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Posts tagged ‘diabetic mommy’

Four Chairs.

Our kitchen table has four chairs, and for several years, we had our family of three at the table for four.  But three chairs filled felt right at the time.

Except when it didn’t.  A few years ago, that fourth chair became this thing for me, like it should have A Person for it.  There was a feeling that someone was missing nagged me through many breakfasts, lunches, and dinners.  Someone was supposed to be there.  I had no idea who, but I knew someone was missing from our lives.

The empty chair started to hurt to look at, especially during the years of negotiating infertility.

But last week … on August 23, after two years of trying for a baby, after 38 weeks and two days of pregnancy, after staring at that fourth chair for all of those days and wondering if anyone would ever claim it, we finally found Our Person to fill the seat.

(His bum is very tiny at the moment, but he’ll grow into the chair eventually.)

Welcome to the world, my sweetest little boy.  We love you in ways and for reasons too numerous to count.

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.

 

Diabetic Pregnancy: Third Trimester.

Ten weeks left until the little man arrives, which means I’m in the third trimester and ready to fast forward through the summer.  FAST.  FORWAAAAAAAAARD!!

Swelling.  So far, so good.  I don’t have any swelling to speak of, which is a far cry from my first pregnancy, when I was in StayPuft mode starting around 28 weeks and stayed there until I delivered.  But thankfully, I’m a little more comfortable this round.  I can still wear my wedding rings, all my shoes, and my feet look like feet (instead of inflatable kayaks).

And I’m grateful to be back home from Utah, which was the scene of the swelling crime six years ago.  Something about being that far above sea level seemingly kicked off my incoming preeclampsia last time, and I’m glad Utah this year didn’t bring about any repeat performances.  (Also, I’ve only been to SLC twice, and both times I was seven months pregnant.  Weird theme.)

Blood sugars.  I still have them.  And they haven’t been entirely pleasant lately.  Some high numbers are returning in the evenings, which caused me to kick up my insulin : carb ratio for dinner as of this morning and I’m also side-eying my basal rate a little bit.  Still attempting to pre-bolus for as many meals as I can manage, which is working out pretty well.  I am aiming to keep my A1C in the same range it has been for as long as I can.

Some lows are back, only without symptoms at all, and those suck.  The other night, my CGM was screaming LOW for about an hour and I woke up the next morning with glucose tab dust all over the bedside table, a text message conversation on my phone that I have no recollection of having, and a low hangover that kicked my ass for hours.  Also, there was a missing burrito, which I can neither confirm nor deny responsibility for.

(Have I mentioned the Comfort Burritos that have lived in my freezer for the last five months?  Cravings were weird and intense during the first trimester, and there was a specific day when I NEEDED to have a burrito but didn’t want to eat so many carbs in one sitting, so I bought a frozen one and threw it in the fridge next to Animal.  It’s been in there since, comforting my cravings without having to be consumed.  I will plant it in the backyard after my son is born.  Perhaps a burrito tree will sprout?)

Baby kicks.  My daughter is strong and quick now, but I do not remember her being such an athlete in the womb.  However, her little brother is a storm of flying feet and hands at all times.

“Are you pregnant?” asked the lady next to me on my flight over the weekend.

“Yes, I am,” I confirmed, grateful for people who don’t assume/don’t say “WHOA! ARE YOU DUE TODAY?!”

“I thought so.   Your baby has been moving like crazy since we took off.  You have an active little one in there!”

Awesome.  You can see my son moving around through my shirt now.  And he clearly digs long flights.

Doctor’s appointments.  We’re turning up the dial on doctor’s appointments for this last trimester, moving to weekly appointments next week and then twice-weekly appointments until delivery.  My team at Beth Israel and Joslin are in sync and tracking me closely, in addition to keeping tabs on any eye disease progression (holding steady), kidney issues (none to speak of), and blood pressure spikes (still not back on BP medication yet, so feeling good about that).

I’m grateful to have so many medical professionals at the ready and tracking my baby’s progress.  (But I can’t lie; I’m looking forward to never seeing any of them again, post-delivery.  I’m emotionally done making that frigging drive to Boston.)

August.  We’re still working towards a late August escape date, with my body cooperating so far.  If the weather holds in this lovely 72 degrees and no humidity pattern for a few more weeks, I’ll be the happiest third trimester lady of all time.

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.

Gimme a Beet!

Beets haven’t always been top-of-preference for my palette.  I read somewhere that people either love the taste of beets or think they taste like dirt, and I used to be in the latter camp.  But these days, beets are most desirable and I am looking for a calendar dedicated entirely to them, preferably wearing suspenders … and only suspenders.

Problem is, I had no idea how to cook them and preparing them leaves my kitchen counter looking like a game of Clue.

“It was in the kitchen!  With the carving knife!  And included spinach salad … ?”

But the Internet! This is what it was made for: Googling problems and then solving them with pixel power.  A quick search for “simple beets recipe” on Google images brought me to photos, and then to recipes, that were manageable with my limited kitchen talents.  (I prefer to search by images because if the image looks simple and easy, then the recipe hopefully is as well.  Also, images help me weed out evil food things, like weird, crumbly cheeses.)

Raw beets are what I’m craving, so a simple wash, peel, slice-and-dice plan of attack works perfectly and makes the beets easy to toss into a spinach salad.  I’ve read on several sites that cooking the beets strips away a lot of their power (read: they can’t fly and their x-ray vision goes to shit), but this salad looks awesome and I’m trying this one later today (minus the crispy toast bit).

Desperately, this morning I sliced and ate a beet on top of toast with cream cheese.  Which might read as disgusting and vile, but slap some olives on the side and chase it with a decaf iced coffee and that meal fast becomes a breakfast my pregnant-self craves, while my pre-pregnancy self shudders in the corner and makes faces of disgust.

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