2:45 a.m. I think that’s suppose to be followed by something like, “And all is well,” however, all is not well as is evidenced by the time I’m writing this. Where shall we begin our tour of whine country?
Let’s start with the most obvious. I’m not sleeping. I rarely sleep anymore, and when I do sleep I don’t sleep well. Bedtime has become a series of rituals – prenatal vitamin with a few sips of water so I don’t pee all night, Native American flute music (Robert Tree Cody being my favorite) on the iPod, Adam rubbing my back until I drift off. Sadly, I don’t drift long. I usually wake in time to hear him begin snoring in time to Cody’s last chant. Eventually, I find a rhythm in Adam’s snoring and the stillness of the night and drift some more. Before long, though, I have to get up to pee. This usually continues about every hour on the hour until 4 a.m. when I finally fall asleep until around 8 a.m. Adam asks hopefully each morning, “Did you sleep?” :::sigh:::
Then there are nights like tonight when I can’t bear to stay in bed. Some times I take a warm shower. Other times I rock in the living room recliner until I start to nod. I woke Adam up while ago because I was scared and felt alone. He’s such a trooper. A slight nudge from me and he was on his feet, getting me a glass of water, holding and consoling me. He made a weird face, and I inquired. Still in a fog, he said, “I’m just trying to stay awake and be here for you as much as I can.” The man makes me cry almost every day. He doesn’t mean to, but his sweetness, compassion and caring can be so overwhelming. Like another friend of mine, I wonder what I did to deserve this and how I got so damn lucky. Anyway, this is about whine, not cheese. After a while, we lay back down. Adam quickly went back to snoring, but I was at a loss so I’m trying something new tonight – writing.
Most nights, there’s nothing particular on my mind. I think about the baby, of course, but only random half-thoughts. Other nights, I’m plagued by images and ideas I’d rather not visit.
You see, people and life have this nasty, nasty, nasty habit of reminding you of the bad. Today, for example, I visited the diabetes education counselor at Lexington Medical Center. She was nice, full of information and materials. She was also full of stories of everything that can go wrong, especially now that I have gestational diabetes.
I took my first glucose test at my OB’s office several weeks ago. (That was another night of sleeplessness, and another story for another time.) The cut off was 135; I scored 165. I had to return for a second, longer glucose test. The nurse called a few days later and told me some of my numbers were okay, some were bad, so I need to see a dietitian about checking my blood sugar levels and changing them through diet. Today, on the other hand, I learn I’m not seeing a dietitian so much as I’m seeing a diabetes counselor. And my numbers weren’t off; I in fact have gestational diabetes.
Now I have a little blood sugar monitor I have to use four times a day. I cried in her office when I tried to use it for the first time. I mean, come on, everything in your head says, “Don’t poke yourself with sharp objects,” and here’s there’s sharp object you’re suppose to use to make yourself intentionally bleed. I also have a big packet of information staring me in the face about blood sugar, diabetes, carbohydrates and plenty of notes about what gestational diabetes can do to my unborn child. (Never mind the picture she drew of a fat baby boy in a circle with a list of possible complications.)
On top of that, I have a tooth throbbing tonight. I don’t think it’s any secret I have really bad teeth. My mother has them, too. Teeth that are very susceptible to cavities and breaking. Teeth that are prone to cause you a world of hurt at the drop of a hat. This one, tonight, feels as though I decided to take an ice pick and ram it into my jaw. Take something for pain? Think not. Pregnant women are allowed Tylenol. Two of the extra strength variety. In moderation. What I’d really like to do right now is crush an entire bottle of Tylenol and cram the powder into every nook and cranny of my mouth. Get help for the tooth you say? Sure. Find me a dentist who will take Medicaid or allow me to make payments. Find me a dentist who’s willing to do work on a pregnant woman. I’ll be the first in the line.
But because that’s not enough, let’s throw in the dancing heads. The dancing heads? Yep. These are the heads of all of the people who have lovely little pregnancy horror stories to tell. “I knew a woman who…” “My best friend’s aunt’s daughter had the worst…” I would love to know the psychology behind these stories. Why do people want to tell a pregnant woman about bad things happening? How about something happy people???
Still not enough to keep you up at night? Well, there’s the never ending list of things I need to do. There’s the baby stuff like start packing a bag for hospital, finish writing the birth plan and shop for needed items (with what money I don’t know). And there’s the usual stuff like do the laundry, clean the house and balance the checkbook (Oh, look, honey! We have four dollars!).
And there’s the stuff no one wants to imagine. My four-year-old cousin, Katie, died two weeks ago. She had a rare form of childhood liver cancer, which she fought for almost a year. Adam and I went to the wake because I wanted to be there for my family, especially Katie’s mother. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around what she must be going through. But since then, every night, I can’t help but see Katie’s sweet face in that little white and pink coffin. It’s such a cliché, but it is every parent’s worst nightmare – the loss of a child. Even now, I can’t help but put my hands on my belly and weep.
So, no, I’m not sleeping. And let me offer up a big “fuck you” to the first person who says, “Oh you might as well get use to it!” I’m sick of hearing that particular phrase every time I can’t sleep, have a headache or am unusually tired. I’m also sick of hearing things like, “You look like you’re about to pop!” and “Time just flies, doesn’t it?” and “Don’t you just love being pregnant?” and “June 6 will be here before you know it.” Cram it, sisters.
It’s 3:37 a.m. now. Even the damn cats are sleeping. This is such a lonely time. Everything is at rest. In front of my house, Highway 6, usually a buzzing four-lane highway, is quiet. My mother’s dogs are quiet. The Mexicans who live behind us are quiet. There’s not even anyone logged in on Facebook. Everything is still except me and the baby. He’s kicking harder these days, and you can see my belly move. I have nothing else to say, no one to talk to, so I’m going to go curl up next to Adam and listen to him breathe. With any luck, it will lull me into the sleep I so desperately crave.
