# BEAT THE BETES
This was my mantra for the last six weeks of my pregnancy. I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes late, mostly due to my own scheduling struggles balancing a summer holiday, with my sisters wedding, with arranging time to take the necessary tests. My older sister had also been diagnosed with it for her second pregnancy, so the idea wasn’t completely foreign to me. But I was terrified at the thought of having to prick my finger with a needle everyday. I proudly identify as a wimp when it comes to any form of a needle, so much that one of my biggest fears about delivery was having to sit there with an IV in my hand for an undetermined amount of time.
I showed up to my routine OBGYN appointment unaware it was test day, and walked in with a venti iced guava white tea lemonade. To my knowledge, fasting was not required so I didn’t think it would matter, but the reception quickly burst that bubble by pointing out that it probably wasn’t a great idea to show up to a blood sugar screening with a venti cup of sugar water. Don’t judge me; it was hot, I was thirsty and waddling. I call “mom brain” on this one. Nevertheless it meant I had to reschedule my appointment and when it finally came time to take the first 1 hour test, I showed up having secretly fasted. You have to chug this sugar bomb of a drink that tastes like a melted orange popsicle and wait an hour to have your blood test. It did me no good, I failed the test by scoring in limbo with a 8.2 glucose level; not high enough to be diagnosed but high enough to graduate to the 2 hour test. Lucky me! For the 2 hour test you are required to fast and I don’t know if it was the anxiety, the early morning appointment, or my empty stomach, but the second test was much more difficult. Upon arrival, you get an initial blood test. Then you drink the orange bomb, wait an hour and get another blood test. Then you wait around for a second hour post-orange bomb to get a third blood test. Half way through I remember informing the receptionist that I was about to be sick, to which she responded with “If you vomit, you have to come back and re-do the entire test.” The very idea of that brought out my inner nineteen year old determined to keep it together so the bouncer lets me in the bar and I sat there focusing on my breathing. Unfortunately, karma did not reward me for good behaviour and I failed the second test with results of 5.6, 12.0 and 9.8 glucose levels, and I was officially diagnosed with gestational diabetes.
I have to admit, I was surprised by the impact the diagnosis had on me. I knew it was a common symptom of pregnancy, and that in many cases (mine included) it was perceived more as a medical fluke than anything I had done wrong or had any control over. My medical history proved I had none of the previous risk factors, and was told by several doctors that “Sometimes the hormones in the placenta just hinder your body’s production of insulin.” I was told repeatedly “This is not your fault, sometimes it just happens!” But, sitting across from a nutritionalist and being told to cut back on my daily glass of orange juice in the morning, I still felt judged. I know, orange juice has a lot of sugar. But really, I’m being shamed over orange juice!? I didn’t touch alcohol my entire pregnancy, I’ve never smoked in my life, and tried everyday to exercise and eat a relatively well-balanced diet. I only gained 22lbs my entire pregnancy! And this nutritionalist is coming after me about a cup of orange juice with my morning oatmeal? It was all a bit of a blow to my morale.
What made things even harder was when despite all my efforts to strictly maintain a diabetes friendly diet, my daily blood sugar tests would produce a result over the target amount. In retrospect, I was lucky because it didn’t happen often. But boy was it frustrating to eat the same thing two days in a row and get different results. I remember walking into my next OBGYN appointment ready to plead my case to get the OK from my doctor to quit my diabetes, having determined it was worse for my emotional health. I’d been perfectly happy up until this point, and optimistically rolled with all the pregnancy punches. My doctor handled my emotionally unstable self perfectly, by explaining how the hormones it the placenta vary from day to day. That I could eat granola one day and score below targets, and eat that same granola the next day and my blood sugar levels could be through the roof. There was no rhyme or reason to it, and that it was absolutely reasonable for me to be feeling so frustrated. The occasional spike was normal and my overall levels were still considered to be controlled with diet, so I did not require any added insulin injections. She even encouraged me to cheat occasionally, so I didn’t drive myself crazy. After that appointment I turned the crazy dial down a bit and tried to not take the diagnosis too personally. After all, it was literally all my placenta’s fault. I still recorded my meals in my food journal, and took regular blood sugar tests four times a day. I didn’t panic over every little calorie, and when Chris and I went out for our last dinner date before baby, I didn’t hesitate when ordering my favourite things off of the menu. The restaurant was sold out of our favourite cheesecake, so Chris actually ordered it from a different restaurant down the road and picked it up for me to eat on the way home. Take out cheesecake? Ugh, this man, I’d marry him again if I could! To my shock and surprise, my blood sugar test didn’t even spike. It was like the pregnancy gods all got together and decided “Let’s let her have this one” and bless them for that!
As a result of having gestational diabetes, our little fetus was monitored and measured as my due date approached to avoid having a “jumbo baby” (as one sadistic nutritionalist I met with liked to say). Since I was successfully able to control my blood sugar levels with my diet, my pregnancy wasn’t considered too high-risk. Still, my OBGYN did not want me going much beyond 39 weeks which meant I was more than likely going to be induced. Also, it meant my glucose levels would be routinely checked throughout labour, and my baby would have three checks after it’s first three feeds. To our relief, Lou passed all three tests with flying colours! I was instructed that as soon as the placenta was gone, so was my gestational diabetes and I was free to resume life as normal.
And did I ever! Eating multiple Starbucks oat bars and drinking an entire jug of orange juice the first night. However, I had ulterior motives; as soon as you pee twice after delivery you get to have your IV taken out. Again, I was brought back to my nineteen year old self, and immediately started chugging straight from the bottle. I should mention, that it is recommended to proceed mindful of the fact that gestational diabetes can increase a woman’s risk for developing Type 2 diabetes later in life. I monitored my levels throughout postpartum and continue to be in communication with my doctor, just to be safe!
In the end, this was the biggest emotional challenge I experienced in my pregnancy. That feeling of having no control over my body and potentially the well-being of myself and my baby, was tough. There is no other way to put it! I remember crying on the couch and Chris, in an effort to console me said “I think you’re just taking this so hard because you always give 100% and it’s hard to accept trying so hard and failing. Nobody is perfect babe.” I continued to cry and jokingly responded “I am” but knew he was completely right. It was the lack of control over the end result that was the biggest hurdle. What it did give me was more eyes on my baby. A few extra appointments, a few extra doctors and in the end, a lot more care for our little pistachio. It was actual something worth being very grateful for, and I appreciate every ounce of extra care we received.
Except for the “jumbo baby” doctor… that man and I are still in a fight.
