"Buy yourself some cute Band-Aids." That was what my sister said when I told her that I had gestational diabetes. Well, she said a lot of other (very helpful!) things too, having gone through this horror herself. But that was what, ahem, stuck with me when I finally decided to write this post.
When I got my test results, I was terrified. I had no idea how I was going to cut carbs and (gulp) prick myself four times a day. The husband, as always, was (and is) amazing, patiently showing me how to use the glucose monitor and making me protein-rich meals. The first time I stuck myself, I almost threw up. Then another time shortly after I couldn't get the needle thingy to work (I'm not the most mechanical person), and the more the clock ticked, the more flustered I got. Panicked, I thought, I can't do this. And then, like a sign from the universe, it all clicked -- literally and figuratively. The pen did its thing, and I took my reading. And I knew that I could and would do this, for my health and for the health of my baby.
It's been a week and a half now, and I already feel like an old, ahem, hand. I even went for other (pregnancy-related) bloodwork earlier this week and was completely fine. Best of all, so far, my numbers have been great. So, pizza-free or not, I feel incredibly lucky. It's a comfort knowing that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
And that sometimes the only way to stop being a baby is to have one.
