Due to my health history, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes in April 2024, near the end of my first trimester, and my relationship with food has never been the same.
It started off with a glucose meter – first, once a day, in the morning, before breakfast; then, one hour after every meal; then, report all of those numbers to the doctor to review every week. If they’re too high? You’ve failed! Expect a scolding email, maybe a phone call, or a visit with the endocrinologist or nutritionist (which – surprise! – aren’t covered by health insurance outside of the third trimester! ok!!!)
It evolved into insulin shots. First, one before going to bed, to control my fasting blood sugar; then, before every meal – up to 4 a day- but learn how to time them! and make sure to eat the fiber and protein on your plate before the carbs! and make sure you don’t eat too many carbs! If you eat too many carbs, you’ve failed, and your baby’s life is ruined! (But you have to eat carbs! But not too many! But not zero!)
- Is that rice ball really worth dooming your baby to diabetes for the rest of her life?
- Did you really think you could get away with a sip of lemonade? (I ate it with roast chicken and a salad! I padded it! I swear!)
- Want to eat at a pizza restaurant? Not unless you walk 10,000 steps there and 10,000 steps back! Or else you’ve failed!
I got many comments that I looked great while pregnant because I had not gained a lot of weight. I would die a little inside, smile, and say, yes, it’s probably because I am on a very strict diet and am forced to exercise and not allowed to eat as much as I want to during one of the most stressful periods in my life (paraphrased).
The insulin shots came with a continuous glucose monitor. Now, I could find out if I failed in real time! And I couldn’t sleep on the side with the glucose monitor! And removing it was more painful than childbirth! (I’m exaggerating, but honestly, sometimes, not really!) At least I didn’t have to carry my glucose meter and lancets around all the time (silver lining??)?
Even as I labored in my hospital room, the day before she was born, nurses had to administer glucose shots before and lance my fingers for glucose tests after every meal. I had one* concerning blood pressure reading, so I spent the entire time hooked up to an automated blood pressure cuff, which took a reading every 30 minutes, and had to be put on the arm that didn’t have my CGM on it. Logistics!!!
(*Yes, one! only one! and my blood pressure set off alarms at some point when I was in active labor, and everyone seemed to just… hit snooze. It didn’t occur to me until after that I could simply ask if I could take it off?)
Anyway, now, more than 9 months postpartum, my relationship with food (and drink) is still a roller coaster, and there is no end in sight.
I spent most of my parental leave eating whatever I wanted. I relished not having to report my blood sugar numbers to a doctor anymore, and not having to deal with needles and my glucose monitoring app and having to wear clothes that gave me easy access to my belly before meals. I ate ice cream, bread, noodles, white! rice!, and refused to feel bad about it. (I was learning how to take care of a newborn, and was too busy feeling bad about literally everything else at this point.)
Meanwhile, I was feeling all sorts of outside pressure. The pressure to breastfeed, and to eat enough to breastfeed successfully. The pressure to return to my pre-pregnancy size*, or at the very least, not gain too much more weight, with the threat of diabetes ever looming. Honestly, the pressure to enjoy myself after a tough pregnancy! That’s pressure too! You’re free now, baby, c’mon, have that Oreo!
(*One of the doctors I recently met with very kindly reassured me that it takes most women a long time – at least a year – to go back to their pre-pregnancy size. I kindly countered that I was actually pretty close to my pre-pregnancy weight already, and then smiled awkwardly as I could see a moment of panic flash by in her eyes.)
I finally went back to see a primary care doctor – for myself! – at 6 months postpartum. Blood was drawn, tests were run, and I was told that my numbers were concerning but wouldn’t need immediate treatment because I was still breastfeeding. Fine, I’ll reign it in. I recently returned – now 9 months postpartum – and was given a more definite plan. “Come back in 3 months, when she’s weaned off breast milk, and we’ll start you on this medication. Watch your diet in the meantime. Go exercise or something.” (paraphrased)
I don’t necessarily have any issues with taking medication (anymore – it was a journey, I’ll be honest) or watching my diet again. Looking back, I just wish I had some sort of notice that I’d be going on this journey, that’s all. I wish I could’ve had one last hurrah before every bite became a potential source of stress, for over a year, potentially longer. I knew it was coming – family history and all – but it felt like I was thrown into a gauntlet, and am still trying to find my way out.
Trisha Serquina 