14 weeks pregnant and ready to knock a bitch out.
I have gestational diabetes. That’s right folks….
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t upset about this information dropped on me the other day by my Nurse Ana. Bless her soul. She was so sweet about it when she saw my visibly upset reaction after telling me. I tried so hard not to let the tears fall, but I couldn’t help but feel like this was somehow my fault and that I failed myself and my child. I also am upset because who the hell doesn’t want to take this time of growing an actual human being inside your body to eat ALL the delicious snacks and just chill?! I was SO looking forward to not worrying about dieting for once. So sure, I have been enjoying myself so far, especially because alcohol is off the table (hello, desserts!), but I have also been eating like I normally do because stuffing my gullet with garbage ALL the time just feels like shit.
There’s so many factors that can contribute to a diagnosis of GD, not just a slight obsession with chocolate chip cookies and the like. I mean think about it, your body is only used to producing enough of the good stuff to get YOU through. Now it’s producing tons of energy, extra hormones and shit for that little bean growing inside you. It totally makes sense that my body just couldn’t keep up with the hormones and let my insulin levels slip, leaving the sugary, carby goodness to just sit in my veins instead of converting it to energy. So MAYBE it’s not totally my fault for enjoying some god damn ice cream…..
Enter my OB doctor and her awkward AF student nurse. Student Nurse awkwardly fumbles his papers and asks me if my blood pressure is always this high…. No, Toby, a small bomb of info was dropped on me just now, my anxiety is through the freakin’ roof, and I’m trying my hardest not to run out of this room to my car to let out a proper cry. “Oh oh okay” he says as he fumbles his folder and heart beat doppler in his hand to the counter. I shoot my husband Mike a look like, “who da fuq…” and then oh great! He’s the one who’s going to try and find the heart beat… swell.
After a few minutes, he finds it, thankfully. I wish I could say that instantly made my mood better, but it didn’t. All I could think about was how checking my sugar 4 times a day and following a regimented diet was not exactly going to be a lot of fun and I still couldn’t help but feel like it was all my fault and that I have no idea what’s going on and I’m confused because I have always been a healthy person my entire life. BREATHE. Basically, my mind is racing as fast as that little baby’s heart rate.
153 beats per minute I was told… and that was great. Good. Oh and we don’t have any developing birth defects or down syndrome. Double good. Then my OB proceeds to open her old lady hag mouth and starts spewing unsympathetic words upon me about the instruments I’ll be using and that I’ll meet with a dietician like this is just every day apples and oranges. She sees that I’m visibly upset, face red, trying to hold back tears, and asks if I’m okay. I’m feeling so many things in this moment that I don’t know how to pinpoint a word so I just tell her that I’m annoyed. She cocks her head in confusion, laughs and says “AT WHO?!” I responded with “Well, I don’t know… myself… the situation…” She now looks relieved that I’m not annoyed at HER (but that’s about to change REAL quick here) and she says “Oh.. Ha! well, yeah… you ARE overweight, so this is your wake up call…..”
I immediately hate this woman. WHO SAYS THAT?! You can take your BMI charts and shove them straight up your asshole, Susan. That is NOT the main reason why I now have GD. A fucking “wake up call”… yeah, it’s a wake up call alright… a wake up call to myself that I need to refuse to sit around and let other humans talk to me like I have zero feelings. I refuse to let this woman help birth my child and I refuse to take the sole blame for this diagnosis just because I am considered “obese” by medical standards.
Let me tell you, and you will hear a lot about my self love journey throughout this blog, I work hard at learning to love myself and this skin I am in. As women, we all have things we hate about ourselves, things we are jealous of and wish we had, ideas that we just will never be good enough. I work hard at letting those feelings go. I work hard at recognizing that I AM a damn good person, friend, wife and daughter. I try to tell myself daily that I’m a bad ass bitch, with a heart of gold and big, wonderful ass made for shaking. For my OB, the person who is to help, support and guide me through my FIRST pregnancy, to tell me that being diagnosed with GD is my wake up call because I’m overweight is beyond bullshit and I will not stand for it. And neither should ANY ONE ELSE.
Your anxiety, like mine, might tell you you’re being too sensitive and that it is your fault… welp, you go’head and tell that bitch to take several god damn seats and then find a new MF practice to go to… because the minute I got home, I talked to a momma friend about it and she referred me to the practice she uses with lovely midwives and birthing tubs. GIRL, that’s all I ever wanted. You bet your ass I called them up, registered and signed a medical release within 24 hours.
PEACE OUT, YA OLD HAG. Hope YOUR wake up call comes soon.