We went to the doctor to get an update on Abe's development. The big fear with Gestational Diabetes is that babies will be too big, deliver early, and not have sufficient lung development to function. So, we're keeping a close eye on things.
First I had an NST. This is a fetal non-stress test. They hook me up to a printer using several different little "remote controls" on belts around my belly that monitor Abe's heartbeat and movements with squiggly lines. At first, Abraham got extremely annoyed. He began to kick like a mule and twist and turn, almost in an effort to avoid the heart monitor. It took two nurses to find his heartbeat. We can safely conclude he's stubborn like his mama. Also, he is not a morning person, again like his mama.
My husband noted that his heart rate was really high and I snapped, "Well, of course it is! He was sleeping and they pushed him all around in there!" I put my hand on my stomach between the remote controls and said, "It's ok, bud. You can relax." Within 10 seconds, his heart rate went back down to normal! I'm obviously some kind of Eastern healer. We sat with the remotes for 30 minutes until eventually a nurse came in and said everything looked great according to the scribbles on a long piece of paper that printed out. I think they made this entire process up, but whatever.
Next we went in for an ultrasound with the doctor. Of course, it was great to see Abe there on the screen with his big cheeks and long legs. He's such a good looking fetus. However, the doctor measured him about 12 times to conclude that he is in the 76th percentile for weight and height. Translation? He's a giant. And in case you didn't know, I am very much not a giant. And right then and there, my childbirth education classes, my lamaze breathing, the bag of massaging instruments I've been collecting from friends, my focus objects, my birth plan, all of it blew away like a stack of extremely important papers on a windy, wet day. No point in even running around to try and collect them. My doctor was extremely kind and encouraged me that the choice would always be mine and he would never force me to choose c-section, but he also explained the risks involved with Abraham trying to come into the world naturally. Not only can my body split in half from the inside (well, basically), but Abe can become stuck, distressed, and God knows what else.
On the way home, alone in my car, I began searching the radio stations for songs that might make me feel better. A song I've been hearing over and over again came on, and I began to wonder why this particular tune kept following me. When my dad died, songs started following me and I would always get a wonderful or foreshadowing message that reflected the way I felt or how things would turn out. And this song, called The Outsiders, has been following me for weeks and made NO sense. I was almost annoyed that it was this song I was listening to because I didn't hear the message (but I also didn't turn it off). My husband and I don't feel like outsiders. We don't do taxidermy on squirrels from our yard. We're not hoarders or drug addicts or recluses. Hell, we're never even late on our bills. Why does this song keep calling us outsiders?! WE'RE NOT OUTSIDERS!
And finally, it hit me like a ton of bricks. It wasn't my husband and I this song was singing about. It was Abraham and I. We're the outsiders. We're the ones looking at all the happy moms and babies with normal pregnancies and deliveries and feeling so different. And you know what? Like the song says, "I'm not leaving without a fight." So today, I might feel like an outsider, but I know Abe is with me and we are gonna fight like hell to get through the coming weeks together, happy and healthy.
We got this.