A Spring
(Not) So Sweet
Dear Baby Emily,
I’m not usually a superstitious person. Not everything that happens has
a higher meaning or is part of some “master plan.” So when the weather grew too
warm too soon, I appreciated it for what it was–a chance to enjoy the outdoors
for the first time in months. I didn’t see it as a sign that something in my
world was...off.
For the first day of the March heat wave, I was at the playground with
your brothers after school. Everyone else in the community seemed to be
out too. The kids were in shorts or spring dresses and the parents were
mingling with the enthusiasm you would expect after a long winter. I wish
I could say I was among them, laughing, gossiping, but I still didn’t know
anyone that well and I wasn’t feeling the best in the world either. At
this point, I wasn’t too concerned. It was warm, almost too warm
and at twenty-ish weeks, I wasn’t yet “cured” of my first trimester symptoms.
So I sipped from my water bottle and watched life happen around
me. Unfortunately, I let your brother sip from the water bottle
too. A couple of days earlier he had a fever, a cough, and a few bouts of
vomiting. It was hard to tell what was wrong with him, but Tylenol, toast,
rest, and fluids helped him bounce back to his rambunctious self in record
time. I should have known that kids are resilient. And me? Pregnant
and with the weakest stomach in the history of stomachs? Not so much...
We went home to get popsicles and within twenty minutes of our arrival,
I went from reading a book outside, slightly under the weather, to vomiting my
guts out every eight minutes (yes, I timed it). And I couldn’t catch a break
even hours later. It was time to call my doctor. He asked me if I
thought I needed to come to the hospital. I didn’t want to sound like a weakling
so I hesitated to say yes. I had a feeling I was going to end up there anyway and
I should have just said so, but I let him try his pharmaceutical approach
first.
So your father went to retrieve the anti-nausea medication with a little
more kick than the one I had already tried in my medicine cabinet. Because
of a hold up at the pharmacy (the prescription was late to arrive and they gave
him a hard time because he mentioned that I was pregnant), I endured about an
hour more of vomiting before the drug arrived. After the end of an
eight-minute cycle, I swallowed the pill and went to bed. And just as I
expected, 7 minutes and forty-five seconds later the drug was out of my
system. We tried but failed. I was admitted to the maternity ward soon
thereafter.
From what I could remember, they took good care of me. I had a
rough night, though. But gradually the stomach bug from hell lost its
punch. By the next morning, I could eat and drink again and once they
adjusted my blood potassium level, I was free to go home.
By early May, I had overcome “the plague” and a nasty stint on
antibiotics for a UTI. I was feeling better at last. And it couldn’t
have come at a better time. Since our delusional landlord decided to put
the house we were renting on the market for WAY too much money, we had to move
AGAIN (I just counted...I’ve moved 15 times in my life, and despite what your
brothers say, I’m really not that old). Was I Overwhelmed? Yes. Your
brother’s school year wasn’t over yet, we had less than a month’s notice, and I
wasn’t supposed to lift anything over twenty-five pounds. Was the task
impossible? No, so I did my best to stay focused and stay strong.
The day before moving day, I had to take a break from the madness for a
doctor’s appointment. I was actually looking forward to it. For once I
wanted to give him a good report. And on the drive there, I
had an epiphany about your name. Your father and I had already decided your
name would be Emily, but your middle name proved to be more of a challenge. So
when I came up with Emily Rose, I thought it was going to be one of
those nice spring days where nothing could go wrong.
The appointment began with business as usual. I was due for my glucose
tolerance test. No problem, I thought. I passed that test two
times before and I even said, “sugar makes me happy.” Next, we moved right
along to the sonogram and then he asked me if I had any
questions.
“Do you usually deliver your own babies?” I asked. My second
trimester was ending so I thought that was a fair question. I didn’t know
how they divided up the deliveries. Was it by chance or by
assignment? Since he seemed to claim me as his own, I assumed I would be
working with him through your birth and beyond.
“We try to, BUT...”
And MAN was it a big “but!” He told me he was leaving the practice. I
listened to his brief and vague explanation in shocked silence. And I must have
had a you’re-breaking-up-with-me expression on my face because eventually he
interrupted his monologue to ask, “Are you OK?”
“Yeah!” I said too quickly. I shook off the expression and dismissed his
concern by changing the subject. “So should I start seeing someone else?”
The gist of his answer was “yes, that’s a good idea,” but I zoned out. I
was too busy trying to keep my tears in check to listen. After that, there
was an awkward good-bye/good luck in the hall and that was it. Bond
broken. Easy come, easy go...right? Well, it may have been just
business to him, but I take things personally when they concern my health and
my baby. I didn’t know anyone else or trust anyone else, and at nearly seven
months pregnant, I was ready to walk out and never come back.
I gave myself a few hours to be an emotional wreck. Then I had to put
the situation from my mind until the move was over.
A week later, I still hadn’t made a decision about a hospital. Thanks to
our new location, I had two additional hospitals to consider within a
reasonable distance. I was starting the research for a switch, but I
thought I might as well get the glucose test over with first.
I went in, drank that awful flat orange soda, gossiped with other
mommies in the area (one of which provided the dirt about my doctor’s
departure), and left an hour later without much worry. Like I said, I passed it
twice before.
Then I got the phone call. I failed the test. Yeah, that’s right.
I failed, and I don’t usually fail tests, not gracefully
anyway. I had to take the 3-hour test a few days later. In the end, I
didn’t officially fail, but I was considered
“borderline” for gestational diabetes. So I dropped sweet beverages, candy, ice
cream, and baked goods from my diet. I know in the long run I’m probably
healthier without all of the above. I try to remember that when I’m
choking down whole grain “cookies.” But I’m pregnant and irrational so I
find my mind drifting to chocolate, and brownies, and Ben and Jerry’s ice
cream.
So, Emily Rose, just to summarize, over the spring I lost the lining of
my stomach, my doctor, sugar, and my home. And when it’s four in the morning
and I can’t sleep, do you know what I miss the most? The sugar…(sigh).
Love,
Your glucose-deprived mother :(
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