Pregnancy: The Real Deal.

One of the best parts of having a baby is not being pregnant anymore. I’m always in awe, and some degree of disbelief, when I see the breed of woman who basks in the illusive glow of pregnancy. I felt that glow eluded me. Don’t get me wrong; I was ecstatic knowing there was a baby growing inside me. I was elated that I was granted the lucky fortune of getting to conceive and carry my own offspring. I loved my daughter when she was a just a speck, a little cell—even before she had a heartbeat. I just didn’t have the same affection for the nausea that came in waves all day, every day, for sixteen long weeks. I slept with a stack of saltines next to my bed. I couldn’t pep talk myself out of the fatigue. Who knew being tired was so exhausting? My poor husband was the unlucky recipient of my mood swings. Hormones are a force of nature I couldn’t tame.

At the ripe age of thirty-five, I was of “Advanced Maternal Age,” a nice way of saying old. They used to call pregnancies like mine, “Geriatric”. Thankfully, someone got wind that such phrasing was rude, and the medical terminology was updated. Because I was “advanced,” my pregnancy was considered high risk. Being a little older when you’re pregnant does come with a few perks—you receive additional tests to rule out chromosomal abnormalities, and you get extra, more frequent ultrasounds. Ultrasound appointments are always the most exciting appointments. No one speaks in terms of weeks quite like a pregnant woman. Around week twenty-two, I went in for a standard glucose test. It’s not uncommon for women to develop high levels of blood sugar while pregnant. By week twenty-three, I learned that I had developed gestational diabetes. This meant for the next seventeen weeks I would have to watch my diet and use a glucose monitoring test. I’m a wellness enthusiast and consider myself to be a healthy eater. But still, I had to reduce my carbohydrates and sugars. I had to forgo my beloved five bowls of cereal that I craved each day. In addition, I was required to prick my finger with a little needle to measure the glucose in my blood in the morning and after each meal. I would have made a lousy nurse; I’d often times screw up my first prick or two and have to keep trying until I drew a good blood sample. My finger pads were tender and blue.

Initially, the diagnosis scared me. My concerns for the baby were assuaged as my doctor reassured me the baby would continue to grow healthfully so long as I kept to the protocols. What I didn’t expect to feel was some degree of shame around my diagnosis. I’m an Ayurvedic counselor; I teach people how to eat well and live a healthy lifestyle. Yet, here I am with diabetes. The shame was, of course, unfounded. I would never think poorly of a client who is dealing with an imbalance or an illness. I had to afford myself a similar level of compassion.

Pregnancy requires a woman to relinquish control. The saying babies are a miracle, has stuck for a reason. One day a woman is not pregnant, the next day she is! She carries on with her life. She answers emails, runs errands, and forgets to return texts... seasons change and her belly balloons. All the while, a person is forming inside her body; all without her doing. As a self-declared control freak, having so little control over such a large production was not easy. In a way, having gestational diabetes gave me some sense of control. I couldn’t monitor my baby’s heartbeat, the development of her organs, or the length of her little bones. But I could, and was advised to, prick my finger and catalog my blood sugar levels five times a day. Oddly, charting my little numbers, in my little notebook, felt soothing. It helped me feel like I was actively doing something.

As much as I say I hated pregnancy, I was, admittedly, one of those women who ambles around with their hand glued to their belly. The baby’s impending arrival became more real the moment I felt my daughter’s first kick. Her movements became my tangible evidence that things were progressing. Each movement indicated to me that she was thriving. My hand stayed attached to my belly while I worked, walked, and slept. By the third trimester, my short torso was full. Sitting was uncomfortable. Multiple times a day, for months on end, I walked around the lake in front of our house. I daydreamed. I wrote songs for my unborn baby, and hummed them in my head. A few times, while particularly lost in daydreams, I’d catch myself singing out loud. I still sing those same songs to Harper every night before bed. Oh geez, here I go getting all sappy. See this is what time will do; it sugar-coats memories—glossing them over like silky icing on a shabby cake. A page from my journal will give you a better sense of this reality:

Journal Entry: Thirty-Three Weeks Pregnant

I barely slept last night. I keep getting tangled in my pregnancy pillow. By the time I get unleashed, I’m all wound up, and it’s hard to fall back asleep. I’d stop using it, but my back hurts. Bad. I got called out yesterday. I asked my professor a question he apparently had just answered. It feels like the baby is somehow punching my bladder and simultaneously kicking my liver while I’m sitting in class. It’s super distracting. I looked in the mirror this morning. My nipples are enormous. I haven’t pooped in nearly a week. I’m going to take MiraLAX today.

There are, however, a few advantages to being pregnant; I didn’t have to clean my hairbrush, or my shower drain for months. Thanks to the hormones that come during pregnancy, hair shedding ceased. We also get a break from buying tampons, and dealing with our periods. Especially towards the end, when walking is replaced by waddling, people are polite— holding doors, and offering their seats. Oddly, I had the libido of a college frat boy during my second and third trimesters. My husband was scared he’d “poke the baby,” a concern I’ve read is more common than you might think... My elevated sex drive was shocking and undeniable. I bought my first vibrator. Nature is either funny, kind, or both. Nature knows a woman doesn’t feel her sexiest while pregnant, so she serves us a hormonal cocktail that allows us to experience our sexiness. Nature is also wise to know that new moms are not going to have the energy or time to experience anything remotely erotic once the baby comes, so she throws us a bone ahead of time.

One of the most fascinating pieces of pregnancy is how it bonds women. Pregnant women find each other and ask, “How are you feeling?”, “When are you due?”Elders offer advice, solicited or not, on what to expect, and what to do. While waddling around the lake, a lady pushing a Pomeranian in a stroller introduced herself as a pediatric nurse. I walked the same direction, passing her each morning. “You must be what, thirty-six weeks?” she asked. The next time I saw her, she said “You’re carrying low, she’s coming.” Weeks later, she offered the advice, “Walk the other way”; by changing directions you’ll induce labor.” I laughed; people say the oddest things. I changed directions. There’s an entire society of mothers— novice and veteran. Once someone is obviously pregnant, mothers come out of the woodwork to share their otherworldly experience of creating and caring for a tiny creature—an event, that for every mother, has left an indelible mark.

Pregnancy is time consuming. Especially towards the end. In the beginning, I went to the doctor once a month. Towards the end of my pregnancy, I went to the doctor once or twice a week. Visits were routine, and I learned the drill. Weight and blood pressure check upon arrival. Ultrasounds every-other visit. Once gestational diabetes was diagnosed, I became a star pupil—proudly handing the doctor my little notebook where I charted my glucose numbers.

I can recall a few standout doctor visits; especially one around the eleventh week, when the nurse took so many vials of blood for various tests that I nearly passed out. Extra nurses rushed over to place cold compresses on my head and draped me in warm blankets. I was humiliated. I thought, “If I can barely handle getting blood drawn, how am I going to handle a human exiting my vagina?” I was very nervous.

Week thirty-eight offered another little thrill. My fundal height was measuring small, so the doctor ordered an emergency ultrasound. The word ‘emergency’ before anything is not what a pregnant woman wants to hear. Luckily, it turned out that everything was fine. However, the baby was measuring small. During that appointment, my doctor informed me that the best practice would be to plan an induction for my fortieth week of pregnancy. At 10 PM, the night before my daughter’s due date, I would be admitted to the hospital. Modern medicine would assist my daughter in arriving on her planned birthday. All I had to do now was...give birth.