I have gestational diabetes.
Again.
I’m not surprised but it’s a major bad news when you’re pregnant and laden with sweet cravings. So this means a balanced diet and some form of exercise. I recently learned about carb counting from my diabetes specialist, Grace, who was more than patient to listen to my rant and first-pregnancy-diabetes-chronicle.
Today is Day 2 of my two-week required habit of testing my blood sugar level before mealtime (after 8-12 hours of fasting) and checking one hour after breakfast, lunch, dinner. I don’t specifically like it. I’m not afraid of blood but having to jot down what I ate in these three main meals and then poking myself in the finger is no fun especially when it’s so tempting to devour three scoops of chocolate mint ice cream or warm brownie with vanilla ice cream.
My blood sugar level one hour after lunch today soared to 200 mg/dL (my target is not more than 130). I had two pieces of wheat bread with peanut butter, half a cup of couscous, and half a cup of sautéed shrimps. Yesterday, same after lunch measurement, I was at 150 – and yes, I ate the same amount of wheat bread with peanut butter. So I guess, I’ll try one piece of that wheat bread without peanut butter tomorrow and check if my blood sugar won’t reach the 150-200 mg/dL level. If for some reasons, it reaches 150 or 200, then I’m going to ditch that bread because it will be the height of its betrayal to a pregnant lady with gestational diabetes, who trusts its promise for lower carbo content.
My glucose meter flashed that “running out of power” icon so I hurried to look for the box where the still-unopened charger was supposed to be. But it wasn’t there. No recharging wire in the box placed in my orange basket. I only suspect my two-year-old son as the lone culprit of its missing state. He knows how to open the door in our room and often plays with the things placed on my bedside table. So yes, it could be him. I tried to think like a two-year-old. Where would he put my wire? I tried to think like a rat too so I scoured every nook amd canny of the house. That yielded nothing.
Perhaps my son is neither a two-year-old boy nor a rat. Perhaps he really is an alien or a mutant or a hobbit. Or he can be the decepticon in the current sob storyline of my gestational diabetes universe.
I honestly can’t wait to be done with this pregnancy and just give birth. Lord, please let September come. Quickly. Por favor.
