Edge of 17

I hereby predict that the following things will happen at this afternoon's OB visit:

1. I will be earnestly enjoined to eat, as if I'd been cramming all that raw-milk cheese, room temperature cold cuts, and inside-out heavy metalmaki just for the giddy pathogenic thrill of it.  I have gained three pounds so far, and at every obstetrical visit I've been earnestly told that it is okay to eat, that my body needs food, that if I'd just have a bite, please, just a bite...they simply can't stand to see me wasting away like this.  Although I'm sure there are women who carefully control their caloric intake during pregnancy, I am not among them, so I always find this comical, given the ample maternal stores I carry around even when I'm not pregnant — you know, just in case I'm in a plane crash or something.
2. My insulin dose will be increased.  About every other day, I flunk one of my four daily readings, sometimes by a measly point or two, and sometimes, after a ridiculously indulgent dinner, by 50 or more.  (I like restaurants with long tablecloths.  You can shoot up quite discreetly without even leaving the table.  And then the waiter silently glides over and asks if you'd like to enjoy a flight of grappa with your insulin.  I tip extravagantly for such impeccable service.)
3. The doctor will look at my bared abdomen with detached fascination and say, "I see you've been taking your Lovenox."  Roughly one out of five injections I strike it rich, sending up a gusher to the surface.  (It was equal parts alarming and cool the first time I hit the mirror.)  The bruising is impressive; I give even odds on whether she'll point out the beatific visage of the Blessed Virgin depicted in impressionistic blue, green, and yellow splotches.

17w2d and there have been no surprises, unless you count the phone call I got the other day telling me my fetal echo had been scheduled.  "My fetal what now?" I asked suavely, because I am the very essence of calm when anyone even breathes a suggestion that something might be wrong with the baby.  But this is routine.  When you're diagnosed with gestational diabetes late in pregnancy — which is when most such diagnoses occur — you get to skip a lot of these steps, but when you have weeks and weeks and weeks to kill, you get to fill them with things like, yes, a fetal echocardiogram.  An eye exam.  A congenital anomalies scan.  (I am petitioning that the name of this be changed to an I'm-sure-everything's-just-fine-dear-but-we'll-just-have-a-look-see, because, Jesus, are they trying to scare women?)  Monitoring early and often.  And, oh, what the hell, why not?  A maternal EKG.  (Despite my awareness that this is a lightning quick test, entirely free not only of pain but of any sensation at all, I could not help but feel uneasy as ten leads were stuck all over my body.  It is only the certain knowledge that I have no testicles that kept me from worrying that they were about to be wired to a car battery.)

From a medical standpoint my pregnancy is classified high risk.  From where I sit, at the moment it feels only slightly inconvenient.  Of course, maybe that's the grappa talking.  Or possibly just the parasites.

Posted by Julie at 01:45:05 PM in Jesus gay, I'm pregnant.

Comments

Edge of 17

I hereby predict that the following things will happen at this afternoon's OB visit:

1. I will be earnestly enjoined to eat, as if I'd been cramming all that raw-milk cheese, room temperature cold cuts, and inside-out heavy metalmaki just for the giddy pathogenic thrill of it.  I have gained three pounds so far, and at every obstetrical visit I've been earnestly told that it is okay to eat, that my body needs food, that if I'd just have a bite, please, just a bite...they simply can't stand to see me wasting away like this.  Although I'm sure there are women who carefully control their caloric intake during pregnancy, I am not among them, so I always find this comical, given the ample maternal stores I carry around even when I'm not pregnant — you know, just in case I'm in a plane crash or something.
2. My insulin dose will be increased.  About every other day, I flunk one of my four daily readings, sometimes by a measly point or two, and sometimes, after a ridiculously indulgent dinner, by 50 or more.  (I like restaurants with long tablecloths.  You can shoot up quite discreetly without even leaving the table.  And then the waiter silently glides over and asks if you'd like to enjoy a flight of grappa with your insulin.  I tip extravagantly for such impeccable service.)
3. The doctor will look at my bared abdomen with detached fascination and say, "I see you've been taking your Lovenox."  Roughly one out of five injections I strike it rich, sending up a gusher to the surface.  (It was equal parts alarming and cool the first time I hit the mirror.)  The bruising is impressive; I give even odds on whether she'll point out the beatific visage of the Blessed Virgin depicted in impressionistic blue, green, and yellow splotches.

17w2d and there have been no surprises, unless you count the phone call I got the other day telling me my fetal echo had been scheduled.  "My fetal what now?" I asked suavely, because I am the very essence of calm when anyone even breathes a suggestion that something might be wrong with the baby.  But this is routine.  When you're diagnosed with gestational diabetes late in pregnancy — which is when most such diagnoses occur — you get to skip a lot of these steps, but when you have weeks and weeks and weeks to kill, you get to fill them with things like, yes, a fetal echocardiogram.  An eye exam.  A congenital anomalies scan.  (I am petitioning that the name of this be changed to an I'm-sure-everything's-just-fine-dear-but-we'll-just-have-a-look-see, because, Jesus, are they trying to scare women?)  Monitoring early and often.  And, oh, what the hell, why not?  A maternal EKG.  (Despite my awareness that this is a lightning quick test, entirely free not only of pain but of any sensation at all, I could not help but feel uneasy as ten leads were stuck all over my body.  It is only the certain knowledge that I have no testicles that kept me from worrying that they were about to be wired to a car battery.)

From a medical standpoint my pregnancy is classified high risk.  From where I sit, at the moment it feels only slightly inconvenient.  Of course, maybe that's the grappa talking.  Or possibly just the parasites.