Who Ya Gonna Call?

After Clyde and I broke it off and I told all my doctors our relationship had ended, I continued getting my Bonnie Numbers four times a day and faxed them to the endocrinologist weekly. My numbers have been lovely and steady, thank you body. So far, so good.
And then the poo hit the fan. Last week my endocrinologist's nurse asked that I get a hemoglobinA1C blood test. This is a simple test that looks at red blood cells and gets the average glucose percentage in your body for the past 3 months. Anything between 4.9 and 6.0 is normal. Mine was 5.1 several months ago; totally normal. But she wanted me to take another to get an update. Rule-follower that I am, I didn't ask questions. I took my veins down to the local blood suckers, who actually know me AND Abe by first name now, and left a little sample.
This week, the nurse called back and left me a message.
"Hi Erin. This is Dr. Endo's nurse. She said your hemoglobin A1C went up and she wants you to up your dosage of insulin starting this week. Call me back, thanks, bye."

Several things wrong with this message:
1. Will I ever talk to the endocrinologist again, or just the nurse?
2. She never mentioned what my A1C percentage was now? I'll be completely panicking about that until I get back in touch with her.
3. I'm not taking insulin anymore, and I told her that 2 weeks ago. How do I up the dosage if I'm not taking any?

I called her back and she told me my A1C was 5.6, and then immediately had to run and "would call me back to answer more questions." Now, I'm not sure how good you are with numbers, but to me, 5.6 still appears to fall within the "normal range." I mean, double check my math...but...
So instead of calmly determining my next questions before the nurse called back, I started crying and getting very angry.
Irrational, party of 1? Your table is ready.

My husband was out of town and I didn't know any friends who would understand why I was so angry and felt in my BONES she was going to tell me I had no choice but to go back on insulin despite my awesome Bonnie Numbers and normal A1C and how FRUSTRATING THAT WAS!

And then a little song began to play in my head.
"When a doctor's nuts, and you need some guts, who ya gonna call?
DOULA SHMOULA!
When they don't make sense, you need good defense. Who ya gonna call?
DOULA SHMOULA!"

I rattled off the whole story to Doula and she agreed, it didn't quite make sense yet. She helped me formulate my questions (Why are you recommending insulin? Is 5.1 to 5.6 a big jump? Is there lab variability? Do my Bonnie Numbers mean nothing?) and armed me with a little pep talk about trusting my instincts. And when that nurse called back, I was ready. An informed patient, I offered up my questions and encouraged her that I was glad to take the insulin so long as I understood why. First, she was appalled that I wasn't taking insulin (apparently she forgot to write that down in my chart 2 weeks ago when I told her), and second, she couldn't answer any of my questions except to say that she had no idea I wasn't on insulin. Finally, she released the biggest, most frustrated sigh I've heard since I last learned we were out of cottage cheese and said, "Well, I guess I'll have to pull your chart and discuss your questions with the doctor because I don't know the answers."
Um...thank you? For doing your job?

Nearly 3pm by that point, I had a sinking sensation I wasn't going to get an answer anytime soon. I sat, completely terrified that I was missing a precious day of insulin that could be saving my baby just because I was raising a stink about why I should take it. Am I completely selfish? Am I one of those patients that assumes to know more than the doctor? Are my instincts clouded by pregnancy hormones?

TBC...

Herman

This is where it gets personal, folks.

Everyone assures me that eventually during my pregnancy, I will meet a little guy named Herman. Who is Herman, you ask? Herman is a hemorrhoid. I didn't really know what one was. It's the one thing EVERYONE warned me would happen (just you wait), and it never did.
Until one night.
I had a mad craving for a certain fondue restaurant. I found a coupon (which makes food taste better, if you ask me) and invited my husband out for a date. It was the first time in months that I ate until I could barely move. I whined and moaned the ENTIRE drive home, "Oooh I'm completely full of baby and food, and the baby is kicking the food. Oooooh."
I immediately stopped in the bathroom to pee when we got home. It felt so comfortable there on the john, that I picked up a magazine and read for a few minutes. I never do that, but I was secretly hoping that if I sat there I could convince my stomach to empty its contents and give me a little more room. (I'm saying all this as politely as I can...)
I stood up to walk into the living room and stopped dead in my tracks.
"What?" my husband asked.
"Hemerrhoid,"I replied.
"You got one?"
"What does one feel like?" I asked, but it came out more like pleading.
"I don't know. I think it's like something is coming out. Or hanging around," he responded.
"Oh. My. God."
I stood there staring at him, like if I stared long enough he would tell me he was sure it wasn't a Herman and we could all move on.
"Well," he finally said, "touch it. Is something there?"
I went into the other room and started sobbing. "I touched it!" I screamed. "I have one! I have a Herman! I have a huge belly, an aching back, leg cramps, sore feet, and a hemerrhoid! Babe! No! I don't want this!"
"It's fine, honey!" my husband spoke through the door. "It will probably be there for a while and then it will go away, I don't think it's a big deal."
I continued sobbing. My husband went into my drawers to get the antidote; I always kept hemerroid cream around because I saw on the Today show that it can help reduce under-eye bags (and it really does work, you should check it out). He cracked the door, handed it to me, and told me to try it. I sat there, sobbing, and "tried it." Then I walked back to the bedroom, more crying, more whining, and tried to go to sleep.
"Erin?"
"Yeah?" I sniffled.
"Are you going to blog about this?"
"Of course I am. The people have a right to know."
I woke up 15 times in the middle of the night to pee and everytime, I grabbed the antidote. I'm not sure what the maximum usage in a 24-hour period is, but whatever it is I'm pretty sure I quadrupled it at least. This was war.
I woke up the next morning and hopped in the shower. I'd almost forgotten about Herman. He suddenly flashed across my mind like a swift right hook and I closed my eyes. Please, lord. Take Herman away.
Several minutes later I came running (well, walking at a pace faster than the slowest saunter you could possibly imagine is "running" right now) out of the bathroom in a robe screaming, "Babe! IT'S A MIRACLE!! IT'S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!"
"What?" he shouted.
"HERMAN IS GONE!"
"HERMAN IS GONE???"
"YES!! I'VE KILLED HERMAN!"
My husband remarked that that was wonderful and went back to his coffee.
I felt very good about myself the rest of the day having killed Herman in one night. And to all those threatening that Herman will return, I laugh at your threats. I have the antidote. And I know how to use it.

Analyze This

Ok, dream analyzers. Tell me what this one means:

So I'm 9 months pregnant and helping a friend get out of a maze. I black out and when I wake up, I'm in a hospital room and I've given birth. There are about 30 nurses meandering around, as well as my whole family. One of the nurses is holding my baby, so I approach her and she asks me if I want to hold "my baby." I say yes, remarking to myself how strange it is that I can walk without any pain.

I take the blanket and in it is an African Parrot. I'm trying to hold the parrot like a baby, but it's really fighting me. It hates being on its back. It starts pecking me with its beak and eventually gets out of my hands and flies away. I'm really disappointed; I want to see Abe.
So I turn around to wash my hands in my kitchen sink, which is there in the room, and someone hands me "my baby" again. It's a little Filipino girl, probably about 6 months old. She has a really runny, crusty nose. I start to feel horrible about myself as a mother. I don't want this little girl at all. She's cute and nice, but I don't love her. I love Abe. And I can't find him. I wipe her nose and put her on my hip.
Then the doctor emails me. My computer in there in the room (luckily) and I read that he has never seen a patient like me before in his entire career and that it's all really strange. I concur in my head. I turn around and ask how much Abe weighed when he was born. My mother, in scrubs, tells me he weighed just over 4 pounds and if I had carried him any longer I would have had a lot of pressure an felt very uncomfortable. She still didn't tell me where he was.
Then another doctor comes in to give my family, and all the nurses, a power point presentation about pediatricians. He recommends to me that I should see one pediatrician in particular, an Asian man, because my daughter is Filipino. My mother agrees (she's sitting behind me and wearing black skinny jeans with a ton of jewelry now). I turn and tell her I like the pediatrician I chose and I don't want to change and she looks at me like I'm crazy. "Oh," she says. "Well, I like this Asian one." I leave the room and start walking down a hall to find Abe. I'm sobbing because I feel terribly that I don't like that little girl.
And then I wake up and pee.

Analyze. Go.

Defying Gravity

I got a little more floor in this one than I'd prefer, but the point is this: That is one good-looking kid, no?

The Break Up

So, Bonnie and Clyde (read about them here and here) have been by my side for a little over a month now. My Bonnie Numbers are good. I'm always within the perfect range and Bonnie has been as gentle with my fingers as she can be. But to be honest, Clyde and I have been having some trouble in our relationship. He's VERY demanding, and even though I know he means well, he starting to hurt me. It was all well and good at first, but slowly I felt like things got abusive. He's one of those guys that assures me the bruises are all going to be worth it if I just keep up our relationship; he likes to remind me he's the only one that can help me with Gestational Diabetes. There have been many nights I looked him right in the eye and said, "I can't do this, Clyde. I don't feel right about it. This feels toxic." And then he just slyly responds, "It's your choice, but do you really want to hurt your baby? I need you and you need me, and we both know it." How do I argue with that?
Well, I'll tell you how. One morning, I woke up and decided I couldn't take part in this co-dependent relationship anymore. After talking to Bonnie, I stood up and walked right past Clyde. I didn't even wake him up to tell him I was leaving. I didn't want the arguing or to feel the guilt I'd knew he'd try to smack me with. I just left.
That first day was hard. I constantly thought about what Clyde said: "Do you really want to hurt your baby?" The last thing I ever want to do is hurt my Abe, but something told me that I could do this without Clyde. It took a lot of Bonnie Numbers and a lot of protein, but I did it. And with each passing day, it got easier and easier to ignore Clyde.
The next big hurdle would be to tell my doctor that Clyde and I broke up. My doctor has not exactly demonstrated himself to be the most flexible when it comes to my relationship decisions. Plus, he REALLY likes Clyde. He feels like we're perfect for each other. My aunt gave me a pep talk, reminding me that I'm a grown up and my doctor is not in charge of my life. So at my next appointment, I told him. No, he wasn't thrilled. But I think my forthright attitude gave him little room to argue. I was finished with Clyde, and that was that.
So, it's been a little over a week since I've seen Clyde. He doesn't even live by my bed in anymore, he's completely moved out. Bonnie has been a big support during this time, and we both knew it was right. She's helped me to see that. Maybe someday Clyde and I will be friends again; maybe we'll find a way to have a mutually beneficial relationship. But for now, we're not good for eachother. And I feel stronger for having made the choice to let him go. I appreciate all the support I've gotten from friends and family, and if you hear from Clyde, please tell him I hope he's well.

I Saw the Sign

These should be posted in EVERY parking lot ACROSS AMERICA. FOREVER. 

I'm a Decorator

I am NOT good at decorating. It has taken me a year and a half to get our living room into a configuration that's both attractive and functional. The walls are still bare. People give me ideas constantly, but they all seem so monumental that I just anxiety and take a nap.
So while I spent an entire afternoon on the internet trying to decide how to decorate Abe's room with more than just a glider and a crib (and subsequently rearranged his clothing for the 823rd time), I came upon some very cool vinyl stickers on Etsy.com. Of course, I bookmarked them and then took a nap because it was too overwhelming to commit to buying them. But when my husband saw them, he immediately picked a few that he thought would look nice in our bedroom and Abe's room. He's more of a do-er. I'm more of a list-maker and organizer. And napper. (Have I mentioned naps?)

We first got these big beautiful birch trees with sweet little brown birds for our bedroom. I think it helps to complete the West Elm look we've been going for.

Don't let the simplicity fool you. It took us about 4 hours to get them onto the wall. First I cut them out, then my husband taped them up, and then he painstakingly smoothed every inch of them onto the wall once section at a time (ensuring that each section lined up perfectly so each one looked like a single tree). If left to do this on my own, I ABSOLUTELY would have been covered in wrinkled, torn vinyl birch tree stickers and sobbing within 45 minutes.

I added the brown birds, which was easy enough because they were each one sticker. It's probably best you don't mention to my doctor or mother that I climbed my 8-months-pregnant-self to the top of a ladder to do it. It'll be our little secret.

Once I did the birds around the trees, I decided to tackle the wall above the changing table in our room. The dresser is my husband's maternal grandmother's. After she passed away, she left many beautiful old pieces of furniture in a storage unit and we snatched this one up. Such character. Neat that her great grandson will be changed on her dresser. :)
Anyway, the birds add a tad of whimsy and remind both my husband and I of one our of favorite books, Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

We added an owl above the bed in Abe's room because it's freaking adorable, and because it came free with the birch trees.














My friend Tamara made these AMAZING letters by HAND for Abe.

We hung those above his crib and finally agreed upon a place for the hippo and viola! Abe has a few decorations! I'm a decorator! Kind of!