I hadn’t even been doing diabetes testing that long before I got hit with COVID.
Early on in 2020, I’m pretty sure Chris and I had COVID before they had testing because we had the weird COVID toes thing that was happening to some people. And since then, every test I’ve taken has been negative. Even last year when I was super sick with some sort of plague, I never tested positive.
And one of my biggest fears of getting pregnant again post-pandemic was getting the virus. So at the beginning of this week, after feeling run-down from insomnia and not sleeping, and then starting to feel like I was coming down with something, I realized I had lost my sense of smell. I was washing my hands one evening after the kids were put to bed, and discovered I couldn’t actually smell the very fragrant soap we used in the downstairs bathroom. Shit, I thought, shit.
I went upstairs and rummaged through the closet, grabbing a rogue COVID test leftover from when I was sent free tests several months back. I took the test and went back downstairs to wait, deciding not to say anything to Chris until after I saw the results. And when I went back to check, there was a very strong line indicating I did indeed have the virus.
I couldn’t even go back downstairs. Instead, I sat on the couch for a while reading about the horrors of having COVID while pregnant and all the vicious things it can do to a pregnant person and their baby. And then I realized I needed to stop because I had the virus and there was literally nothing I could do to help that and reading about said horrors was not going to change anything.
I told Chris, while sobbing. I emailed the girls’ school and knew we’d be testing everyone and keeping the kids home with us for the next week. I was already dealing with high blood pressure, probable gestational diabetes, my OB team harping about me measuring big and the need for a growth ultrasound, liver issues, and now this.
Why? I cried to Chris that night, why can’t I catch a break? Why can’t one good fucking thing happen to me in this pregnancy? Why, after everything that I’ve been through with this pregnancy, do I need to have COVID on top of it?
I’ve been trying. I’ve been trying so hard to stay positive with this pregnancy and think good thoughts since I don’t need the negative energy. But one thing after another is constantly knocking down those good thoughts.
Maybe this pregnancy will be different! Blood pressure elevated at 10 weeks.
Maybe this time it will be better! Now on blood pressure meds three times a day.
Well at least we’re controlling it! Now your liver enzymes are fucked up.
At least I was able to manage my blood sugars last time. Eats a strawberry. Blood sugars are fucked.
Well, at least the baby is okay. We’re concerned about the baby. You need a growth scan asap.
Well…at least I have my health. No bitch. Now you have COVID.
Sunday morning, at 26 weeks, my fasting glucose shot up to 105 when it was previously sitting between 84 and 91. Suddenly, it seemed even a small amount of whole grain was shooting my numbers up. My fasting blood sugars continued to be elevated despite the now almost nonexistent carbs I was eating. I thought it was just the stress I was under and feeling run-down, but now I think this was COVID coming before anyone knew it.
After finding out my own COVID diagnosis, Emelia and Chris both tested positive and since Olivia hasn’t had her COVID vaccinations, everyone was under the same roof for the next five days.
Small bursts of activity, like making the girls’ lunch would leave me breathless, pale, weak, and fatigued. Chris basically took over everything as I just tried to focus on my next blood pressure medication, the next low-carb meal, the next glucose check, and the next blood pressure reading. I asked for extensions for articles and my editors were more than gracious. I cried a lot.
There was one moment when I was standing in the bathroom with Emelia, as I waited for her to wash her hands so I could turn the water off, where I watched myself in the mirror lose all the color in my face. I might pass out, I realized, before I shakily made it back to the couch.
One day for lunch Chris asked if I wanted corn dogs. I knew it probably wasn’t a good idea, but I agreed, and made a giant salad to eat beforehand, even walking around the house for 10 minutes after to bring my blood sugar down. All I succeeded in doing was wearing myself out for the next two hours and my blood sugar was still 153. COVID has completely fucked my body up. And I’m throwing in the towel thinking I could beautifully manage my blood sugar as I did for my last pregnancy. I’m fully prepared to start diabetes medication at my OB because I just can’t do it.
And there’s something really disheartening about doing everything in your power to try to manage something and it’s just not working. A 24-gram protein cup of cottage cheese with half a cup of strawberries for breakfast used to put my blood sugar around 110 tops. Now it’s in the 140s.
Eating has become an extremely stressful event. Actually, I just simply hate it. I put food in my body to survive, but there’s no joy. There’s just: will this spike my blood sugar? Am I hurting the baby? Will my fasting be high just because? Despite the fact of barely eating any carbs the day previous?
I didn’t want a gestational diabetes diagnosis on top of my hypertension diagnosis. I didn’t want a new set of reasons why I was fucking my body up by getting pregnant again and a new set of potential complications with preterm birth and problems with the baby. I didn’t want another reason to be more closely monitored and treated like a time bomb.
I know I’m not handling this well. I haven’t handled one fucking part of this pregnancy well. Since early September when I found out I was accidentally pregnant, I’ve been in full-on survival mode. When I used to joke about how impossibly bad another pregnancy would be for me, this is exactly what I pictured. All of this. All the complications. All the stress, worry, and uncertainty. All the advocating and pushing at OB visits. The last five months have been survival. It feels like a death when I should be celebrating life. I want this baby when he comes out and I can’t wait to hold him, don’t get me wrong. But this pregnancy? Actually being pregnant? I would give anything for it to never have happened. I would give anything to go back in time and do the vasectomy earlier. Because this nightmare of a pregnancy is exactly what I was afraid of. Worse blood pressure issues. Worse physical pain and coping. Worse glucose issues.
And I have to just sit back and watch it continue to unfold, taking the punches, trying to survive the hits. Hoping it ends as well as it can. Hoping the baby comes out of this okay. Hoping my mental health, my body, can survive this. Hoping I won’t be as permanently disabled as I’m fearing. Doctors have told me the arthritis in my knees was accelerated by two pregnancies. They’ve told me I’m now at higher risk for long-term blood pressure issues, insulin resistance, Type 2 diabetes, heart disease. Because of the events that happened during my pregnancies. With my last pregnancy, I knew I had just increased my risk for these conditions and the only thing reassuring me is that I wouldn’t ever be pregnant again.
I can’t wait until next week for my appointment. Even if it’s bad news, it’s still news. I can’t wait to see the baby on ultrasound and check in on him. I can’t wait to address these blood sugars just make a plan and go with it, with a gestational diabetes diagnosis. I can’t wait to, uh, be checked out by a healthcare provider and get my O2 sats to see if my lungs are truly affected.
