I always thought I was really, really open about everything; I don't really like secrets and try to live by the rule that you shouldn't do anything you wouldn't want your mother to know about. (In all fairness, that's not a very limiting rule with a mother like mine.)
But when, at 30 weeks pregnant, I was told that something in my body had gone wrong and I had gestational diabetes, I panicked and wanted to tell no one. It felt like I had failed, like I had let down my body, my baby, and myself.
It didn't matter that my doctor assured me I had done nothing wrong, laughing when I asked her if it was my fault.
I was thrust from the world of low-risk, easy pregnancy, into a high-risk clinic with a rotating cast of characters, a dietician, and finger pricks. I was told it wasn't serious--as long as I did what I was told. And I was told to gain no more weight.
Instead of eating what I wanted, when I wanted, my diet was regulated: eating specific foods, in specific amounts, every 2.5 hours, and checking my blood sugar by pricking my finger four times a day. I figured out that walking after meals helped my sugar, and all of a sudden, I was eating seven times a day (every 2.5 hours), checking my sugar four times a day, walking three times a day...and none of it with any flexibility. That was 14 times per day that I had to think about a condition I didn't want.
It was awful.
Eight weeks later, I've not only survived, but actually thrived; rather than my sugar getting worse, it's gotten better, and I've avoided going on insulin--a great sign. The baby's growth rate has slowed and he's now the perfect size, growing beautifully.
At my last appointment, the doctor made jokes--there was nothing for him to say, as it was clear I was managing. All signs are a go for a normal, healthy baby, in a normal, healthy delivery.
I may not have done anything to get gestational diabetes, but I've done a lot to manage it. Since I haven't read any posts from anyone I know on the topic (seems to be very hush-hush), I wanted to write my own--since I'm sure I know other people who have been, or will be, in the same boat. From my very non-expert opinion to you, how to handle gestational diabetes (um, it should go without saying that I'm not a doctor and this is not medical advice, but this is the internet, so I'll say it anyway. When in doubt, ignore me and go with whatever a doctor tells you!):
1) It's ok to complain. GD totally sucks. Bye-bye, chocolate, hello, hunger. I'm hungry a lot. You probably will be, too. In my third trimester, I've gained basically no weight, while the baby has gained weight--that's not a lot of fun. You can totally write to me and complain--I get it. I also was dealing with a war, running to the bomb shelter, and it was August in Tel Aviv. It was horrible. You officially have my permission to cut off anyone who tries to tell you that it's ok, it's not so bad, at least it's temporary, etc. Being hungry day after day stinks. Callouses on your fingers stink. I get it, sister.
2) Listen to your doctor and nutritionist, 110%. This means no cheating. None. I was/continue to be (now I have a little leeway, but didn't for several weeks) totally neurotic about this--if I need to eat at 8:00, I eat at 8:00--not 7:45, and not 8:15. I also weigh/check everything, and we dictated to my in-laws what I could eat at Friday night dinner (thank God, they were amazing about it). Half cup of rice? Break out the half cup measure. 100 grams of pasta? Same deal. If you're told your bread needs a certain amount of fiber, check for it. It's not your fault you got GD, but if you don't listen to your doctor and it gets worse? That IS your fault.
3) Figure out what works for you--be your own advocate. My sugars were rising at one point, so I googled the heck out of GD. Turns out, many people have success with walking, about half an hour after a meal (I test an hour after meals). It worked like a charm for me--and then I added it to the list of rules. I stood up from the shabbat dinne table, I walked on the elliptical even when I had friends over, I excused myself from meetings where I needed to. Which brings me to my next point...
4) GD is your priority. A couple of weeks ago, someone I considered a friend did something nasty to me. I freaked out about it, was up most of the night, and my sugar sky-rocketed the next morning. I was told one time was ok, but if it happened again, I'd have to come in and we'd talk about insulin. I HAD to learn to compartmentalize--not to think about that, or anything else that made me stressed. My baby is my priority--which means my health is my priority. Everything, everything, everything else has to take a backseat.
5) Finally, boring is good. This one is tough if you, like me, love food. I now eat the same thing, every single day. It's not interesting, and not particularly satisfying. It's my last few weeks before I become a Mom, but given all the points above, I stick to my diet, basically fanatically. Toasted sandwich and a salad? Probably never going to want to look at it again but it works like a dream. Ditto, egg and toast in the morning. And meat with brown rice for lunch. It's the same thing all the time, but my baby is good, I'm healthy, and no one needs medical intervention. We'll get back to interesting in a few weeks.
Ok, I lied, one more. If you are lucky enough to have a supportive spouse, make sure to thank them. As much as it stinks for me to eat the same thing every night, it also really stinks for my husband--and he's not pregnant. Everyone gets that the last month of pregnancy isn't a lot of fun for the woman, but he could be chowing down or complaining about eating the same thing every night, and instead, he comes home, kisses me, and chops a salad. I tell him how lucky I am to have him--make sure you do the same.
That's it--if anyone wants specifics of my diet and how it works, feel free to be in touch.
PS I figured out that having a dance party in my living room to iTunes Radio's Pure Pop or 90s Dance Party works as well as going for a walk. Feel free to take from my wisdom--at 38+ weeks pregnant, I dance around my apartment on the regular, giggling to myself at how silly I look. You've got to laugh at yourself, right?
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