It was going to be hard. Being a diabetic for twenty years had certainly taken its toll on my body and there were so many ways the baby could not develop correctly. Doctors. Doctors. Doctors. I was instantly put on an insulin pump and not long after my endocrinologist congratulated several times on being in the top ninety-five percent of healthy pregnant, diabetic women. You would think that life would be perfect. But behind closed doors extreme "all day" sickness filled the toilets, never left the couch, and didn't touch food.
Every visit to the doctor was a complete and total ordeal. It would take me hours to get ready. Get upstairs. Sit. Undress. Sit. Get in the shower. Sit. Get out. Sit. Dry my hair. Sit. You get the picture. I felt like pure and utter shit. My heart would race, I couldn't catch my breath, and if I exerted any kind of effort I would then I have to sit for 10x the amount of time it took to initially exert the effort. Life was miserable, but every 24 hours meant one more day closer to meeting my beautiful baby.
Somewhere in the midst of my daily struggles I forgot to talk. I really don't know if forgot is a good word to use when talking about my voice. It's not like someone forgets to open their mouth and let their opinions flow. Maybe it was hiding out in the backseat of my xTerra; stuck back there with old clothes, fabric swatches, and potting soil remnants from my last attempt at trying to have a green thumb. Why is it back there? Where is my voice when the doctor asks me how I feel and I need so scream, "I feel like I was trampled by Cam Newton or hit by Thor's hammer!" Sitting on the table looking pretty, clean, and classy was all that I could do. Where had my voice gone?
The holidays were a difficult time because my lack of energy and my limitations from my growing belly. Finding out the sex of the baby is a moment that will forever be engraved in my mind. Laying on the table with the cold, icky gel on my belly, and sweat beginning to bead on my forehead my thoughts about the next few moments began to overtake me. Okay. If we have a girl, she will have the cutest clothes, be the biggest slut (uh-oh), and I will spend all my time making her beautiful leaving no time for Momma. If I have a boy, my father and Stephen will be blissfully happy, he will be athletic, strong, and smart. Oh Lord. Here we go. The nurse touched the wand to belly and immediately said, "It's a boy. He has his legs spread and he's playing with it." Stephen's face was priceless. I literally thought he was going to do back flips in the ultrasound room. He was beaming like a proud father. We instantly nicknamed this non-cooperative, ADD baby in my belly, Monkey. We are so blessed.
I was hospitalized before Christmas for what they thought at the time was preeclampsia. High blood pressure, protein in my urine, dizziness, extreme weight gain. 3 days at East Alabama Medical Center felt like a 100 year prison sentence. Unnecessarily being woken up at all hours of the night/day does not help anyone get better. After days of tests, blood, and annoyance, the doctors decided that I was a bad, brittle diabetic and a wimpy pregnant lady. They said I should push myself. Where the hell was my voice? I knew what I was experiencing wasn't normal pregnancy or diabetic complaints. I need my wand. Accio voice!
Early January I was diagnosed with the sniffles. It stunk. Every cough, sneeze, or blown nose resulted in me having to change my undergarments. Meanwhile, Stephen is blessed to have best friends and family that paid for his trip to the National Championship game in Glendale, Arizona. War Eagle! He left me in the care of my overly cautious mother to go have one last hoorah before the baby was born.
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