A Brief Reprieve (Sort Of...For Now, Anyway)

Cramming three doctor visits into one day leaves this Voodoo Doll a bit tired, a bit drained (literally), but in good spirits. 

Here's the lowdown:

After a bit of a mishap with a rusty screwdriver, I had called my doctor on call over the weekend to see if it was safe to get a Tetanus shot/booster during pregnancy. 

 Not only did she give me the go-ahead, she noted that since I'm in my third trimester now, and the CDC had just changed their recommendations for vaccinations, I am due for the whooping cough vaccine too.  (It used to be given after the baby was born but the concern is so high, women in their 3rd T are supposed to get it.  If you have kids, are around kids, or ever want to go near my baby, PLEASE go get it!)  My doc told me to take care of it at the next appointment, which was this morning.  What I didn't know was that the whooping cough vaccine is in the same shot as the tetanus booster--so, two for the price of one poke!  Otherwise, uneventful visit; Niblet's measuring on track, and we scheduled another visit with an ultrasound so we can see how we're doing on the "too much amniotic fluid" issue.

On to The Center!  I must say this was the best.visit.ever.   After noting that I'd barely gained any weight since my visit a month ago, and looking over my levels, the clinician gave me the go-ahead to do all of the following:  (1) Add more carbs to my diet;  (2) Snack when I'm hungry, even if it's not the right time, so long as it's protein or a veggie and not a carb; and (this is the best, as far as I'm concerned,) (3) Test every OTHER day.    That means no more daily pokings for this Voodoo Doll!   Only every-other-day!    

She also said that I will absolutely not have diabetes after I give birth.  She said she'd bet me $100 that I don't.    I probably should have shook on it, since I have crappy luck, but I'd rather just let her gloat if she's right.   Will I have it later in life?  No way to know, not at this point, but if I don't let myself fall apart, eat sensibly and incorporate exercise into my routine, I don't think I will have any greater risk than most women.  

The flip side?  For future babies, I am almost guaranteed another trip to The Center.  And worse?   I may need insulin.  Apparently, the pancreas gets taxed the first time to the extent that women who have GD the first time but get by without insulin are more prone to need it the second time.  But that's years away.  Can't worry about hypothetical future babies when I'm still cooking number #1.

Finally, on to the last visit of the day: the hematologist!   Who found... (wait for it...)



NOTHING!

Yeah, I'm not shocked either.    My current count is still with an elevated white count and a low red count.  (Just the opposite of how I'd stock a wine cellar, actually.)  On the bright side, I made a face and whined when the lady came to take my blood through the "jab the finger and rub it furiously" process and she offered to take it out of my arm.  Heck yeah.  That doesn't hurt, so that's what she did. 

Anyway, all the hematologist came back with was that all the tests he ran last time--checking for things like a chronic leukemia or other myoproliferative disorders--all came back negative.    His opinion?  It's probably stress related, that my body is taxed by being pregnant.  Ok, that's no shocker.  He said we should just continue to monitor everything every few weeks.  He thinks it will probably stay level through the rest of my pregnancy, and if so, it's all good, and he thinks that a a few months after I deliver, my levels will return to normal.    The only other thing he said is for me to take my iron supplements twice a day instead of once a day, because my iron levels just aren't increasing.   So more heavy metal for this poppet.

All in all, a good day.  A shot and a draw later, and my left arm isn't exactly happy, but I'm looking forward to tomorrow:  a day when I won't poke myself at all.

At least on purpose. 

(See above re: screwdriver incident.  Yeah that didn't even happen at a testing time so that gash and blood totally went to waste.)

You Must Walk Your Voodoo Doll!

I'm officially in love with a pair of sneakers.

Let's back up here. 

I tend to focus on the food-restriction/dietary guidelines that go with being a Voodoo Doll.  I'm a foodie, so what would you expect?  You tell me I can't just eat what I want and that's what I'm gonna fixate on.   Pregnancy craving for a hot fudge brownie?  Tough cookies.  Except no cookies, either.

Sorry, buddy.  See me in November.  We'll talk.

But being a Voodoo Doll also means you have to get your round self up off the couch and move it.  That's because part of controlling your blood sugar means getting some exercise every single day, whether you want to or not.  And for me?  It's been years since I really made a habit of regular exercise.  I know, I am going to Fitness Hell.  (Whatever you do, don't tell Jillian from the Biggest Loser.  She SCARES me.)    So being told that I have to do it now, not because it's for my health or benefit or long term wellness, but for my Niblet, well, now I'll actually do it.

And in truth, I was an active kid.  Eight years of soccer.  Got to high school and became a swimmer, 4 years, 3 years Varsity.  (I was never actually all that good but I didn't complain, so I got the events nobody else would do:  butterfly and the 500.)   I slowed down in college but did have to do a lot of walking and hill climbing, because whoever designed UCSD put it in a giant salad bowl, so to cross campus, you have to go downhill and then uphill, wherever you are.    I didn't put on the freshman fifteen.  I didn't even put on the first-year-fifteen in law school, but I'm sure that's where my sluggishness began.  It got worse by the first year of practice, and since then, there have been a few bouts of the South Beach Diet to trim the tummy, and several different gym memberships which got used for about six month increments before being discarded.  (Last was before I got married.  Note to other brides to be who are about to wear strapless gowns:  Try not to exercise and diet to the extent that you look great in a bikini but your dress is barely staying up, even with the falsies shoved in the front of your gown.    Believe me, I would have needed those anyway, but one of my bridesmaids, who is herself now engaged to be married in April, still berates me for having to lace me up so tightly that she nearly pulled a muscle.  She has now opted for the world's most complicated bustle, specifically for payback.  It's only fair.)

Anyway, before I got pregnant I was at a healthy BMI and could have stood to shed a few pounds (again around my stomach) but exercise was not a part of my routine.  The hubby and I do like to hike and kayak, but these are things we have done so very rarely (uh, we went kayaking on our honeymoon and that was it) that they can hardly be counted as part of our routine.  And I still like to swim, but the pool at our place is outdoor, so the weather must cooperate. 

So when I get told that I have to exercise daily...well, it's not "worse" than having to prick my fingers four times a day, per se, but it is a bigger hassle.   The pricking takes a minute or two.  The exercising takes at least 15 minutes for it to be worth anything, and beyond that, I am supposed to exercise after dinner (if not also at other times as well.)   After dinner is when I want to put my feet up and do my kick counts.  Niblet is the most active then, and I generally just want to sit and digest, not go waddle around the neighborhood, avoiding the crazy old lady with her giant stick or her seventeen cats.  It's also late enough that it's no longer warm enough to swim (usually, today being a notable exception), and besides, I still have that hangup about not swimming after you eat.  I don't even know if it's true but I was brought up to count down the minutes until we could swim after lunch.   So I won't chow down and then dive on in.  

Which pretty  much leaves the brisk walk.  Some nights, I just walk around the house, like an idiot.  I walk from one wall to another.  I go up and down our stairs.  I get out the swiffer and multitask by swiffing furiously around the house, cleaning up while working out.   I dance around a little bit, like a bigger idiot, but it's not like anything I do right now looks particularly graceful.   Other nights, we actually take on the neighborhood for a stroll.  Last night, we had dinner with my parents, and my dad and hubby did the dishes while my mom and I walked their neighborhood, which was a great change of pace because I've quite tired of mine.  

So here's the rub (literally):  recently, I have noticed that I *might* be experiencing some mild pregnancy related swelling in my hands, feet, and ankles.  Specifically, I noted that my ankles are MIA.  They're not cute.  My legs aren't heavier, so I know it's swelling and not weight gain, but I've never not seen my ankle bone before, and I don't like it.  

With that, obviously, comes some shoe issues.    Early on in my pregnancy, I bought a couple of pairs of flat black shoes for work, since I shouldn't wear heels while pregnant.  These shoes were bought a 1/2 size bigger and still fit...mostly.  But my sneakers are another story.  One pair I haven't been comfortable in for weeks.  The other pair was a little more loose fitting, and I thought I could get away with wearing them through the end of my pregnancy.

But today, I was on an errand, and planned to meet my mom, but she called to tell me she was hung up and would be a bit later than we'd expected.  I now had an hour to kill in a shopping complex.  And Payless started serenading me.   

This wasn't the first time I had been lured to Payless with their BOGO promise.  I'd been looking for brown flats as long as I'd been looking for black ones, to no avail.  I already have wide feet, and finding inexpensive wide width no heel non-flip-flop brown shoes was apparently an impossible task.  But I kept checking, figuring different stores at different times may yield different results.  Possibly shoe results.

So I poked through the aisles, and started looking at the athletic shoes.  I hadn't come in for them, but there they were, all perfectly white, not all cracked and dirty like my well-loved four year old sneakers.   What could it hurt to try on a pair?

Nothing. 

In fact, there was no pain.  There was the sudden absence of pain.   By putting on a pair of sneakers 1 1/2 sizes bigger than I normally wear, my feet experienced their own podiatric rapture.   I was sold.  So I bought 'em.  (And a pair of open style brown sandally things, which, since they're mostly just a few straps of plastic, will allow my feet to swell as much as they want, and they'll still fit.  I hope.  And now I can wear brown!  (Despite my name, Pinky's favorite color is actually brown.  Go figure.)

After the clerk rung up my sneakers, I switched out of my old pair immediately.  I ran the rest of my errands while walking on a fluffy little set of clouds. 

Honestly, if I didn't have gestational diabetes, I would have just said screw it.  I'll go barefoot at home (which I do, I would rather not wear shoes at all if I could help it,) and wear flip flops (which I hate, because there is something between my toes and it's irritating) when I must wear shoes.  But that won't fly if you have to walk every day to get your exercise.  I don't walk all that well in flip flops, and there is no support for my feet in those anyway.

Finding this pair of shoes was a Godsend.  It makes Walking the Voodoo Doll bearable.  Certainly better than pricking myself four times a day.   No pair of shoes is gonna fix that one. 

Total Fail

I had to call The Center this morning.  Worse yet, I had a day to think about it and freak myself out. 

It all started Saturday night.  We'd joined my friend for a fantastic birthday dinner, and I ordered sensibly, ate some delicious Korean BBQ, brown rice, and veggie slaws, and had a perfectly acceptable post-dinner sugar level.  (This was after my husband made me walk around the bar at the restaurant and circle our table several times since I wasn't getting my standard post-dinner walk.) 

After dinner, we stayed for several more hours enjoying the company, sang Happy Birthday in an unintentional round, and headed home for the night after 10:00 p.m., getting home at 11:00, leaving me with a dilemma:  to snack or not to snack.

Daily, I am supposed to eat breakfast, a snack, lunch, a snack, dinner, and a night time snack, too.  The point is to spread out my carb intake, ensuring I get enough carbs for my energy and the baby's growth, but to space them out out so I don't get any spikes.  Occasionally, I have fallen asleep without my night snack, but that's happened when I've had a later dinner, did my test, and pretty much zonked out afterwards.  But, I should eat the night snack to make sure my morning fasting rate isn't too low.  A drop in my sugar levels is also a big no-no.    Saturday night, I ate my dinner at a regular time for me--about 7:40--and they don't like you going 12 hours without eating, which, if I *didn't* eat a snack, I would be doing if I went to bed without a snack.

For the record, the huge fresh baked brownie a la mode that everyone had at the restaurant in no way influenced my decision to have a snack.  If it had, I would have had something resembling a dessert, not a piece of toast with peanut butter and a glass of milk.  Not that it wasn't tasty, but it was no megabrownie.

Not shown actual size. Actual size of said megabrownie a la mode was roughly the diameter of the moon.  Actually, more like one of Jupiter's moons.  I'm thinking Ganymede or, my personal favorite, Io.  (Only because one of my favorite moravecs is from there, not because I hear they have good brownies.  And no, I don't think anyone will get this particular reference, but that's ok, too.)

The problem was, though, we had to get up bright and early to go to church the next morning.  So when I woke up, it had only been about 8 hours since my snack.  I waited as long as I could, tested, and, sadly, was 3 measly points over the limit.   I'd hoped by waiting until the last possible moment, I'd give my body a chance to process a little more sugar.  Didn't work. 

That alone wouldn't have been an issue, because I'd never "failed" at fasting before.  The rule is, you have to fail twice at the same testing time before they want you to report yourself to the Center.  

What got me was, I had to eat breakfast and then head to church right after my fasting-test.  So, normally I wake up, test, poke around the house a bit, and then test.  Or, if I'm heading to the office or have some place I need to  be, I wake up, test, shower & get ready, then make myself breakfast.  This was the fastest fast-test-eat turnaround I'd had.

So I ate my breakfast, picking foods I *knew* were safe.  Sausage.  1/2 a sourdough English muffin.  Some margarine.  I'd eaten this same combo many times before and never had a higher reading than 115--15 points below the cutoff.

But I'd never eaten them after starting with an elevated blood sugar range.

So, as the organ prelude is filling the church, I pop out of the pew to the restroom, wash my hands, and head into the Family Room.  (For the record, don't get me started on churches that don't have a family room.  They suck.)  I set my kit out, poke my finger, and...

This guy shows up. 

Ok, not really, but he might as well have.   Two--count them, TWO points over the limit.

But after my Cream of Failure a few weeks ago, I get no more "tries" at breakfast.  I had to call The Center.  Which is closed on Sunday.

So I slunk back to my pew, let myself become engrossed in the service, listened to one of Pastor Doug's excellent sermons on Unanswered Prayer (wondering if I should have prayed before I pricked myself), and then told my hubby on the way home that I was a big ol' ball of fail, and had to call in.

The rest of the day, I ate normally (for a Voodoo Doll) and had normal readings all day long.   Dinner was terrible, but that's because my fish exploded and I dumped bacos everywhere.  (Today Seltzer blew up all over the kitchen so I think there is just something weird going on here).  But my readings were fine, which is the important thing.

Until today. 

I woke up, tested--good reading, good start for the day--made some breakfast, tested again--another good reading--and considered just "forgetting" to call.  Unfortunately I hardly ever forget to do things I'm supposed to do, especially with regard to making phone calls.

So I call in.  I report myself, head hanging in shame.  Of course, they can't see that on the phone, but maybe they knew.  And I fessed up to what had happened.  And I told them WHY I thought it had happened.

Did I get a slap on the wrist?  Threatened with insulin?  Told to give up the sausages?

Nope.

The Center's henchlady told me that I was probably right--that the late night snack, followed by insufficient fasting time, and back to back fast-test-eat pattern was probably the issue, and that it didn't, in of itself, mean there was any problem or reason to change my routine.   She noted my next appointment was next week, and she was putting this down in my chart, but that I would just need to come in as already scheduled, and keep an eye on my sugar to see if there were any patterns or particular meals that I was having a problem with. 

So, yeah, I'm a failure. 

But at least I'm not a failure on insulin. 

Going to a Restaurant with a Voodoo Doll

Tonight, Pinky & her husband are joining one of Pinky's best friends for a dinner celebration at a brewhouse.  I rarely drank before my pregtastic state, so I don't mind being DD for everyone who wants to sample all the hop-happenings.  And this particular restaurant is a chain, with a great menu selection, so I am looking forward to a fun evening, without any concern that there won't be anything that I can eat. 

For dinner, this is usually the case for a Voodoo Doll.  Dinner's the easiest meal to work with.   You get 2-3 starches, 2 veggies, 2 proteins, and 2 fats.  Just about any meal will meet these criteria, so long as you are flexible, and/or can read the labels yourself.  For example, a few nights ago, we grilled up some tasty cheeseburgers, and I still got tater tots on the side, even after eating a regular bun.  Why?  For some reason, Roman Meal buns are about 1/2 the carbs as their Country Harvest counterparts.  That may be because the Roman Meal buns are smaller, but they aren't 1/2 the size.  All I can figure is either Roman Meal uses more whole grains, or less refined sugars, than Country Harvest.  Either way, I like Roman Meal well enough and they happened to be cheaper, too, so the label was a pleasant surprise.   So I'm not going to fuss with those ridiculous sandwich thins, which are like a perforated pita, and leaked mustard on my fingers.  They didn't fool me.  It wasn't a real bun.  That burger, plus a salad, and those tots, left my blood sugar at a healthy 114.  Good deal!

But when you're out, you don't really get to read the nutrition labels.  Sometimes you might find the restaurants with their nutrition guides, but they have one flaw: they are for the meal, not per item.  So it's hard to know if the reason, say, your Buffalo Chicken Wrap is over the carb limit is because of the tortilla, the sauce, breading, or all of the above.  All you know is it's a "no."   You can start peeling off pieces of the possibly offending starch, but that's a risky move.  (For reference, see my Quiz-NOS experience, where removing 1/2 the roll still gave me a spike.  Coulda been the sauce.  Coulda been that roll is the most carb-loaded item on the planet.  Coulda been just evil, I dunno.)

So when you're out, you have to be a bit more careful.  I wouldn't order a burger AND fries when out, because I can't see the roll's breakdown, or know exactly how many fries I'm getting.  (Tots are easy to count.  9 per serving.)    And when you add the normal pregnancy restrictions/recommendations, such as avoiding raw fish, raw eggs, and unpasteurized dairy, (oh, and alcohol, too,) eating out gets a little more tricky.  But if the restaurant is willing to, say, switch your bleu for cheddar (since bleu isn't always pasteurized, and your server is unlikely to know the source of your cheese and know whether that particular cheese was pasteurized if it is a type that isn't always made from pasteurized milk,) or leave off the aioli or hollandaise (what with their raw eggs), you are probably going to be able to pick just about anything on the menu.

Or, you could go to a restaurant where the menu states on the bottom that they won't do any substitutions, because the chef is a pretentious jerk. 

Ok, well, that isn't the exact text, but that's the message. 

Add in a fairly limited menu and a waiter who, when told matter-of-factly that you have gestational diabetes and would like to know how strict they are with the "policy" regarding switcheroos says, "hey, don't get mad at ME," as if you'd thrown your steak knife at him, waited for the cut to well up, and drizzle some lemon juice in that open wound, and you have a recipe for a fussy Voodoo Doll. 

I won't call out the restaurant on here for a couple of reasons.  One, it's local, so most of you reading this will never have the occasion to stage an angry boycott anyway, and two, a good friend of mine quite likes the place and I don't want the waiter to spit in his food in the future.  But, if you like riddles, and can figure it out, here is the name:

Two words:

First word is a new show on the SyFy channel that is based on a Stephen King story,

First letter of the second word is the first letter of a kids' toy and cartoon show that totally rocked the 80's, because it's about "real american heroes,"

Followed by the name of the Jetsons's dog,

Ending with a word that rhymes with a word that means to exfoliate, or what you do to a potato.

Got it?

Ok, anyway, after establishing that they couldn't adjust a salad to remove an egg, you know, because lettuces grow in the field with poached eggs already on them, I ended up ordering a salad with duck breast on it.  Hubby was ordering shrimp and grits, and we were going to share.   This would have been an excellent meal if the food wasn't awful.

Actually, if I had Hubby's meal instead, I'd have been fine, because I'm a sick individual who likes soggy fatty bacon, which snuggled each grilled shrimp.  I ate all of the bacon and two of the shrimp.  Hubby was disgusted by watching me eat the bacon, but hoped at least I got some protein out of it, because the salad was a wreck.

Ever watch Top Chef and watch someone get sent home from a salad?  It seems pretty pathetic, getting sunk by a salad, because amateur home chefs know a salad is pretty darn simple and follows a few basic rules:  have a variety of tasty ingredients, have a good dressing, and don't overdress it.   My sister, for example, makes her own dressing, which is fabulous, and my Hubby wants to inject directly into his veins.  She shakes it up fresh, different each time, with fresh herbs, oils, vinegars, and adjusts it to fit the salad.  

I'd think at a place where the chef is so confident in his creations that he prints it on the menu that you can eat it as it is served or can go jump off a cliff, they'd make their own dressings. 

And I think they did.  It was just awful.

For the record, I'm practically part deer.  You give me a salt lick and I'm a happy camper.  So when I tell you that this dressing was too salty, that's saying it was actually inedible.  But I ate it anyway.

And of course, the focus of this salad was the duck breast. 

I admit, if there is duck on a menu, I will order it, unless one of two things occur:  (1) it's a duckling, because I don't eat baby anythings except corn or carrots, or (2) my sis beats me to it and then I want a bite of hers.    Duck shows up on menus so rarely that I feel compelled to indulge.   I don't remember when I first tried duck, but it started me down a road that led to quail and other less traditional fowl.  Duck, duck, goose, mmm!  That's the best menu ever.

I sliced a piece of the duck and put it into my mouth, and it wasn't fowl.  It was foul.   Absolutely terrible.  I don't know what they did to the duck--it didn't taste overcooked.  I can't tell you what was wrong with it and I wish I could, but it didn't taste like duck.  All I can think is they imported this duck from the gulf, and I was tasting Duck a la British Petroleum, but they'd failed to use the Dawn to wash its troubles away first.  (I love that commerical!) 

So with salty greens and inedible duck, you'd think I'd have sent it back.

I didn't.

A waiter who is rude to a pregnant woman asking about substitutions is not the kind of man I want handling my food.   The dressing was liquified sodium, and the bird was nasty, but neither would have been improved with the addition of his saliva.

So I ate my greens, ignored the duck, and did the waiter ask if the food was ok?  Nope.  When he took away the plate with the duck essentially untouched, did he ask if there was a problem?  Nope.

Will I ever go back there?

Nope.

But I'm not worried about that tonight.  We're going to a place that rhymes with "A Guard Mouse," and we're going to have a great time.

Sweet Cheats!

I don't think I've ever plowed through an entire 1-pound box of Sees.   I've never, even in my most heartbroken depression, devoured a pint of Ben & Jerry's in a single solo sitting.   That "whole bag of oreos" thing?  I just like it as a metaphor.  They're metaphor-cookies.  Really.

But I do have a sweet tooth. 

After several months of first trimester "random-time-of-day-sickness," I was definitely enjoying flashing my pregnancy card in my second trimester to entitle me to ice cream, cookies, donuts...ok, things I was already eating more than I ought to have before I was ever pregnant.  But the pregnancy gave me a "get out of guilt free" pass.   At least, it did in my head, where it counts.  Especially considering the fact that I had actually lost weight in my first trimester, and for once, I wanted to watch my waistband expand. 

And it did.  I was finally about on track for my weight gain by the end of my second trimester, with one visit recording a staggering (to me, anyway) ten-pound gain in a month's time.   My doctor said that was fine, though--she said everyone gets one "spurt" that they don't worry about, and for me, considering that it was only at the prior visit that I actually regained my pre-pregnancy weight, this spurt was probably needed, because I hadn't put on the weight most people do by that point in a pregnancy.  (I'll post my blood sugar levels here, but if you think I'm posting my weight on this, you're crazy).  Let's just leave it at this:  I'm not very tall and my weight was in the normal BMI range, so, I know for some women who start out their pregnancy heavier, they don't worry if you don't put on much weight for the first few weeks, but I didn't have a lot of cushion in that regard. 

Was I worried about turning into a pumpkin by my Halloween due date?  Not particularly.  Maybe I should have been--and everyone has told me that the "perk" of being a Voodoo Doll is that massive weight gain just won't happen, assuming you are following the plan, because of what you are allowed to eat, and the exercise you are supposed to be doing.    But that wasn't my real concern.   Wrong or not, given the option, I think I would have rather put on too much weight during this pregnancy and been able to eat what I wanted, when I wanted, and later have to fight it off, vs. get stuck with gestational diabetes and have a much more constrained weight gain. 

So when I was preparing to be tested to find out if I was a Voodoo Doll, I admit, there was one thing I kept fixating on, picking at it like a scab:  No cake at my own baby shower.  And there was a reason for that:  a few years back, at my sister's baby shower, there are two things I remember about the cake:  One, there was a stork on the cake that everyone thought was a duck, and it drove my mother crazy, and two, my sister had the tiniest sliver of the cake possible, and it was HER cake.  I think I was traumatized by that.

When I got the news that I had, indeed, failed both the 1 hour AND the 3 hour tests, and would be forced to eat "sensibly" and "be active" (isn't eating an activity?), you better believe that the first thing I thought of was this:  No cake at my shower. 

Well, I got to experience a sneak preview of that the next day at work, where I faced not one, but TWO cakes.   I ate salad and pouted. 

So, at my first clinic visit, I asked a lot of questions about Sweet Cheats.  You know, sugar free, fake food products that I could still have, even while being a Voodoo Doll.

The first thing the clinician told me is, if I wanted Hershey's Kisses, I could have them.  Like, one per meal.  And that's good to know.  But the willpower to eat one kiss and not a handful?  For me, it's better to just pretend they don't exist.  A bite of something--unless it's a Bordeaux from Sees--just makes me want more. 

What was better news was all the Sweet Cheats I *could* have, in portion sizes that humans eat.   Sugar free jello.  Sugar free popsicles.  (Much appreciated in this recent heat.)  These were "free" foods that didn't even count towards my other meals or snacks--which, especially when it comes to a popsicle, it was nice to have after my post-dinner exercise and blood test, when my "night snack" would be more than an hour away.  And I get a whole popsicle.  Not a bite, then shove it back in the freezer, another bite four hours later, shove it back in the freezer, repeat ad nauseum.

Other cheats? Sugar free pudding, sugar free ice cream--mine is sweetened with Splenda, sugar free mousse, sugar free frozen yogurt.  These weren't free, because they counted as my milk serving.  But, I get three milk servings a day, one per snack.  So, I still couldn't eat even a whole pint of sugar free Breyers, but I certainly don't feel deprived if I'm eating a pudding cup and chomping on some almonds.  (Every milk must also have a protein portion.)   She even told me I could make smoothies.

And smoothies have basically been my salvation.  We got a rocket blender when we got married, and I had used it exactly twice, to marginal results.  (Aioli and pesto.)  Now, it lives on my counter, and is working overtime. 

So, here are some of my favorite smoothie "recipes," and I use that term loosely, because I basically eyeball everything and throw in whatever I want, so long as it's allowed. 

Chocolate Peanut Butter Banana Smoothie:
Ice + either chocolate or vanilla SF ice cream (I prefer Breyers) + 2 T peanut butter (creamy) + small banana (or 1/2 large banana) + a little splash of milk + SF chocolate syrup (if you were using vanilla ice cream, that is).    Rocket blender it, drink!

The best thing about that one?  It's a complete snack.  The PB is your protein, the milk and ice cream are your milk serving, and the banana is your fruit.  Great in the afternoon.

Yogurt & Fruit Smoothie:
Ice + 1 container light yogurt in whatever flavor you have + fruit, best if frozen + splash of milk.  Rocket blender, drink!

You can mix and match fruits--strawberry yogurt + banana added, or go for an overdose of berry, like I did with blueberry yogurt and frozen blueberries.  

This one is delicious, but you need a protein source too, so you either have to eat a protein portion on the side, OR, add protein powder to the mix.  Once I got a carton of protein powder from Trader Joes, it was easier, because honestly?  I don't want to eat a handful of nuts with every drink, or snack on cheese too, while I am trying to enjoy my shake.  The protein powder does have some carbs in it, but fairly low, and a serving is two scoops, while I only use one.  Nutritionally, I've compared it to the peanut butter, and the peanut butter is actually worse in that department:
PB:  1 serving = 2 T, 200 cal, 16 g fat, 7 carbs, 8 g protein;
Protein powder (vanilla): 2 scoops (I only use one, so I am halving the amounts for the values): 65 cal, 1 g fat, 5.5 carbs, 8 g protein. 

So I am getting the same protein but actually less fat and fewer carbs.  And I love peanut butter but it does not belong in a yogurt shake!

My favorite cheat? 

Frosted Mocha Shake: 
This one is full of so many cheats it's ridiculous:
Ice + milk (and/or a little sf ice cream, if you have it, you don't need it) + 3 tsp of sugar free decaf international foods instant mocha coffee mix + sf chocolate syrup + protein powder, Rocket blend, pretend you're at Starbucks!   

Here, you've got all these sugar free products, so this isn't one you should have *every* day, because while the splenda based products are "free," they don't want you overdosing on aspartame and other artificial sweeteners.  But in limited amounts, they are a much needed treat!  And if you can find them all with splenda as the base instead?  Knock yourself out! 

Finally, last but not least, a non-smoothie, non-creamy drink that I also think is a lifesaver, for a few different reasons.

First, I miss juice.  I love juice.  Juice is a no-no when you are a Voodoo Doll.   Second, I take iron supplements due to my low hemoglobin levels.  I am supposed to take it with OJ because iron absorption is increased with Vitamin C.  But I hadn't been able to do that.  And my hemoglobins were not increasing.   But, thanks to my Aunt Sue, I tried some "diet" juice from Ocean Spray.  It's sweetened with Splenda (bingo!) and has only a few carbs per serving--as few as my sugar free popsicles.  So I count it as "free." 

But, since I take my iron at breakfast (where it won't be mixing with dairy, which actually blocks iron absorption, and I can't have milk at breakfast), and breakfast is the meal where most people are likely to spike in their sugars because you've been fasting overnight, I don't want to risk an entire glass of even this "diet" juice.

My solution?  1/2 serving of juice in a big, tall glass, and fill with sparkling water.  Now you've got a juice spritzer that is better than what you can buy.  Most "juice spritzers" have almost no juice in them, and little to no Vitamin C.  This has 50% of your Vitamin C, actual juice, and no carb impact.  I can have juice at breakfast, take my iron, get my C's, and the other nice perk?  It's easier on the wallet than drinking straight juice, because a bottle of sparkling water costs much less than juice. 

Since I'm not a doctor and don't play one on TV, I can't say that all these things are "good" for you.  I can just say they haven't made me have a single spike, and if I enjoying an ice cream shake or a yogurt smoothie, I am in a better mood, and c'mon, who doesn't want that?

Pinky Visits the Herpetologist and Goes for Yogurt

Yesterday, I had to see the hematologist. For some reason, my brain keeps trying to say the "blood doctor" is the herpetologist. That's a snake scientist and I know that.

I would blame "pregnancy brain" for the slip but honestly I have been known to do things like that even without the assistance of extra hormones, inadequate sleep, and a dancing baby wriggling inside while I am trying to think.

For the record, it's not exactly the gestational diabetes that sent me to visit the, uh, blood doctor. About a month ago--actually, at the same time they ran my 1 hour blood glucose test that ultimately sent me down the Voodoo Doll path--they also ran an antibody scan because I am Rh negative (B- blood type) and wanted to make sure I wasn't "fighting" the baby's blood, and did a CBC (complete blood count) to see how things were going in Pinky on a cellular level.

Things weren't going so well. My hemoglobin count (indicating iron) was low. I was started the next day on an iron supplement. My white blood cell count was high--indicating...well, that's why I ended up at the blood doctor. Because usually it indicates infection. But I wasn't sick. After testing and retesting and running some other, uh, tests, my counts weren't changing.  My OB/GYN said the gestational diabetes might be playing a role, but if that were "all," every woman with GD would have similar levels, and they don't.  So I was sent to the hematologist and wasn't given an appointment until yesterday.

In I went, and wrote out my health history, and I was called back to a room where they weighed me and took my vitals.

Then a lady came in and said, "Which finger?" Heh. Seriously, no preamble, no explanation, not even a hello. Just, "Which finger?"

"For what?" I asked.

"We need to get a blood sample."

I was surprised, because this Voodoo Doll has gotten quite a bit of blood drawn in the last 7 months, and never have they asked for a finger. They want veins. The gold mine.

Then again, what else would they want a finger for? Fingerprints? Finger sandwiches? Finger puppets?

I shrugged. "Look, I have gestational diabetes. I prick myself four times a day. Pick a finger, any finger, it'll work."

She picked my middle finger. So I gave it to her.

I have no idea what she used to skewer my fingertip, but it was no quickprick autolancet. Then she set about squashing it into a tube for a few minutes, then smeared my finger all over a few slides. I probably should have stopped watching at this point.

Next, an RNP came in to get a more detailed health history. This took longer than it should have because (a) my health history is less straightforward than it should be and (b) I am not sure she was listening very well. Fortunately, I watched what she wrote and she didn't write anything down until she'd gotten it straightened out in her head.

She also had the results from my blood tests. The tests they just poked my finger for ten minutes earlier. I was impressed!

Less than impressive were all the H's and L's. Seriously. For the roughly 20 or so levels they checked, about half either were marked with an H (too high) or an L (too low.) Honestly, I was reading it upside down, and we didn't go over most of them, so I don't even know all of the "failures" in my blood.

The worst part? My WBC's were even higher than the last, oh, three times they'd been checked (which had been holding steady up until then, even if they were holding steady in an elevated range.) And no, my iron wasn't any higher. All my RBC levels were low. So I'm paying extra for that iron supplement that my insurance sees no need to cover because of why again? 

The RNP left with my health history for the doctor to review, and the doctor came in a bit later. Honestly, I am not sure why they asked for my health history when I got there, because the RNP hadn't read it. And I'm not sure why the RNP asked for my health history later, because the doctor hadn't read that, either.

Still, we discussed my pregnancy, my blood levels, and he gave me his diagnosis: NO CLUE!

Well, that's one I'm used to.

He said that the way my white blood cells broke down, it was unlikely to be a leukemia or lymphoma, which I already knew from my own OB/GYN. But he said it could be a chronic myeloma of some sort, but doubted it, since that usually hit people in their 60's. That should have comforted me more, but I've been called a "medical mystery" more often than I'd like, and have often defied the categories of what should be happening based on my demographics. (Such as having a failed gallbladder at 28, when that usually strikes older women and heavier women, or having heart attacks--induced by a virus--at 30.)

But he also said it could be stress-induced. Me? Stressed? I've never heard such a thing! (Is the sarcasm translating to text?) Mostly, he said he didn't know and we'd (a) run more tests (YIPPEE!) and (b) follow up with me in two weeks, when the tests would all be back.

The good news though? He determined that, due to my lack of external symptoms and 98.6 temp, I'm not contagious to anyone, which was a relief. 

And so he was done with me. But I wasn't done for the day. Nope. I got sent down to the lab because--you guessed it--they want more blood. Apparently the finger assault was just the opening salvo, and my veins would, in fact, be needed.


I opened the door to the lab and did a double-take. I have been a little addlebrained lately but I was sure I hadn’t left the building and was not already sneaking off to get some sugar free fro yo. But the décor could have convinced me otherwise. The last time I had seen so much lime green plastic was at Yogurtmania, where I have two stamps towards a free treat.

I was quickly escorted back to a cubicle and placed in the padded throne. I watched as the phlebotomist counted out the vials she’d need me to fill, based on all the different tests the hematologist ordered.

One.

Two.

Three.


Four (this one was bigger than the others).

Five (another whopper).

Six.


She stuck labels on each and then grabbed three MORE vials. Fortunately she just wanted me to squeeze those so I’d pop a vein. What, no squeezie toy?

She found her vein easy enough and I wisely began examining every other object in the cubicle while she stabbed me and began filling up all six vials.

Amazingly, I wasn’t lightheaded when I walked out a few minutes later—considering my low hemoglobin levels, I probably should have been—and was done being a Voodoo Doll for the day.


Or at least until my post-dinner prick.

No Whammy, No Whammy, No Whammy!

Does anyone else remember Press Your Luck?  This little guy?  (The image is probably trademarked and I'm totally using him under the Fair Use Doctrine, so there!)

The contestants would sit and wait for the perfect moment to depress their plungers to make the board stop moving its little light up rings around various amounts of money, but if it lands on THAT guy, they're outta luck.


That is how it has felt for the last week every time I stick a test strip into my glucometer. 

If you've been following along with this Voodoo Doll who has to prick herself 4x daily, you may recall that I had two spikes last week (one at breakfast and one at lunch) and a third NEAR-spike where I hit the upper limit (130) allowed after a burrito with some questionable sauce.  (Possibly too much sugar in Del Taco's sauce, says the Peanut Gallery.)   The rule is, if I get two spikes after the same meal time (or fasting time), then I am in trouble. 

The first few weeks of dealing with gestational diabetes, I was vigilant, but not really stressed about it.  I was reading my little journal from Global Dynamics/The Center/Evil Clinic and following the diet and exercise regimen, and getting good numbers in response.  But after those 2 (3?) spikes, I began to dread the glucometer. 

Because three strikes and I'm out.  (Well, technically it's 2 at the same time and I'm out, but I already am down in the count for breakfast and lunch, and the pitcher is looking at me like he wants to throw a curveball, or possibly bean me in the head.)

That's when I have to call the Center.  Will they put me on insulin?  I don't know.  I hope not.  I hope that if I can track the reason for the spike and avoid repeating the same behavior that caused the spike, I can stay off insulin.   But I don't know their policy, how many "spikes" they allow before they say, "That's it, Pinky, this isn't something you can control and so it's the syringe for you!"  And honestly?  I just don't want to have to find out.  I want to have good, low numbers every time, and I don't want to deal with the Center until my next regularly scheduled visit in a few weeks.

Which means avoiding the Whammy. 

So I've been cheating.  No, not really 'cheating' as in, not testing, testing late, fakin' my numbers.  I don't want to do anything that will harm The Niblet.   As it is, I was told I have a high level of amniotic fluid and that's GD related, they think.   With that comes risks of preterm labor, a detached placenta, and me bleeding out.  I'd like to avoid all of those, thanks. 

So I cheat in a different way.  Dinner says, "2-3 starch, 2 veggies, 2 protein, 2 fat."   But instead I have a salad with dressing (veggie and fat) and a shish kabob (2 protein, big hunks of steak, and another veggie--bell pepper and onion laced along the skewer.)    Notice what I didn't have?

And I've been doing it a lot.    1/2 slice of toast instead of 2 that I'm allowed.  Hawaiian style pork and green beans, no rice or macaroni salad at all.  (And eating Hawaiian food without rice or macaroni salad is nearly criminal, so don't tell anyone I did that.  They'll take away my Spam privileges.)

Because I am scared of the Whammy.  So my sugar levels have been pretty low.  Not too low, still in range, for sure.  But many times, not even over 100 after a meal.    Which isn't surprising if I ate only 1 of 2 allowed carbs, or skipped them entirely. 

But I just can't deal with the Whammy.  I don't like getting nervous and antsy as I watch the clock tick towards the one hour mark when I need to test. 

I get up to test and I feel (almost) as nervous as I did waiting for the computer screen to tell me whether I'd passed the Bar.  But I only had to do that ONCE.   I have to do this 4x a day.

I stick in the test strip, the glucometer beeps and the game's begun.  I grab my autolancet device and depress the plunger, loading the needle.  I pick a lucky finger.  I click the yellow button that jabs me ever so lightly, and I wait for the little red dot to appear on my finger.  I drop the autolancet and grab my finger with the opposite hand, and squeeze so the dot expands, growing from a dot to a splotch, and then take my finger and guide it to the end of the test strip.

The blood zips up the strip like it's being sucked up by a straw.  The glucometer beeps again and the screen flashes to an image of a little hourglass.  What is this, Pictionary?   I hold my breath as I wait, but still reach over to rip a handful of toilet paper off the stand so I can wrap up my bloody fingertip before I smear red all over the bathroom.   All the while thinking, "No Whammy.  No Whammy.  No Whammy."
Which makes every meal a time I have to decide to Press My Luck.  Will I skip the carbs entirely?  If I do, will I have enough energy to go upstairs?   Do I deviate at all from a known "safe meal," even though I am bored silly with eating the same few items and might possibly overdose on peanut butter and eggs?

This morning, I decided I would go for it. 

I followed some excellent advice (Thanks, Aubrey!) and traded in the evil Cream of Wheat for Steel Cut Irish Oats. (For the record, it isn't oatmeal and doesn't taste like oatmeal. It's way more fibrous and chunky than that.  But a sprinkle of cinnamon and Splenda and it was still quite good, but you will not confuse it for Quaker Instant, assuming you have a tongue.)

I also followed my Aunt Sue's suggestion and tried some diet juice --Ocean Spray Blue-Pom, 4 calories, 2 carbs in a cup, (I had 1/2 a cup), and a good dose of Vitamin C to take with my Iron supplement.  (Oh, yeah, because I have gestational diabetes, low iron, high white blood cell counts, and am Rh-negative.  Anything else I'm forgetting?)  I had originally been told to take the Iron with OJ but as soon as I was told I had GD there was no way I could have any OJ.  It's a spike in a glass.    Aunt Sue suggested the juice, and I didn't think I could have it, but when I read the label--Splenda sweetened (check!) and only 2 carbs in a cup?  I thought it was worth a shot, and a good way to get my extra C.  (Which apparently I need.  After several weeks on the iron, my last blood draw did not show any improvement in the low hemoglobin department.  Maybe this will help my body get the iron.  And I take the iron at breakfast because I am not supposed to mix it with milk, and I can't have milk at breakfast, so that works.) 

But despite the advice, I was still nervous.  Was any hot cereal going to be a problem?  Would even diet juice send me for a spike?  Was I being stupid for even trying these instead of just sticking with my morning eggs and 1/2 an english muffin?  Was I wrong for lusting after juice?

I pressed my luck. 

And there was no whammy. 

Take that, gestational diabetes!