I try to tow a fine line with this blog.
I am guilty of wanting the world to see surrogacy through the same rose colored glasses that I do. The ones that show how wonderful this process can be. I love to share happy and exciting moments here. I am guilty of not wanting to show sad ones. In general, when there isn't happy news to share, I stay silent.
But writing is my therapy. So, I'm going to write about what happened yesterday.
It has been said that if you look for anything hard enough, you're sure to find it.
I feel like this entire second surrogate pregnancy has been filled with doctors who have not had faith in me or my body, and have spent endless hours and thousands of dollars seeking something "wrong" with me.
First there was the IVF doctor who ordered invasive tests and painful procedures before he'd even consider accepting me as a patient, and then later sent me out for what I still feel to have been unnecessary genetic testing to ensure that I couldn't possibly have a condition that my medical history all but guaranteed that I didn't have. He tried hard, but he couldn't find fault with me.
Then there came the maternal fetal medicine folk who have needed to see me for roughly 90 minutes every 10 days for the past 12 weeks. They've scanned, checked, and done everything in their power to find something wrong with me, too. At one point, just last week, even saying, "You're doing so well, maybe we can talk about cutting back on these appointments..." They weren't able to find anything wrong with me, either. Until yesterday.
As we've mentioned, look hard enough for anything, you're sure to find it.
Yesterday I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes.
I spent a lot of yesterday crying.
I'm crying now.
Part of me feels so, so foolish. Here I have been, touting my slow rate of gain and healthy babies. I felt so proud of myself. I was happy with my form, and just so proud of my body. Now, here I sit with a disease that is largely attributed to people who can't control their weight. How foolish am I?
In one phone call I went from proud of myself and my confident in my physical appearance to utterly ashamed and embarrassed of how I look. I went from feeling comfortable and cute, to wanting to wear sweat pants and hide in bed for the next 10 weeks.
I feel like such a failure. I feel like my body let these twins down. And I wonder what the IPs will think of this news. Do they blame me? Are they angry? Do they realize that I'm emotionally flailing over this news? Who knows. I know I feel all of those things, though, so they must.
I feel anxiety and incredibly overwhelmed. I know that this diagnosis, with these doctors, means even more appointments. In fact, I've already had to add a 2 hour appointment with a nutrition expert to the schedule for this week. I'm told these are my new norm. A diet expert to tell the big, fat, fatty how to eat. Never mind that I already can't meet their lofty diet goals for me, I now also have to be fat shamed once a week during a time when all I'm going to do is get bigger and bigger anyway.
If you're counting... that takes me up to a minimum of about 4 hours per week at the doctors office right now. In another 2 weeks that goes to 6 hours per week, and in 4 weeks it'll be close to 8 hours per week when we start adding in the non-stress tests.
Frankly, I'm lucky to have a job that allows me to work from home and whatever hours I need. I'm sure I would have lost a traditional job at this point. I am so overwhelmed by the appointments. I just don't know how to make them work with life in general.
I feel like, today at least, my spirit is totally and completely crushed. It's not the diagnosis, not really. While I am incredibly upset over it, I know it happens. I know I'm displacing my other stress onto this one thing. I just feel like I've been fighting so long, trying to prove my body can do this, is capable of this, and now here I am... defective. And crushed.