I woke up this morning and, without marking my calender or setting up a reminder, I remembered. Today is the anniversary of the day I went to the doctor and found out I was expecting my first child. There was no build up; it just came to me as I stood looking at myself in the mirror. I woke up puking that morning, which was the culmination of a half a dozen symptoms that should have lead me to the correct conclusion long before I made that fateful trip to the doctor. I’m not one to take a whole day of of work and go to the doctor just because I’m feeling a little sick. But I was having too many symptoms to ignore. I still think back and laugh at myself for not putting it all together. My doctor laughed at me as well, and that is perhaps one of my fondest memories. I’m telling her all these things and she is looking at me like I’m a dope because it’s the first thing she thought of. In another brilliant move, I had already peed, so peeing into a cup was out of the question (facepalm!) and my doctor gave me a blood test instead. The downside to this of course is that the results wouldn’t be available until the next day. She fixed me up and sent me on my way, not really taking her diagnosis seriously.
I went on about my day, feeling like crap and waiting for my prescription(s) to be filled. In passing I mention to my husband that my doctor thought I might be pregnant. He immediately encouraged me to get a pregnancy test, which at first I refused and then decided to take him up on his challenge. What were the odds, right?!
My back story as a woman with PCOS and diabetes made me think that just “getting” pregnant was not a given for me. I would surely need some kind of fertility treatment, even if it’s just some kind of medication to get things jump started. Even if I had been losing weight over the previous 12 months and ovulating regularly (another thing that didn’t cross my mind). I didn’t think it would be that easy; it just wasn’t in the cards.
I get home with my pregnancy test and after a lot of urging from my husband I take it (even though you are supposed to take it first thing in the morning). My denial gets the better of me and I contest the results, saying that the color of the positive line do match. I even sent the picture to a friend of mine – you know who you are – asking for confirmation. She agrees that it is positive. My denial in full force, I decide to go to the store and buy another test because I had only purchased one originally. When the subsequent test is positive, I begin to deny it on the basis of the colors again, but things begin to start sinking in. My friend again concurs that the test is positive and I am at a loss.
I know that most women at this point would be jumping up and down, elated, crying, showing some kind of emotion, but I couldn’t. I was speechless. I wasn’t trying for this, much less planning on it. I had it in my mind for so many years that there would be struggle, toil, heartache, and repeated disappointment leading up to this moment in my life. It wasn’t just going to happen…but it did. My husband was over the moon. I will always regret doubting for so long; fighting the inevitable truth. I did spoil that moment in time for myself by just waiting so long to accept it. I wanted my doctor to call me an confirm before I truly accepted it. That was a long restless night.
The call in the morning, at almost 8 a.m. on the dot, was pretty much what I expected but with more. I was pregnant but my most recent blood test (which was still months old) told her that I wasn’t doing such a good job controlling my diabetes. My heart sank. I was coasting; doing the minimum to keep my most annoying symptoms at bay but not really trying. I wasn’t regular with my medication. I rarely checked my blood sugar and I ate what I wanted. My doctor, the hard-ass that she is, told me that I needed to get it together. She said things like “complications” and “birth-defect” and I started to freak. I had so much work to do over the next seven months and there was no room for error. Blood test, dropping medication, adding medication, high-risk pregnancy treatment, ultrasounds, non-stress test…all of this became my life. But so did eating healthy, keeping my blood sugar in tight control, and twice daily insulin injections. I give myself full credit and pat myself on the back. It was the hardest thing I’ve had to do but every single shot, poke, pain, and puke are worth it for my beautiful boy. How could any mother not do the same? I had to give my son the best possible chance at a healthy pregnancy, safe birth, and happy life. Yes, I was hungry most of the time, tired, nauseated, constipated, and uncomfortable but it is all worth it, ten times over, when he smiles.
The past 12 months of my life are almost unrecognizable and I wouldn’t have it any other way.