The big D

I'm generally a pretty tough cookie, but right now I feel about as fragile as the meringue on a coconut cream pie.

Oh, and you know how the meriungue sometimes “weeps”? Well, that makes it all the more appropriate of a comparison.

The reason? Like the old country song says, I may be “going through the Big D, and I don't mean Dallas.” Unlike the song, I don't mean “divorce.” Nor do I mean “depression,” although I'm feeling a touch of that, too.

I found out yesterday that I might have diabetes—of the gestational variety. I will know for sure tomorrow whether it's true or if it's just my hypchondria showing, but for now not knowing doesn't feel much better.

A few weeks ago, after taking the Glucose Tolerance Test, I was just one point shy of the “abnormal” mark, even after fasting for the previous 12 hours. During that initial test, my midwife mentioned that I should do my best to cut back on my sweets until Jacob arrived. It didn't sound like a dire warning, and I took it kind of like the urge from every doctor to exercise regularly and eat more vegetables: seriously but not SERIOUSLY.

Now, I wish I had gone with the “all caps” version of the word.

Over the last couple of weeks, I began experiencing some of the symptoms that are associated with Gestational Diabetes: burning feet, excessive thirst and frequent urination. But, then again, what lady who has gone through a summer with a growing baby inside of her HASN'T felt those things on a regular basis? I figured not a lot, so I pushed the thought to the back of my mind.

Then, after drinking 20-plus cups of water in a single day, I remembered that I never had the additional sugar test done that my midwife said she wanted me to have done as a precaution since I was borderline on the first test.

Being sqeaumish about my blood being drawn, I didn't mention it during my last couple of appointments. I figured what she didn't remember couldn't hurt me. But, then on Wednesday, my mothering instincts got the best of me. For Jacob’s sake, I ‘fessed up about needing another test during my 36-week appointment yesterday.

They took my blood pressure (good!), they charted down my weight (er, not so good, but then again I am growing a baby in my stomach), and then they did the dreaded finger prick. A few minutes later the doctor came in to say the results were a “little high” and they would need another blood test.

After much sobbing and whimpering—okay, I’m exaggerating—after only a LITTLE sobbing and whimpering, yet another vial of my blood was drawn. I should have the results at some point today.

I know that a lot of women have Gestational Diabetetes, and there are much worse things that could be happening. I also know that if I have it, I can't do the water birth that I planned and my chances of a C-section (a fear of mine that ranks up there with spiders and under-the-bed-witches) are increased. While walking out of the office, I kept reminding myself that whatever the results are, it won't be the end of the world.

Still, I couldn't help but feel guilty. Knowing I could have adversely affected Baby Jacob with my choices—choices that hardly seemed egregious at the time: driving to the mailbox instead of walking, eating that second (or third) cookie, having sweet tea instead of water—was a terrible thought. It reduced me to a pile of tears once we got back into the car.

In true awesome-husband form, Tom did his best to cheer me up by having a “conversation” with Jacob. He asked him if he minded not being born in water (the answer was apparently “no”), if he was mad at me (also a negative) and if he still loved me (that one was a “yes.” Phew.)

I'm trying to keep the whole thing in perspective, but for now, not knowing is the worst part. Oh, and now being able to drown my sorrows in a bucket of ice cream doesn’t help either.

(Note: By the time you read this, I’ll have my results back. I’ll update you in my next post.)