I don’t even know what the title of this blog posts really means, but that is exactly how I feel right now.
On Friday I spent the better part of the afternoon and early evening back in labor and delivery. I was having 7-8 contractions per hour before I went in but they magically stopped when I laid down on the hospital bed. They checked me and ran some tests and right now it appears that when I’m sitting or standing, baby is pressing on my cervix. The solution? A maternity support belt. It’s really uncomfortable but if it helps, I’ll wear it.
On Monday morning I was thankful to have made it far enough along in this pregnancy to sit through the dreaded glucose tolerance test. During those 2 hours, I tried not to think of the pain in my mouth. Yes, in addition to pregnancy-related ailments, my front tooth – chipped very badly as a child and since undergone many composites – started throbbing and causing pain up into my nose.
While I was waiting to see the dentist, I got the phone call that my glucose results were abnormal and I have gestational diabetes. So while I sat in the dentist’s chair I tried not to cry because my tooth hurt and I once again failed my baby.
Tooth diagnosis is pending until after delivery unless it gets worse but I will likely need a root canal and have to take an antibiotic now in case there’s an infection.
While I sat in Costco waiting for my testing kit I tried not to cry but could barely see the pharmacist through my puffy eyes when he explained how to test my blood sugar. You know what the worst part of this diagnosis is? That I was told I have gestational diabetes, but besides being told to test four times per day, no one has told me what I’m supposed to do.
Yes, there’s a class I’m supposed to take next week but in the meantime I am left to figure it out on my own. Since I’m a librarian, I know how to find reliable information but nevertheless, I feel like I swimming under water without oxygen.
I am constantly apologizing to my baby and my husband for failing them. What did I do wrong that all of this is happening? Yes, I’m four years older this time around. But what am I doing wrong? Nothing, my husband tells me. It’s not your fault.
And yet here I am, at 25 weeks, praying I make it to 38 weeks, wondering, guilt ridden and scared out of my mind.