reminding me that I was still here and capable of coming back from this low blood sugar and that I could start making dinner soon because I would be capable of standing unassisted, without fear of falling into the abyss, in just fifteen minutes, after fifteen grams of carbs.

Pumps and a Bump.

I don't think MC Hammer meant this the way I am taking it. #diabeticpregnancy

A photo posted by Kerri Sparling (@sixuntilme) on

Unexpected alignment with an MC Hammer song.

Prebolusing the Sh*t Out of Things.

Now, at the halfway mark of my pregnancy, insulin resistance is becoming a bit of a thing, and is going to progress into an Actual Thing as the weeks go on, which happened last time and I’m prepared for but it still a bit whoa and this sentence is a run-on.

Which means that basal rates are creeping up ever-so-slightly (my pre-pregnancy basal total was around 13u and I’m now up to 16.2u) and my insulin:carb ratios starting to dance (pre-pregnacy was 1:10, am now 1:9 … except lunch is 1:12 because why would things be consistent?).  When I first found out I was pregnant, my endocrinologist told me that post-prandials contribute most to macrosomia, so keeping my post-meal blood sugars as in-range as possible would help mitigate that risk.  (But let’s take a look at the risk list … pre-existing diabetes?  Check.  Over 35?  Check.  Previous pregnancies?  Check.  Having a boy?  Check.  Cool.)

The plan?  Actively and aggressively pre-bolusing the shit out of my meals.

This sounds like an excellent plan, in a perfect world.  Pre-bolusing works well for me when the bolus is delivered at least 20 minutes before eating, the meal is properly carb-counted, and nothing delays the process of eating.  But one monkey wrench in that process can muck the whole mess up.

Pre-bolusing can feel spooky, like I’m tempting fate and inviting a low.  Not doing it is like opening the door for a high.  The middle ground could use some xanax.

Over the last few weeks, my pre-boluses have been executed with precision.  A few fistfuls of jellybeans have worked their way into rotation when I’ve bolused too early, but that’s to be expected.  The temp basal option on the t:slim is stupidly easy to employ, so sometimes I use a temp basal to help back me out of a mild low, but overall, I’ve seen my post-prandials come down nicely and hopefully my ultrasounds continue to show a very boring, predictable pregnancy progression.

Makes meals interesting, though.  They’ve become a game of roulette.

“Do you think we’ll get seated right away?”  Or, “I forgot to pre-heat the oven and now dinner is going to be 15 minutes later than I thought.”  Or, “Fuck.  I forgot to eat!”

I’m pre-bolusing all over the place.  Usually it works fine.  Sometimes I end up wicked low.  But every time, it’s in effort to keep my post-prandials from causing chaos in my kid.

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