My primary hope writing this is coherence, as I usually wait some time to have semblance of bearings with difficult things. But, how do I even talk about this when I’ve always been such a failure at person-to-person discussions regarding things that are troubling for me? I’ve been trying the last week using likely the wrong supports most of the time, but they are around during the day when I either have time to think about or look at my beautiful boy knowing this experience is not the same on such an important level.
I retook my three-hour glucose test, which was an experience generally less heinous than the last; probably a consolation for the eventual news that I’m still diabetic, but at least my values make sense. They are different values this time. For simplicity it is easier to name them, and I apologize for the air of droning such description entails. This second round my fasting blood sugar lower, 76, but considering the last test had me at 80, I’m still a rock star on that front. Whereas my first test had my first hour draw within range, yesterday’s was 207…well above anything remotely desirable (I think the maximum level allowed is 180). My first test had my second hour draw nine above the range, but dropping as it is supposed to. Yesterday’s rose to 217. For my final draw three hours after chugging the drink that somehow missed its place in the history of noteworthy culinary excellence spiked to 180 when it should have been close to fasting levels. That was the rub that had me retake the test; apparently with a fasting level of 80, such a spike is not possible. Yesterday’s third draw level dropped off a cliff to 86. The range would have respected a 140 level. My dad said it’s strange to drop like that, but it sounds like it’s nothing that indicates a problem with the test. Other than knowing there is a problem, I couldn’t describe much else.
The referral from my Ob-Gyn’s office is in transit as we speak. I was told to call later this afternoon to make an appointment with the diabetes clinic. So, there it is.
I can’t stop myself from crying about this whole situation; it’s been like this for a week now. I’m not even sure why that is, but I’ve had plenty of people telling me not to worry about it because it will be fine (translation: You’re behaving like an overly emotional child.) or it’s for the health of the baby…maybe I’ll be added as a footnote (translation: You’re behaving selfishly about your objection to experiencing this entire process.). The thing is, I know all of this, and I can’t tell anyone why I’m so upset. Yes, the prospect of stabbing myself with a needle seven times a day to check my blood sugar (I asked my endocrinologist to look at my blood work in the system, even though she will not be involved in the treatment.) leaves me nauseated with anxiety. Apparently, it really isn’t a big deal as EVERY FUCKING PERSON begins to describe in great detail the specifics of the sugar checking experience and how minor this entire situation is.
My endocrinologist thinks I may very well need insulin; who knows…It isn’t like I have a handle on anything anyway. Let’s just add to the situation because more is really moot at this point. It’s just a flood of what the rest of this pregnancy will be like until I actually start the process. I suppose I should feel sick by how dire my second opinion was regarding my results; honestly, I’m not. I told my dad; he doesn’t understand her assessment, saying no one has a blood sugar result under 120 one hour after eating. When you look at the test range, the lab agrees. My gut tells me she wasn’t careful looking at my results for something she didn’t order and doesn’t routinely do; not the first time I’ve had this problem with her, but appreciate her willingness to help. It was worth a try for some clarity before my first appointment with the clinic. The desperation for a foothold I’ve been feeling for a week borders pathetic. Maybe what bothers me so much is that I was too eager to reach out for something I knew would likely be unhelpful, but wanted so very much to believe that maybe someone in this moment could give me a structure to clutch as I feel myself sink.
Yet, when I read her message, the floodgates opened, and I can’t control the weeping. Why is that? I’m not worse or better off than I have been. Nothing is relieving this horrible pit feeling. It’s just more waiting until the process begins.
I don’t know why this is so difficult. I suppose I should have some deep Mommy dramatic crusade that I worry for the life of my daughter, but I don’t. She’ll be fine, and behaving like a pain in the ass around our house in no time. I’ll have to make whatever lifestyle changes this process requires; fine. I can’t imagine it will be anything so dramatic that I’ll look like the lost tribe that managed to find civilization centuries later. Okay, I have to do something about my chocolate intake; I’m sure I can figure something out as an alternative. I’ve already cut it back almost entirely once I found out I had a problem with my glucose levels. Sure, I don’t know what the specifics of my diet will be, but I’m fairly certain virtually freebasing anything from the cacao plant is out. I’ve mentioned the needle thing; whatever, I’ll deal. It likely won’t be the most painful or unpleasant experience of my life even if you disregard the blessing of vaginal childbirth. I can’t imagine I’ll need insulin. I haven’t found much online that is helpful, but the few message boards I’ve perused described women with more significant glucose issues who were managed with diet. I have a friend having her second round of pretty severe and hard to control gestational diabetes; she didn’t need insulin. I’ll get a handle on the appointments and classes and whatever else I have to schlep a toddler to who will undoubtedly save his best tantrums for such occasions…Do they make baby Valium? Maybe I should take my own and let him do his thing…He’s cute; they’ll deal…
So, why am I an absolute mess when I think too much about all of this? What is my problem because it very much is my problem, which I am reminded fairly frequently when I start trying to talk about it? I know the people who love me have the best intentions, and it’s hard to know what to say. Maybe it’s loneliness. Maybe it’s fear, but I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Maybe as much as I know I didn’t cause this to happen with this pregnancy, didn’t I on some level?
My son knows Mommy has not been her best the past week. He gives me pats on my thigh and sweet looks when I’m staring off into space. He cuddles me and pats his sister with his delicate, small hands. The Warrior Queen, however, gives me a strong jab, “Suck it up and push through.”