Ever since I was diagnosed with GD and had measurements where I seemed to be ahead of schedule, not to mention discovering that many doctors want to induce when you're insulin dependent, I have had some anxiety about what was going on. Add in the anxiety I already had about the fact that I had a low-lying placenta that might require a c-section, and I was pretty nervous going to my visit today. (Truth be told, a lot of my anxiety was probably because there were only questions--no answers and no plan--and you should all be quite familiar with my love of a plan by now).
So, we started with an ultrasound for the growth check. Turns out, everything is going extremely well. The GD has not made my daughter too big. She is currently measuring 5 1/2 lbs, which puts her in the 71st percentile in terms of size, and a mere 5 days ahead of schedule. She is head down and facing my back--the ideal position (an overachiever already!). She refuses to move from this position, even when prodded by the ultrasound tech in order to try and determine whether the placenta moved.
The tech also confirmed that the placenta had moved. Although she couldn't tell exactly how far it had moved, given my daughter's stubborn refusal to move, she could determine that it was far enough away that it was no longer considered low-lying, so a c-section is not required.
After the ultrasound, I met with another one of the docs in the practice (they are busy having me meet as many of them as possible since there's no telling who will be on-call when my daughter decides to arrive--so far I have liked them all, though I'm still holding out hope I get my doc--she's the best!). The doc upped my insulin some, but thought things were going well. When I expressed my frustration that some of my numbers did weird things even though I ate the same thing everyday, she assured me that those were perfectly normal. She said that when people don't have those wild outliers in their numbers, they are usually faking their numbers. Yay! I can stop beating myself up about that.
I was also reminded of why I love this practice so much, as they dealt with my last concern--whether being insulin dependent made it likely they would have to induce me early or not let me go past my due date. They do not subscribe to that theory. As long as there is nothing going on (high blood pressure, issues with the baby, etc), they will wait for the baby to make her appearance and not induce early or even on my due date.
So, with the exception of the need for insulin, I am having a normal, healthy pregnancy and everything is on schedule for a spontaneous, natural childbirth on baby's schedule. Now the only thing left to do is rein in my control needs and quit worrying about that. :)
10.14.2010
10.08.2010
Be Careful What You Wish For
We've all heard it said--be careful what you wish you, you just might get it. For me, it's not the fervent wishes I make over and over with my whole heart that come true. No, it's the off-handed little wish I make on the spur of the moment and never think about again. In fact, it usually turns out that I didn't think enough about it at the time I made it, either.
The best example of this is from my time in college. I was having a rough week. Okay, a rough few months. I really wanted to be able to opt out for a little while, so I made a small wish. Not a "real" wish. Just one of those, off-the-cuff, spur-of-the-moment thoughts we've all had, only I really meant it when I made it. I wished for an appendicitis. Yes, I thought this would be the simple answer to my problems. A quick trip to the hospital, an easy fix, and a few days off. I never really believed it would happen. It was just one of those thoughts. And I totally forgot about it after I did it. Flash forward two years. Boom! I get a ruptured appendix along with a week stay in the hospital and months of recuperation afterwards. I got what I wished for alright, but not when I wanted it, or how I wanted it. Worse, I had no idea until, oh, last year, that "getting" my wish had caused infertility. Needless to say, I got a lot more than I bargained for with my wish. Had I but known, I would have been much more careful about what I put out there.
You would think that I would learn a lot from that experience. And you would be mostly right. But that doesn't stop me from being stupid. See, it turns out that, much like wishes, prayers often work in ways you don't expect. For example, if you pray for patience, you don't magically receive patience. Instead, you receive lots of opportunities to develop and practice patience. Not exactly what you want when you're already frustrated and low on patience.
So really, I ought to have known better--I mean really, really known better--before I informed family, friends, the universe, God, and whomever else, that part of why I wanted to have children was to learn how to go with the flow and be less of a control freak. Because that's precisely what is driving me crazy right now about GD and my daughter's "due" date. I am so not the one in control. Turns out, there was nothing I could do to prevent the GD. Structuring my diet didn't work. Taking insulin this week has resulted in only 1 good fasting number and some good after-meal numbers, but nothing that I can hang my hat on. For goodness sake, I ate a brilliant low-carb dinner this evening with all the food groups but dairy, and ended up with a frickin' 134! I am not in control of my body. No matter what I do, I can't make it do what it's supposed to. And this frustrates me to the very core of my being.
On top of it all, there's this whole thing about the baby coming when she's ready. This makes it hard to plan maternity leave and get all my ducks in a row. How will I know how much leave time I will have saved up? How do I know when to call the disability insurance people so I can get the paperwork started so my doctor's office can fill it out and get it back to me in time when I don't know when the disability will actually start? Will my daughter be here before Thanksgiving when all the family comes to visit, or will she wait? Will she come too early--like in the next 25 days or so, before she's considered term? Now that I have GD and am on insulin, will I be allowed to progress past my due date, or will they induce me? Too many questions, not enough answers or control.
Also, I have discovered that I am more frightened of natural birth than I am of a C-section. Why? For starters, I have had enough abdominal surgery in my lifetime that a C-section feels like the known entity while natural birth is the scary unknown. But, I know deep down it's also that C-sections are controlled. In some cases, they are scheduled, so you even know when they will be. How great is that for a compulsive planner, right? There's also no big mystery of how long will it take (about an hour), what will it feel like, will it hurt, etc. And it is precisely for all of these reasons that I'm fairly certain I will not end up having one. Because for me to truly experience this lack of control that I requested, I have to experience the surprise of labor and delivery on my daughter's terms. She picks when and how long and how hard and everything else. I requested the opportunity to learn to go with the flow and that is precisely what I got. No matter how frustrated and infuriated I get with these issues, this is, in fact, what I signed up for. I really ought not be surprised.
The best example of this is from my time in college. I was having a rough week. Okay, a rough few months. I really wanted to be able to opt out for a little while, so I made a small wish. Not a "real" wish. Just one of those, off-the-cuff, spur-of-the-moment thoughts we've all had, only I really meant it when I made it. I wished for an appendicitis. Yes, I thought this would be the simple answer to my problems. A quick trip to the hospital, an easy fix, and a few days off. I never really believed it would happen. It was just one of those thoughts. And I totally forgot about it after I did it. Flash forward two years. Boom! I get a ruptured appendix along with a week stay in the hospital and months of recuperation afterwards. I got what I wished for alright, but not when I wanted it, or how I wanted it. Worse, I had no idea until, oh, last year, that "getting" my wish had caused infertility. Needless to say, I got a lot more than I bargained for with my wish. Had I but known, I would have been much more careful about what I put out there.
You would think that I would learn a lot from that experience. And you would be mostly right. But that doesn't stop me from being stupid. See, it turns out that, much like wishes, prayers often work in ways you don't expect. For example, if you pray for patience, you don't magically receive patience. Instead, you receive lots of opportunities to develop and practice patience. Not exactly what you want when you're already frustrated and low on patience.
So really, I ought to have known better--I mean really, really known better--before I informed family, friends, the universe, God, and whomever else, that part of why I wanted to have children was to learn how to go with the flow and be less of a control freak. Because that's precisely what is driving me crazy right now about GD and my daughter's "due" date. I am so not the one in control. Turns out, there was nothing I could do to prevent the GD. Structuring my diet didn't work. Taking insulin this week has resulted in only 1 good fasting number and some good after-meal numbers, but nothing that I can hang my hat on. For goodness sake, I ate a brilliant low-carb dinner this evening with all the food groups but dairy, and ended up with a frickin' 134! I am not in control of my body. No matter what I do, I can't make it do what it's supposed to. And this frustrates me to the very core of my being.
On top of it all, there's this whole thing about the baby coming when she's ready. This makes it hard to plan maternity leave and get all my ducks in a row. How will I know how much leave time I will have saved up? How do I know when to call the disability insurance people so I can get the paperwork started so my doctor's office can fill it out and get it back to me in time when I don't know when the disability will actually start? Will my daughter be here before Thanksgiving when all the family comes to visit, or will she wait? Will she come too early--like in the next 25 days or so, before she's considered term? Now that I have GD and am on insulin, will I be allowed to progress past my due date, or will they induce me? Too many questions, not enough answers or control.
Also, I have discovered that I am more frightened of natural birth than I am of a C-section. Why? For starters, I have had enough abdominal surgery in my lifetime that a C-section feels like the known entity while natural birth is the scary unknown. But, I know deep down it's also that C-sections are controlled. In some cases, they are scheduled, so you even know when they will be. How great is that for a compulsive planner, right? There's also no big mystery of how long will it take (about an hour), what will it feel like, will it hurt, etc. And it is precisely for all of these reasons that I'm fairly certain I will not end up having one. Because for me to truly experience this lack of control that I requested, I have to experience the surprise of labor and delivery on my daughter's terms. She picks when and how long and how hard and everything else. I requested the opportunity to learn to go with the flow and that is precisely what I got. No matter how frustrated and infuriated I get with these issues, this is, in fact, what I signed up for. I really ought not be surprised.
9.30.2010
Approaching the Great Unknown
So, today I got the news I didn't want. I'm being put on insulin. I'm not terribly surprised by the news, just frustrated. Now I have to go to another class to learn about giving myself injections. On the bright side, it's only once a day, likely in the morning. On the downside, although I am extremely good at giving myself shots in the stomach, that is not currently an option. I think I'll have to do them in the thigh--something they'll teach me in the class.
Otherwise, my daughter is doing well, although she is measuring big. There's this neat trick they do late in pregnancy where they measure how many centimeters high your uterus is. The number is usually a rough estimate of your weeks of pregnancy. So, if you're 28 weeks, they expect to see you at plus or minus 2 cm--so anything in the 26-30 range. Well, I previously measured larger, but within the range. First I was 1 cm ahead, then 2. Now, it's 4. I'm officially outside of the normal range. Ironically, the nurse said I ought to be scheduled me for a growth ultrasound, but I told them I was already scheduled for one because of the IVF. So, now I'm being monitored because I have one risk factor for an underweight baby, and one risk factor for an overweight baby. I have decided that this simply means she's going to be the perfect size. Still, it's all a little overwhelming.
In any event, I have now entered the phase where they will see me every two weeks, instead of every month. But, starting in 4 weeks, I go to 2 visits a week, one of which lasts about 2 hours. Holy cow! How can anyone get anything else done with all these doctor visits?! But, I can be (and am) grateful that I am not in pain, have not been given bed rest, and everything is otherwise going extremely well. I can't really believe how close we are to done. I am less than 2 months away from the baby that has been 3 years in the making. It's amazing and mind-boggling. I am equal parts excited and terrified. For as crazy as this ride has already been, it's really just starting. I am about to bring a tiny person into this world. And if she's anything like her parents, we're in for quite a time.
Otherwise, my daughter is doing well, although she is measuring big. There's this neat trick they do late in pregnancy where they measure how many centimeters high your uterus is. The number is usually a rough estimate of your weeks of pregnancy. So, if you're 28 weeks, they expect to see you at plus or minus 2 cm--so anything in the 26-30 range. Well, I previously measured larger, but within the range. First I was 1 cm ahead, then 2. Now, it's 4. I'm officially outside of the normal range. Ironically, the nurse said I ought to be scheduled me for a growth ultrasound, but I told them I was already scheduled for one because of the IVF. So, now I'm being monitored because I have one risk factor for an underweight baby, and one risk factor for an overweight baby. I have decided that this simply means she's going to be the perfect size. Still, it's all a little overwhelming.
In any event, I have now entered the phase where they will see me every two weeks, instead of every month. But, starting in 4 weeks, I go to 2 visits a week, one of which lasts about 2 hours. Holy cow! How can anyone get anything else done with all these doctor visits?! But, I can be (and am) grateful that I am not in pain, have not been given bed rest, and everything is otherwise going extremely well. I can't really believe how close we are to done. I am less than 2 months away from the baby that has been 3 years in the making. It's amazing and mind-boggling. I am equal parts excited and terrified. For as crazy as this ride has already been, it's really just starting. I am about to bring a tiny person into this world. And if she's anything like her parents, we're in for quite a time.
9.29.2010
Seasonal Preferences
I'm not really a fan of fall. In best to worst order, I rank the seasons as follows: spring, summer, fall, and winter.
Spring is best, hands down. It has my birthday (presents and candy), Easter (bunnies and candy), my favorite flowers (iris), my favorite weather (rain), and the green comes back! Plus, given how long winter lasts around here, I am always more than ready for the green to return. It can't come back soon enough. Spring is rebirth. It's cute baby animals, fewer layers of clothes, and warmer weather. Spring rocks.
Summer comes next because it is warm and, as a person who is perpetually cold, I am a fan of warm. I particularly love the warm rain. Plus, at least here in Michigan, the world is generally still green (unlike the lovely brown grass I had Texas). Were it not for spring, summer would be my favorite. In fact, I prefer warm so much, I made Phil promise not to move me to snow unless he really felt called to the job (and true to his word, even though he moved me to snow, he really is in the right place. But I digress...)
Fall is third. Although fall is arguably similar to spring (it even has its own candy holiday), I can barely rank it above winter. Fall is all about the colors of the world leaving and winter lasts so long it feels like they will never reappear. Fall makes me depressed just thinking it. I think this is mainly because I see it only as the portent of winter. Bad by association, I guess. Still, I do love the leaves changing colors, and it does often involve more rain. In fact, seeing the colorful leaves against the gray rainy sky is probably what redeems fall for me.
Winter is, has been, and will likely always be last. I don't care how many paid holidays it has, or how good the presents are, winter will never make it out of 4th place. I dread winter and count the days until spring. The only time I ever like snow is when it's coating everything, still pristine and white, and I don't have to be anywhere near it. If I can look at it through my window and not have to leave my house, then fine. Just make sure I have plenty of cocoa and books; warm, fuzzy socks; and my down comforter to wrap up in. But if I have to venture out into it, whether walking, driving, etc. I get frumpy and angry and all kinds of bad attitude. No thank you. And, since winter up here has asserted itself all over what are rightfully months belonging to fall and spring, it only exacerbates the dislike I have.
So, imagine my surprise when I discovered I was looking forward to fall this year. Sure, there's the obvious--my upcoming baby's birthday. But that wasn't it. I was actually looking forward to fall weather. This is unusual behavior indeed. After all, until this year, as far as I was concerned, anything below 70 degrees was cold. Period. So, the fact that it was 39 degrees this morning and I said nary a word, but went to work without a coat on, resulted in Phil making sure I wasn't a pod person. No, it turns out, I'm just a pregnant lady trying to stay cool.
I have actually never been more thankful to live in the North, where the summer temps that I usually found lacking became reasonably bearable. I have discovered that fall is a great season, at least this year, because it is perfect pregnant lady weather--highs in the 60s, lows in the 40s. Heaven! I know it's all hormonal and pregnancy-based, but given that I've spent a fair amount of time discussing the things I have suffered through with my pregnancy, I wanted to make sure to point out that I have found a few joys. And not being cold all the time is one of those. So, here's to hormones finally making me comfortably warm in places that are over-air-conditioned as well as the cool, fall outdoors.
And one final note: Although I doubt that this newfound love affair with cooler weather will last beyond the birth of my daughter (at least until either another pregnancy or menopause), I would like to thank her for timing her arrival so that my maternity leave falls during what is generally the snowiest part of the year. It is very thoughtful of her to keep me from having to drive to work in all the yucky weather. :)
Spring is best, hands down. It has my birthday (presents and candy), Easter (bunnies and candy), my favorite flowers (iris), my favorite weather (rain), and the green comes back! Plus, given how long winter lasts around here, I am always more than ready for the green to return. It can't come back soon enough. Spring is rebirth. It's cute baby animals, fewer layers of clothes, and warmer weather. Spring rocks.
Summer comes next because it is warm and, as a person who is perpetually cold, I am a fan of warm. I particularly love the warm rain. Plus, at least here in Michigan, the world is generally still green (unlike the lovely brown grass I had Texas). Were it not for spring, summer would be my favorite. In fact, I prefer warm so much, I made Phil promise not to move me to snow unless he really felt called to the job (and true to his word, even though he moved me to snow, he really is in the right place. But I digress...)
Fall is third. Although fall is arguably similar to spring (it even has its own candy holiday), I can barely rank it above winter. Fall is all about the colors of the world leaving and winter lasts so long it feels like they will never reappear. Fall makes me depressed just thinking it. I think this is mainly because I see it only as the portent of winter. Bad by association, I guess. Still, I do love the leaves changing colors, and it does often involve more rain. In fact, seeing the colorful leaves against the gray rainy sky is probably what redeems fall for me.
Winter is, has been, and will likely always be last. I don't care how many paid holidays it has, or how good the presents are, winter will never make it out of 4th place. I dread winter and count the days until spring. The only time I ever like snow is when it's coating everything, still pristine and white, and I don't have to be anywhere near it. If I can look at it through my window and not have to leave my house, then fine. Just make sure I have plenty of cocoa and books; warm, fuzzy socks; and my down comforter to wrap up in. But if I have to venture out into it, whether walking, driving, etc. I get frumpy and angry and all kinds of bad attitude. No thank you. And, since winter up here has asserted itself all over what are rightfully months belonging to fall and spring, it only exacerbates the dislike I have.
So, imagine my surprise when I discovered I was looking forward to fall this year. Sure, there's the obvious--my upcoming baby's birthday. But that wasn't it. I was actually looking forward to fall weather. This is unusual behavior indeed. After all, until this year, as far as I was concerned, anything below 70 degrees was cold. Period. So, the fact that it was 39 degrees this morning and I said nary a word, but went to work without a coat on, resulted in Phil making sure I wasn't a pod person. No, it turns out, I'm just a pregnant lady trying to stay cool.
I have actually never been more thankful to live in the North, where the summer temps that I usually found lacking became reasonably bearable. I have discovered that fall is a great season, at least this year, because it is perfect pregnant lady weather--highs in the 60s, lows in the 40s. Heaven! I know it's all hormonal and pregnancy-based, but given that I've spent a fair amount of time discussing the things I have suffered through with my pregnancy, I wanted to make sure to point out that I have found a few joys. And not being cold all the time is one of those. So, here's to hormones finally making me comfortably warm in places that are over-air-conditioned as well as the cool, fall outdoors.
And one final note: Although I doubt that this newfound love affair with cooler weather will last beyond the birth of my daughter (at least until either another pregnancy or menopause), I would like to thank her for timing her arrival so that my maternity leave falls during what is generally the snowiest part of the year. It is very thoughtful of her to keep me from having to drive to work in all the yucky weather. :)
9.26.2010
The Ultimate Frustration
It's been a rough few weeks for me with this whole gestational diabetes thing. Initially, it seemed like it might be alright. After all, all of my numbers responded well, except for the morning fasting number. But, the dietitian had said that was the most difficult one to get in order, so I was frustrated, but I still felt properly motivated by the proper response of the after-meal numbers.
Then came the day I almost met the fasting number. I need to be below 95 and I got a 96. I was ecstatic! Then came my after-breakfast number. 121. What?! I eat the same breakfast everyday. How could that number suddenly be outside the acceptable range (100-120)? Worse, it also managed to throw off my numbers most of the day. So, after running high all day, my fasting number the next day was high again--but the others cooperated. Then, I discovered that lunch is almost always below my range. I get in the 90s. So, I started eating more carbs at lunch. I got as high as like 80 carbs (I'm only supposed to have 60) and was still getting around 109. Weird, but everything else (except the fasting number) seemed fine, so I just added more fruit to my lunches. I also discovered that not all carbs are created equal--and I'm not just talking about the junk food kind. I could eat 40 carbs for a late-night snack if I ate pretzels with peanut butter and get great morning numbers, but have only 30 carbs of ice cream and get much higher numbers. Turns out that milk and fruit sugars hit me harder than the others and my blood sugar just doesn't recover the same way.
So anyway, I think I've finally hit a good groove with getting all my numbers but my fasting one within range. About a week later, I again achieved the magic 96. As before, I ate the exact same breakfast I had eaten for the previous 2 weeks. Breakfast number--164! I didn't even get a number that high the morning I had eaten 3 McDonald's breakfast burritos and a 32oz Sweet Tea! At this point, I was ready to go out and get myself a nice big meal from McDonald's and chuck the whole plan. If the numbers refuse to have any correlation to what I'm eating, what is the point. Well, the point is that I would be hurting both myself and my daughter. But that didn't really stop the frustration.
See, I am almost entirely motivated by results. If I work my tail off and get nowhere, I don't see the point in working that hard anymore. With my willpower failing and my frustration at an all time high, I called the dietitian. I told her my problem and she reiterated that morning numbers are the most difficult to get into line. I told her I understood that, but what I didn't understand was why the same breakfast gave me such wildly different numbers, especially when I would get so close to the fasting number, and yet could carbo-load at lunch with no consequences. She suggested trying to eat a few more carbs on those mornings when my number was lower, counter-intuitively. She suggested maybe my body thought the number was too low and was pumping out sugar to compensate, thus raising it too high. I have not had the opportunity to try this theory out yet--hard enough to find that magic 96 in the first place--but I plan to try it when I do.
The best thing she said to me, however, was that this sometimes happens and that she understood how extremely frustrating it was for me. Turns out that there isn't necessarily a one-to-one correlation between what you eat and what your blood sugar is. Eating the same thing at the same time every day can give you wildly different results. She also indicated that as my daughter grows, I'll need more and more insulin, meaning that my numbers may get progressively worse without my doing anything different--I'm just getting more resistant. Frustrating, but nothing I can do anything about, except keep doing my best to follow the rules. I'll see the doctor later this week to go over my numbers and see what they think about how I'm doing. I'm hopeful that they'll tell me my numbers are close enough. If not, well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.
Then came the day I almost met the fasting number. I need to be below 95 and I got a 96. I was ecstatic! Then came my after-breakfast number. 121. What?! I eat the same breakfast everyday. How could that number suddenly be outside the acceptable range (100-120)? Worse, it also managed to throw off my numbers most of the day. So, after running high all day, my fasting number the next day was high again--but the others cooperated. Then, I discovered that lunch is almost always below my range. I get in the 90s. So, I started eating more carbs at lunch. I got as high as like 80 carbs (I'm only supposed to have 60) and was still getting around 109. Weird, but everything else (except the fasting number) seemed fine, so I just added more fruit to my lunches. I also discovered that not all carbs are created equal--and I'm not just talking about the junk food kind. I could eat 40 carbs for a late-night snack if I ate pretzels with peanut butter and get great morning numbers, but have only 30 carbs of ice cream and get much higher numbers. Turns out that milk and fruit sugars hit me harder than the others and my blood sugar just doesn't recover the same way.
So anyway, I think I've finally hit a good groove with getting all my numbers but my fasting one within range. About a week later, I again achieved the magic 96. As before, I ate the exact same breakfast I had eaten for the previous 2 weeks. Breakfast number--164! I didn't even get a number that high the morning I had eaten 3 McDonald's breakfast burritos and a 32oz Sweet Tea! At this point, I was ready to go out and get myself a nice big meal from McDonald's and chuck the whole plan. If the numbers refuse to have any correlation to what I'm eating, what is the point. Well, the point is that I would be hurting both myself and my daughter. But that didn't really stop the frustration.
See, I am almost entirely motivated by results. If I work my tail off and get nowhere, I don't see the point in working that hard anymore. With my willpower failing and my frustration at an all time high, I called the dietitian. I told her my problem and she reiterated that morning numbers are the most difficult to get into line. I told her I understood that, but what I didn't understand was why the same breakfast gave me such wildly different numbers, especially when I would get so close to the fasting number, and yet could carbo-load at lunch with no consequences. She suggested trying to eat a few more carbs on those mornings when my number was lower, counter-intuitively. She suggested maybe my body thought the number was too low and was pumping out sugar to compensate, thus raising it too high. I have not had the opportunity to try this theory out yet--hard enough to find that magic 96 in the first place--but I plan to try it when I do.
The best thing she said to me, however, was that this sometimes happens and that she understood how extremely frustrating it was for me. Turns out that there isn't necessarily a one-to-one correlation between what you eat and what your blood sugar is. Eating the same thing at the same time every day can give you wildly different results. She also indicated that as my daughter grows, I'll need more and more insulin, meaning that my numbers may get progressively worse without my doing anything different--I'm just getting more resistant. Frustrating, but nothing I can do anything about, except keep doing my best to follow the rules. I'll see the doctor later this week to go over my numbers and see what they think about how I'm doing. I'm hopeful that they'll tell me my numbers are close enough. If not, well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.
9.15.2010
Needles Redux
As some of you know, I was recently diagnosed with gestational diabetes. For the woman whose diet is pretty much all carbs, this diagnosis turned my world upside down. Whether it's my love affair with all things dairy, my favorite vegetables (sweet potatoes, carrots, corn, peas, beans), my sweet tooth, or the fact that I love breaded meat, my whole diet is pretty much shot. Worse, I have to poke myself 4 times a day. I honestly thought that once the IVF was over, my needle days were done. Apparently not.
Ever since the diagnosis, I have been feeling frustrated and anxious. I saw the doctor today about unrelated matters, and asked her whether I had done something to cause this. She reassured me that my eating habits were not to blame. I didn't do anything wrong. This just happens sometimes. I keep reminding myself of this, but I'm still feeling responsible and internally beating myself up because I feel that I have put my daughter at risk. However, I do recognize that beating myself up about it won't change anything, so while I am working on remembering that this is "just one of those things," I am also working on altering my diet as instructed.
So, yeah, about that diet-altering stuff. I was initially under the impression that this would not be terribly difficult. After all, only 2 of my 4 numbers during the test had been elevated and they weren't that high. I attended a class at the diabetes clinic on eating where they informed me that even though some things had carbs, I did not have to count them in my carb totals. Cashews, for example, were a free food. Carrots and tomatoes could also be eaten as often as I wanted, as could cheese. Anything that had fiber numbers in the carb count I could subtract out. Let's say a slice of bread has 9 carbs, but 2 g of fiber, I could count the bread as 7 carbs in my meal total. Hooray!, I thought to myself. I might be able to manage this after all.
Even so, I knew I had to make sacrifices. I gave up my Oreos and Cheez-its, french fries, and chips. I also gave up my sweet tea(!), soda, lemonade, and anything that wasn't water, V8, or unsweetened, decaf iced tea. Since my carbs were limited, I really wanted to make them count. The only junk food I permitted to remain was ice cream, as I could have a single scoop for my evening snack, as both a treat and a serving of dairy. Win-win!
I knew breakfast would be hard. It was not only my biggest carb meal of the day and now had to be the smallest, but it was pretty much just that--all carbs. I had to throw out everything I usually ate--a bagel, coming in at a whopping 50 carbs, before the cream cheese and jelly (I'm only allowed 45 at most for breakfast); breakfast cereal (all carbs); and orange juice (this is, after all, what is given to those suffering from hypoglycemia). No problem, I meandered through my freezer and located breakfast sandwiches that came in at a lowly 26 carbs. My breakfast range is 30-45, so I was clearly under, but I was determined to see a good number, particularly since I'd only managed 1 good number so far. I was left VERY hungry, as one small breakfast sandwich does not a meal make (I used to eat at least two), but having not been able to go to the store yet had made finding things in the house to eat rather difficult, and eating out was way worse.
So, I had my little sandwich and waited the requisite 2 hours before testing. Got a 119--cutoff is 120. Crap. I ate less than the minimum amount of carbs and was barely in the range. Coming after two consecutive high readings, I was not happy. Still, I was starving and it was time for a snack. I elected to have a V8, coming in at a whopping 15 carbs (snacks are 15-30). Although technically V8 is a "free" food, I elected to go ahead and count it in an effort to keep my numbers in line. Lunch time came. Range for lunch is 45-60. The previous day I had eaten 56 carbs and my lunch number was 100. Feeling pretty good about lunch, I ventured again into the 56 range. Lunch number--134! Crap part deux.
I had Greek yogurt for my next snack (19 carbs) to get some dairy and protein in, but was still feeling peckish, so I dipped into my bowl of cashews--a free food, so this should be fine, right? Wrong! As I am refilling the bowl, the bag informs me that each serving has 9 carbs. Aragh! So, since free foods aren't really carb free, and given that I can barely keep my numbers in line when I'm eating below the low end of the carb range, I'm not sure there's really such a thing as a free food--except maybe water. Harrumph.
It's now dinnertime. With the exception of my broccoli (which, although technically free, does, in fact, have carbs as my Google-Fu has just informed me), I managed to eek out a dinner with dairy, veggies, meat (chicken and fish), and bread that came in at 50 carbs (although I probably have to count it as 59 with the broccoli). Now, I must wait two hours and see what happens. Hopefully, my numbers will be in range, although with the cashew debacle from snack time, who knows what will happen. I will eat my snack tonight and then tomorrow will eat the minimum carb at each meal, making sure to count every carb. I will not count anything as "free" and will not subtract out dietary fiber from the count. I am hopeful that by doing so, I will get my numbers under control. If not, I have the sinking suspicion that I will soon be on insulin. More needles. Oh, joy. To this, I have but one reply. L'Oreal.*
*See previous post for reference.
Ever since the diagnosis, I have been feeling frustrated and anxious. I saw the doctor today about unrelated matters, and asked her whether I had done something to cause this. She reassured me that my eating habits were not to blame. I didn't do anything wrong. This just happens sometimes. I keep reminding myself of this, but I'm still feeling responsible and internally beating myself up because I feel that I have put my daughter at risk. However, I do recognize that beating myself up about it won't change anything, so while I am working on remembering that this is "just one of those things," I am also working on altering my diet as instructed.
So, yeah, about that diet-altering stuff. I was initially under the impression that this would not be terribly difficult. After all, only 2 of my 4 numbers during the test had been elevated and they weren't that high. I attended a class at the diabetes clinic on eating where they informed me that even though some things had carbs, I did not have to count them in my carb totals. Cashews, for example, were a free food. Carrots and tomatoes could also be eaten as often as I wanted, as could cheese. Anything that had fiber numbers in the carb count I could subtract out. Let's say a slice of bread has 9 carbs, but 2 g of fiber, I could count the bread as 7 carbs in my meal total. Hooray!, I thought to myself. I might be able to manage this after all.
Even so, I knew I had to make sacrifices. I gave up my Oreos and Cheez-its, french fries, and chips. I also gave up my sweet tea(!), soda, lemonade, and anything that wasn't water, V8, or unsweetened, decaf iced tea. Since my carbs were limited, I really wanted to make them count. The only junk food I permitted to remain was ice cream, as I could have a single scoop for my evening snack, as both a treat and a serving of dairy. Win-win!
I knew breakfast would be hard. It was not only my biggest carb meal of the day and now had to be the smallest, but it was pretty much just that--all carbs. I had to throw out everything I usually ate--a bagel, coming in at a whopping 50 carbs, before the cream cheese and jelly (I'm only allowed 45 at most for breakfast); breakfast cereal (all carbs); and orange juice (this is, after all, what is given to those suffering from hypoglycemia). No problem, I meandered through my freezer and located breakfast sandwiches that came in at a lowly 26 carbs. My breakfast range is 30-45, so I was clearly under, but I was determined to see a good number, particularly since I'd only managed 1 good number so far. I was left VERY hungry, as one small breakfast sandwich does not a meal make (I used to eat at least two), but having not been able to go to the store yet had made finding things in the house to eat rather difficult, and eating out was way worse.
So, I had my little sandwich and waited the requisite 2 hours before testing. Got a 119--cutoff is 120. Crap. I ate less than the minimum amount of carbs and was barely in the range. Coming after two consecutive high readings, I was not happy. Still, I was starving and it was time for a snack. I elected to have a V8, coming in at a whopping 15 carbs (snacks are 15-30). Although technically V8 is a "free" food, I elected to go ahead and count it in an effort to keep my numbers in line. Lunch time came. Range for lunch is 45-60. The previous day I had eaten 56 carbs and my lunch number was 100. Feeling pretty good about lunch, I ventured again into the 56 range. Lunch number--134! Crap part deux.
I had Greek yogurt for my next snack (19 carbs) to get some dairy and protein in, but was still feeling peckish, so I dipped into my bowl of cashews--a free food, so this should be fine, right? Wrong! As I am refilling the bowl, the bag informs me that each serving has 9 carbs. Aragh! So, since free foods aren't really carb free, and given that I can barely keep my numbers in line when I'm eating below the low end of the carb range, I'm not sure there's really such a thing as a free food--except maybe water. Harrumph.
It's now dinnertime. With the exception of my broccoli (which, although technically free, does, in fact, have carbs as my Google-Fu has just informed me), I managed to eek out a dinner with dairy, veggies, meat (chicken and fish), and bread that came in at 50 carbs (although I probably have to count it as 59 with the broccoli). Now, I must wait two hours and see what happens. Hopefully, my numbers will be in range, although with the cashew debacle from snack time, who knows what will happen. I will eat my snack tonight and then tomorrow will eat the minimum carb at each meal, making sure to count every carb. I will not count anything as "free" and will not subtract out dietary fiber from the count. I am hopeful that by doing so, I will get my numbers under control. If not, I have the sinking suspicion that I will soon be on insulin. More needles. Oh, joy. To this, I have but one reply. L'Oreal.*
*See previous post for reference.
9.12.2010
Strong Women
As my pregnancy has progressed and my little girl gets more active, I have become much more attached and bonded with her. It has also helped me understand things that previously frustrated me about adoption.
Let me take a few steps back. Simply put, pregnancy is natural. That does not, however, equate with easy. It is hard on the body. Even the easiest pregnancy takes its toll. Indeed, I have taken to calling my little one "L'Oreal" anytime I am experiencing pregnancy-related hardship (because she's worth it). And, because I had so much difficulty getting pregnant, I often think that whatever I must endure for 9 months will surely be worth it. I found it interesting, then, that it was precisely because I had to work so hard and endure so much to become pregnant, that I suddenly understood why women would back out of the adoption process.
When Phil and I were researching our options once we were told that medical intervention would be necessary for us to have biological children, we considered adoption. The research indicated that the cost would be roughly the same for adoption or IVF and neither was a guaranteed success. Although there were unknowns and financial risks involved in either decision, what frustrated me most about adoption was that I was sinking a lot of money into a woman who could change her mind, leaving me in debt and without a child. Although cognitively, I understood that IVF rendered a similar risk, the difference was that if IVF didn't work, it was my body or medicine that let me down, not the whims of another person. I found myself frustrated and angry at all the stories of women who would offer their children up for adoption, only to change their minds at the last minute, leaving the prospective adoptive parents mourning the loss of another child. How could they do that? They made an agreement--they ought to be held to the agreement.
Well, I get it now. At least, I think I do. The emotional pull created by feeling the baby kicking is indescribable. I would imagine that knowing cognitively that giving up the baby is the right thing to do has little to no power over the emotional pull of wanting to see, hold, nurture, or raise the baby. Having this new understanding has led me to marvel at the birth mothers who have been able to go through with handing their children over for others to raise. I finally have some small insight into just how difficult that must be. These are very strong women, indeed.
My amazement is even greater for those women who become pregnant from rape or incest and choose to have the children--whether keeping them or giving them up for adoption. This amazes me in large part because every time I feel my daughter kick, I am reminded of how much I want her and the experiences I had that brought me to this point. How would I feel if the experience that created her had been violent or horrific? My mind cannot even fathom what feeling the baby kick under those circumstances must feel like. Women who can carry these children must be strong indeed.
And so I want to offer thanks to these women, and honor them for their sacrifice--giving of themselves, their time, their emotions, and their bodies, to birth these unintended children. I am truly amazed and awed at the level of strength they must have. And I am grateful that my pregnancy has allowed me the opportunity to recognize their sacrifices.
Let me take a few steps back. Simply put, pregnancy is natural. That does not, however, equate with easy. It is hard on the body. Even the easiest pregnancy takes its toll. Indeed, I have taken to calling my little one "L'Oreal" anytime I am experiencing pregnancy-related hardship (because she's worth it). And, because I had so much difficulty getting pregnant, I often think that whatever I must endure for 9 months will surely be worth it. I found it interesting, then, that it was precisely because I had to work so hard and endure so much to become pregnant, that I suddenly understood why women would back out of the adoption process.
When Phil and I were researching our options once we were told that medical intervention would be necessary for us to have biological children, we considered adoption. The research indicated that the cost would be roughly the same for adoption or IVF and neither was a guaranteed success. Although there were unknowns and financial risks involved in either decision, what frustrated me most about adoption was that I was sinking a lot of money into a woman who could change her mind, leaving me in debt and without a child. Although cognitively, I understood that IVF rendered a similar risk, the difference was that if IVF didn't work, it was my body or medicine that let me down, not the whims of another person. I found myself frustrated and angry at all the stories of women who would offer their children up for adoption, only to change their minds at the last minute, leaving the prospective adoptive parents mourning the loss of another child. How could they do that? They made an agreement--they ought to be held to the agreement.
Well, I get it now. At least, I think I do. The emotional pull created by feeling the baby kicking is indescribable. I would imagine that knowing cognitively that giving up the baby is the right thing to do has little to no power over the emotional pull of wanting to see, hold, nurture, or raise the baby. Having this new understanding has led me to marvel at the birth mothers who have been able to go through with handing their children over for others to raise. I finally have some small insight into just how difficult that must be. These are very strong women, indeed.
My amazement is even greater for those women who become pregnant from rape or incest and choose to have the children--whether keeping them or giving them up for adoption. This amazes me in large part because every time I feel my daughter kick, I am reminded of how much I want her and the experiences I had that brought me to this point. How would I feel if the experience that created her had been violent or horrific? My mind cannot even fathom what feeling the baby kick under those circumstances must feel like. Women who can carry these children must be strong indeed.
And so I want to offer thanks to these women, and honor them for their sacrifice--giving of themselves, their time, their emotions, and their bodies, to birth these unintended children. I am truly amazed and awed at the level of strength they must have. And I am grateful that my pregnancy has allowed me the opportunity to recognize their sacrifices.
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