"I can't get a shot of this baby's face because his brother's butt is pressed right up against it," she explained. And then she added, "It won't be the last time that happens. One of my sons told the other at dinner recently, 'If you don't stop farting on me, I'm going to slug you.' And I looked at the guilty party and said, 'Well, you've been warned!'"
While I'm not looking forward to the sulfuric stank of renegade flatulence wafting over
Then it was time for the cervical check. Come on, 2.4 cm, I silently prayed. I've been so good, surely we've been holding steady! But blech, it was shorter, averaging about 2.0 cm or just below. The sonographer tried to cheer me up, "That's still a lot of nice closed cervix." But I was instantly swept by a wave of defeat. They transferred me to the exam room to wait for the doctor, and I slumped over on the table. I knew they wouldn't hospitalize me, but I was feeling DONE with this pregnancy. DONE with the bedrest, DONE with the stupid diet, DONE trying to fight my body over something it is reluctant to give. I felt like such a failure in giving my boys what they need -- a safe, closed womb. Maybe it would be better if they just came out now and let people more capable than me take care of them. Of course intellectually I know this is completely wrong, every day inside is incredibly beneficial for them. But emotionally, it was a weak point for me.
Fortunately I felt much better after talking to the OB. She is a very smart woman (graduated cum laude from Harvard) but has an informal, comfortable demeanor (how many doctors use the term "shit a brick" during an appointment?). She said it'd be nice if the cervix was longer, but it's not overly concerning, based on where I've been in the past.
She took a look at my blood sugar chart and said it looked wonderful. "How's it going with the diet?" she asked.
"Well, it seems to be easy to keep my levels down with the right food, so that's good. But I am feeling incredibly sorry for myself that I can't have any chocolate at my baby shower, or on my 30th birthday, or on Valentine's Day," I pouted.
She responded with a smile: "I thought you were going to say it was the worst thing ever in your entire life. You know, there are some people out there who question why we even test for gestational diabetes in twin pregnancies, because we want the babies to grow bigger." (For the record, I think that's stupid, and there are other risks to untreated GD than just gigantic babies.) "If you really want to have a tiny bite of cake at your shower, it's not the end of the world."
Well what do you know... I was thinking the same thing myself. Especially since I am kicking GD's arse ever other minute of the day. I'm still going to have DH wait on getting me a giant birthday cookie cake until I can eat at least two-thirds of it, but the appointment was looking up.
"Speaking of my shower, I'm wondering if it'd be okay if I walk downstairs on Saturday and then sit upright for the couple of hours that my friends will be over," I asked.
Her response: "You haven't been using the stairs at all? Even to go down to the couch?"
My response: "Ummm, no, just for these appointments." (I can't recall who gave me the impression I shouldn't be bouncing up and down the stairs unless absolutely necessary, but it was someone with an M.D. after her name...)
So yeah, she said that would be fine. I'm glad, because you can't imagine how awkward it is trying to talk to a group of upright people while laying flat on a couch until you've tried it. And let's not get started on the perpetual triple-chin I'm rocking because of how I have to hold my head. Sexy.
We discussed scheduling my C-section (waiting for a call from the hospital, praying it's not on April Fool's Day) and going off the ibuprofen (it is used to stop preterm labor; I'm worried about the effects on the babies but she'd like me to continue until 32 weeks). I also asked about why I won't be having any more cervical checks via ultrasound after 32 weeks and the long-term plan for bedrest. I'm kinda fuzzy about what she said, so I won't even try to explain. My regular OB is returning from maternity leave in a week or so, and I'll be asking her the same questions again anyway. Suffice it to say that I was pretty pleased with what I did understand, and bedrest is feeling a bit less oppressive and more temporary.
I should end right now because this post is way to long and boring already, but I also wanted to squeeze in my follow-up appointment with the dietitian at the diabeetus center. She was young and cute and friendly and six months pregnant herself... but sadly, it was obvious that she was on crack. Because after reviewing my blood sugar levels and telling me how well I was doing, she said I SHOULD CONTINUE THIS DIET AFTER GIVING BIRTH TO REDUCE MY RISK OF DEVELOPING TYPE II DIABETES LATER IN LIFE.
Okay, I appreciate her concern about my health, it's really touching. It's true that I need to be careful not to let myself go wild and balloon up. But if she thinks that I am never going to have another brownie, another cookie, another dish of ice cream, another (real) muffin, another heaping bowl of pasta, another piece of cake FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE... then she needs to be drug tested for the safety of her poor fetus. Because come on, seriously? Would a sober person suggest that?
But that does bring me to the worst part of having GD. I am fairly sure it is going to ruin one of life's great pleasures forever. Because now I know how to eat better, and maybe some small part of it will stick, but overall I am attached to my previous eating habits and can't wait to return. But I'll always know. I'll always know that my choice of grains isn't good for me, that my portions are too big, that my body is silently working overtime to compensate for that candy bar and wishing I'd have opted for a bowl of plain rolled-oat oatmeal instead of my yummy breakfast shake. And that is something I could surely have done without.
Well played, gestational diabetes. Well played.