Reality Check : Stories of Pregnancy & Type 1 Diabetes

Please note that all declarations previously made about my feeling graceful, light footed and physically unaffected by pregnancy are now revoked, null and well and truly void. It wouldn’t be too strong to suggest such absurdity be boxed and buried deep in the Egyptian sand, left to be unearthed by the next optimistic, albeit naïve, pregnant woman.

Week 30 of my possible 38 week adventure and I’ve ascended to the next level: the All About Me level. The ‘my ankles are puffy and need a massage NOW’ level, the ‘I don’t care WHERE we are – rub my back or my spine’s gonna fall out’ level. The level that encourages profanity to be serendipitously woven into daily activities such as shopping, showering and tying one’s shoe laces.

On the subject of gravity: why, despite the utmost care I take in a fervent grip or over-cautious positioning of anything, anywhere, is it inexplicably magnetised south? Butter fingers I am. Hopefully bubs takes the constant bending down and sloshing around as a sort of amniotic fun park ride. Maybe she’ll arrive into the world expecting toffee apples where my breasts once were? To be perfectly honest, there aren’t many body parts that have stayed true to pre-pregnancy form, so I’d hardly notice anyway!

My husband Anthony occasionally asks “You’re not gonna be one of those mothers with no social regard, who thinks the sun shines out of her ---, are you?” I file the question away with related grey areas such as ‘Will I breastfeed in public?’ and ‘Why wouldn’t you use cloth nappies?’ It’s a whole new ball game now that I’m visibly protruding and pregnant. People seem to think that the visual cue of a maternal tummy gives them an ‘access all areas’ pass to ask intimate questions about my reproductive regions. Call me prudish, but I just don’t feel comfortable constantly discussing parts of me that, under normal social expectation are customarily covered by clothes.

Diabetes-wise, the third trimester challenge is demandingly underway. Like a firecracker itching for a spark, my body screamed for more insulin as soon as I reached 28 weeks. Up went my insulin pump dose, quantity of BSL testing, impromptu siestas and consumption of jelly rings. Leg cramps, restless feet and multiple toilet trips continue to defy my attempts at regenerative sleep but are serving perfectly to groom me for bub’s three-hourly feeds. Knew there had to be some logic to it.

Although I could now make a tidy sum hiring out my ‘tight as a drum’ tummy to the Police Tattoo, I’m still managing to insert my insulin pump paraphernalia into the sides of my abdomen successfully. Baby squirms a little as I pinch up a layer of fat and husband still grimaces at the thought of ‘stabbing her’ but as long as there’s pinchable flesh available, I intend to avoid the rump/buttock placement option. Tried it once and sat on it. It hurt. A lot. Never doing it again.

Food. It’s still enjoyable despite my stomach and lungs being squished up together somewhere in the diaphragm region. I certainly can’t consume the volume of food I was eating pre- or even early pregnancy. There’s just no room at the inn, so to speak! That could explain why I occasionally streamline my meals by concocting combinations to make Jamie Oliver burn his wooden spoon and take up shark chartering. Note that however a delicious idea it may seem at the time, warm chocolate crackle mixture and mountain berry Le Rice is not good. More agreeable choices of the moment include anything dairy, crumbed prawns, fresh fruit and oatmeal. My 13 year commitment to vegetarianism was vanquished a few months into pregnancy – we’ll see what happens after the birth but in the meantime those succulent little crumbed prawns have it coming.

Time seems to be speeding up now – my days are consumed ticking off various checklists, attending prenatal appointments and praising myself madly when I remember exactly why I’d gone into the cupboard/fridge/next room. My priority of the moment is harassing the baby store about our pre-paid order for nursery furniture which is supposedly arriving ‘soon’. Hell hath no fury like a pregnant woman weeks from birth without a cot, bunny rugs and assorted items smattered with tea-partying animals.

Putting aside the minor issue that baby has nowhere to sleep, feed or be changed, we are all set to go. My hospital bag is almost packed, my diary scribbled full of last minute BB (Before Baby) errands and I’ve given my endocrine system a final pep talk about making it the home stretch. The baby gives me a swift kick under the ribs to remind me to put Cadbury Cream Eggs on the shopping list this week. I wrote to Cadbury’s about extending the retail season of their mega chocolate blocks. No reply yet, but I’m undeterred… Easter is nearly here and there’s a new player in town…wonder if they come in a baker’s dozen?

14th February 2004

Click here for the previous instalment: Don't Poke the Baby in the Head.

Or the First Instalment : What Did You Think I Was Doing?

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*Pregnancy with Type 1 Diabetes* Reality Check Women Tell Their Stories Third Trimester Adventures
*A note from the Editor:* Last Sunday arvo, I was delighted to find the next instalment of Vanessa's pregnancy adventures had come through on my email as promised. But little did I know as I sat on the couch reading, giggling and making editorial suggestions for Vanessa that in the 12 hours since her sending the email there had been a major development - SKYLA JEAN had entered the world! What a surprise - seven weeks premature and a tiny five pounds. Very pleased to report that both mother and baby are happy and healthy. Please note that the article below is Vanessa's first draft and includes some minor edits of mine which she is yet to approve. But as I know that there are people eagerly awaiting the next Chapter, and Vanessa is going to be a little busy for the next little while, I have published this as is. (My email reply to Vanessa included suggestions that she add a section on her birth plan and whether she was planning to breast feed - now too late for speculation, the next instalment will reveal all sooner than anyone expected!)		Vanessa and Skyla 5th March 2004 *Any questions and well wishes for Vanessa & Skyla can be sent care of Reality Check to kate@realitycheck.org.au.*
Please note that all declarations previously made about my feeling graceful, light footed and physically unaffected by pregnancy are now revoked, null and well and truly void. It wouldn’t be too strong to suggest such absurdity be boxed and buried deep in the Egyptian sand, left to be unearthed by the next optimistic, albeit naïve, pregnant woman. Week 30 of my possible 38 week adventure and I’ve ascended to the next level: the All About Me level. The ‘my ankles are puffy and need a massage NOW’ level, the ‘I don’t care WHERE we are – rub my back or my spine’s gonna fall out’ level. The level that encourages profanity to be serendipitously woven into daily activities such as shopping, showering and tying one’s shoe laces. On the subject of gravity: why, despite the utmost care I take in a fervent grip or over-cautious positioning of anything, anywhere, is it inexplicably magnetised south? Butter fingers I am. Hopefully bubs takes the constant bending down and sloshing around as a sort of amniotic fun park ride. Maybe she’ll arrive into the world expecting toffee apples where my breasts once were? To be perfectly honest, there aren’t many body parts that have stayed true to pre-pregnancy form, so I’d hardly notice anyway! My husband Anthony occasionally asks “You’re not gonna be one of those mothers with no social regard, who thinks the sun shines out of her ---, are you?” I file the question away with related grey areas such as ‘Will I breastfeed in public?’ and ‘Why wouldn’t you use cloth nappies?’ It’s a whole new ball game now that I’m visibly protruding and pregnant. People seem to think that the visual cue of a maternal tummy gives them an ‘access all areas’ pass to ask intimate questions about my reproductive regions. Call me prudish, but I just don’t feel comfortable constantly discussing parts of me that, under normal social expectation are customarily covered by clothes. Diabetes-wise, the third trimester challenge is demandingly underway. Like a firecracker itching for a spark, my body screamed for more insulin as soon as I reached 28 weeks. Up went my insulin pump dose, quantity of BSL testing, impromptu siestas and consumption of jelly rings. Leg cramps, restless feet and multiple toilet trips continue to defy my attempts at regenerative sleep but are serving perfectly to groom me for bub’s three-hourly feeds. Knew there had to be some logic to it. Although I could now make a tidy sum hiring out my ‘tight as a drum’ tummy to the Police Tattoo, I’m still managing to insert my insulin pump paraphernalia into the sides of my abdomen successfully. Baby squirms a little as I pinch up a layer of fat and husband still grimaces at the thought of ‘stabbing her’ but as long as there’s pinchable flesh available, I intend to avoid the rump/buttock placement option. Tried it once and sat on it. It hurt. A lot. Never doing it again. Food. It’s still enjoyable despite my stomach and lungs being squished up together somewhere in the diaphragm region. I certainly can’t consume the volume of food I was eating pre- or even early pregnancy. There’s just no room at the inn, so to speak! That could explain why I occasionally streamline my meals by concocting combinations to make Jamie Oliver burn his wooden spoon and take up shark chartering. Note that however a delicious idea it may seem at the time, warm chocolate crackle mixture and mountain berry Le Rice is not good. More agreeable choices of the moment include anything dairy, crumbed prawns, fresh fruit and oatmeal. My 13 year commitment to vegetarianism was vanquished a few months into pregnancy – we’ll see what happens after the birth but in the meantime those succulent little crumbed prawns have it coming. Time seems to be speeding up now – my days are consumed ticking off various checklists, attending prenatal appointments and praising myself madly when I remember exactly why I’d gone into the cupboard/fridge/next room. My priority of the moment is harassing the baby store about our pre-paid order for nursery furniture which is supposedly arriving ‘soon’. Hell hath no fury like a pregnant woman weeks from birth without a cot, bunny rugs and assorted items smattered with tea-partying animals. Putting aside the minor issue that baby has nowhere to sleep, feed or be changed, we are all set to go. My hospital bag is almost packed, my diary scribbled full of last minute BB (Before Baby) errands and I’ve given my endocrine system a final pep talk about making it the home stretch. The baby gives me a swift kick under the ribs to remind me to put Cadbury Cream Eggs on the shopping list this week. I wrote to Cadbury’s about extending the retail season of their mega chocolate blocks. No reply yet, but I’m undeterred… Easter is nearly here and there’s a new player in town…wonder if they come in a baker’s dozen? 14th February 2004 Click here for the previous instalment: Don't Poke the Baby in the Head. Or the First Instalment : What Did You Think I Was Doing? Click Here to Send This Page To a Friend
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