Remember a few months ago, when I reflected on my cardiovascular and diabetes-related health, and the less-than-encouraging advice I’d received from cardiologists and high-risk obstetricians, and decided to forgo biological baby-having activities in favor of adoption at some later date?
Well, as it turns out, the universe is one hilarious prank-playing S.O.B., because I’m pregnant.
I’m at 12 weeks, and I still can’t believe it. It feels weird even typing out that phrase: I’m pregnant. In the family way. With child. Eating for two.
I was terrified when I found out. And since it’s my thing, I immediately imagined the worst-case scenario, which I will not type out for superstition purposes. Suffice it to say that the worst case involves very bad things, and lots of people shaking their heads and referencing Steel Magnolias.
I felt like an irresponsible teenager, calling all the people who’d advised me not to get pregnant to tell them that I’d done just that. Because she’s awesome, my Certified Diabetes Educator was optimistic and supportive, and promised me we’d do our best to make sure everything turns out okay.
The nurse I spoke to at the OB was slightly less awesome. I explained my situation to her, and told her I’d stopped taking my super scary ACE inhibitor since, from what I’d heard, it makes unborn babies develop eagle talons and ESP. “That’s the last thing you want to do,” she said, brimming with judgement. “You should never stop taking your medication unless you’re instructed to do so by a doctor.”
I took one of the 6,022 deep breaths I’d take that day. “I was instructed to do so. By my cardiologist.”
Then I had to call that cardiologist and make an appointment with her. I don’t know if it’s the trauma of my adolescent-year endocrinology appointments that’s scarred me so irreversibly, but I fully expected to get yelled at. Thankfully, that didn’t happen.
Jodie Poundstone came bounding through the door with a big old smile on her face. “Congratulations!” she offered. I was so confused. Where was the naysaying Debbie Downer I’d talked with just weeks before?
“We have to be careful with our recommendations,” she explained, “but honestly? I’m not convinced you ever really had a real cardiomyopathy issue. I think you’re going to be fine.” She went on to say that she was more concerned about the state of my diabetes and about the effects of the ACE inhibitor on the baby, and was relieved to hear that I’d stopped taking it. (Take that, mean OB nurse.)
That was all six weeks ago, and I’m still wrapping my mind around this insane turn of events. So far, things seem to be working out pretty okay on the health front. I was shocked to learn that my A1c was below 7.0 around conception time, and that pee test I had to endure? No protein there.
I’m slightly more relaxed, and I feel like now I can start to focus on the issues that non-diabetic pregnant people obsess over: How many toes will it have? What kind of diapers should we use? Where should I bury my social life? When can it get a job?
I’ve been exhausted and moody and nauseated and terrified, but I’m finding that the sentiment I’m most overwhelmed with is one of unspeakable excitement and humility and anticipation and love and other mushy things you’ve heard a million times from other expectant moms.
I can’t believe this is happening to me — to us — but I’m so glad it is.