My battle with hyperemesis gravidarum isn’t over yet. It won’t be, until I give birth, and even then I know I will struggle with post-traumatic stress disorder brought on by this debilitating illness.
This week we’ve had a new pregnancy complication to deal with, on top of everything else. I just barely failed the one-hour glucose test set by my doctor. They had me go in for the three-hour test next—a rather hopeless undertaking considering my state. Fasting for twelve hours and then putting 100 grams of glucose straight into my empty system almost guaranteed a poor outcome. I made it past the one-hour blood draw, but then the exertion of walking back to the waiting room to wait for another hour sent me over the edge. The bathroom had nice thick walls, so no one could hear the retching as I lost all of the sugary lemon-lime awfulness that hadn’t yet been absorbed by my system.
It was scary, walking into that handicap bathroom stall with no one else around. The world was spinning and my vision was going dark. I couldn’t help thinking about my obstetrician’s warning, that a fall at this stage could seriously hurt, even kill, the baby.
Nausea and I are old friends by now, so I lay down on the cold floor. Sometimes if I can cool my temperature enough by contact with the tile floor, I could stop myself from vomiting or passing out. Unfortunately, it works a lot better when I’m in my own home, not wearing any clothes (any pressure or constriction from fabric can exacerbate nausea, and even seems to make my skin crawl more violently when I’m dealing with an episode of restless legs). There wasn’t enough of my skin exposed to the cold laminate, so lying down didn’t lower my body temperature enough. I barely hoisted myself to the trash can in the corner of the stall fast enough.
Luckily for me, I didn’t pass out. Emptying my system of that horrible glucose concoction stopped my vision from greying, and made me feel more steady. My system was still reeling from far too much sugar entering it at once, and the baby was definitely doing the flips and tumbles that I now associate with a transferred sugar high. The phlebotomist I informed seemed scornful and disappointed, like it was my fault that I couldn’t keep the drink down. I’ve gained more compassion for people who seem to judge me for my illness, though. Early the very next week she was the one to draw my blood for other tests, and she was kind and efficient, going straight for a butterfly needle the way all exceptional phlebotomists do when faced with my difficult veins.
One of the midwives in my doctor’s practice told me to track my fasting and post-prandial blood sugar levels for a week, and report back to her. Something I wish I could have just done right away, without enduring the trial of attempting that brutal three-hour test.
My numbers came back on the verge of being bad the first day, but we weren’t worried yet. There was a special cleaning and purging session at work, and for the first time in months I had my husband take me in so that I could cover the phones while my colleagues worked on the special project. It felt so good to be useful in such an obvious way.
The exertion of those hours sitting at the phone though, seemed to act the way light exercise does—by the next day, when I was completely wiped out and unable to do anything physically exerting, my numbers were already higher. They keep climbing up. I’ve noticed a terrible feeling of dis-ease that seems to correlate exactly with the height of the numbers. A friend took me to the grocery store, an undertaking that completely wiped me out yet again. Even eating a “diabetic diet,” I can’t get those numbers under control.
For the past six days I have been sleeping close to 20 hours a day. I’m more nauseous all the time, a nausea that the Benedryl doesn’t seem to touch anymore, I suspect because it’s brought on by the high blood sugar. My fasting numbers are always high, and even limiting carbs and making sure to have a good protein source with every meal and snack isn’t helping much.
I suspect that my body is just too worn down to deal with this new complication. Gestational diabetes is similar to Type II, where your body is still producing insulin but your cells are more and more insulin-resistant. It is likely to get worse as long as I have this placenta in me, producing greater and greater amounts of hormones that are helping baby put on the fat stores it will need for protection in its first weeks out in the wider world. I have to wait to see an endocrinologist—I don’t know how long it will take them to call me to set up my first appointment, but I’m hoping it’s soon. I haven’t gotten a single bit of work done this week, because of how awful I feel on a constant basis. I don’t think my blood sugar ever drops below 90, and even two and three hours after a meal I still see numbers that are very high for a non-diabetic. I can’t go for a half hour walk after meals to help use up the sugars entering my system—I hardly have the energy to make myself eggs in the morning, though their protein is one of the only things that doesn’t make my blood sugar shoot higher.
With all of this going on, I’ve been feeling very defeated. The hyperemesis is in NO WAY my fault. Likewise, the gestational diabetes is NOT MY FAULT. Likely the GD is actually caused by the HG wearing down my system—nothing is working as it should, and if I was able to keep up a normal diet and routine of exercise I might not have ever gotten into the range of GD. Even knowing that there’s nothing I could have done to prevent either of these illnesses/complications, I still feel targeted by the universe. It feels like everything that can go wrong at this point will likely go wrong, because my body is so worn down and incapable of handling this strain. That’s a mixed bag in a lot of ways. The more complications arise, the more likely my doctor is to decide on an early cesarean, which means pregnancy is over that much faster, and recovery is right around the corner. But at only 30 weeks pregnant, I still need another six or seven weeks before we wouldn’t have to worry too much about baby’s health at being delivered early. And even at 36 or 37 weeks, baby’s lungs might not be as developed as we’d like, and we could be looking at dealing with baby being in the NICU post-delivery.
The title of this post might be a little misleading. I haven’t actually found peace yet in these additional pregnancy complications. But I’m trying. I’m struggling, I’m battling, I’m trying to cultivate acceptance and a calm mind. I write late-night rants to a friend who is a good listener. I reach out to my cousin who was the man of honor at our wedding, the brother I never had. He has a way of reminding me that life is worth it, that I’m worth it, no matter what I’m facing in the current moment. I kiss my husband and long for a return to normalcy for us, when I can shop and cook and clean for him again, when our sex life is normal because my body is no longer frail. I fear, every day, that I might never get better. That the instant relief other HG moms feel as soon as they deliver the afterbirth won’t come, and I’ll be looking at a life of nausea and complications, at failed organs and feeble health. I read books on Buddhist acceptance and release from suffering. I dutifully record my blood sugars and count the kicks of my squirming tenant.
I am trying, and that is all anyone can ask of me.
You can find the other posts in my series on hyperemesis gravidarum here.