I'm totally sick, but trying to get through this massive editing project to make today's deadline.
Meanwhile, what sound do I hear streaming from the schoolroom (i.e. den) into my little corner office? The happy sound of children laughing? The joyous roar of a board game? The buzzy chatter of an educational program?
Nope. I hear this.
It's a classy sort of education we're giving our children apparently.
My 2-hour visit at the gestational diabetes center was surreal.
Yes, the diet is strict. Diabetes is not good. Of course, I'll follow the plan to the letter. But it's the interspersed comments that left me a little dazed.
Exhibit A:
Nurse: So, you're on bed rest. So, you're a stay-at-home mom.
Me: Well, I work full-time from home.
Nurse: What do you do?
Me: I'm an editor.
Nurse: How do you spell extrapolate?
Me: Excuse me?
Nurse: I've had an email I've been meaning to send all week. I can't spell extrapolate, though.
Me: (confused that she didn't consult a dictionary) Uhm ... e-x-t-r-a-p-o-l-a-t-e. I think that's it.
Nurse: So, you don't know?
Me: No, I do know. Yes. That's-
Nurse: Oh. I thought, you know, you'd know, considering you're an editor and all.
Exhibit B:
Nurse: You have to follow this diet.
Me: I know, I will.
Nurse: Because you don't want a big baby, do you? Do you?
Me: Uhhh, my babies are always big.
Nurse: Really.
Me: Yes. 9 pounds, 10 oz. 9 pounds, 15 oz.
Nurse: (long pause) Oh. And how did that feel?
Me: Excuse me?
Nurse: Did you like how that felt? Was that pleasant?
Me: It was labor. It felt like labor. It wasn't ...
Nurse: Was pushing easy?
Me: Actually, yes.
Nurse: Well, I had a 10-pound baby. And it was a horrific experience. I was on the table, the baby got stuck. The nurse had to literally jump on me and [insert long horrible story here].
Me: (stunned silence)
Exhibit C:
Nurse: So, you have Sjogren's Syndrome and fibromyalgia, right?
Me: Yes.
Nurse: Wow. That's a form of lupus, isn't it?
Me: Well, it's an autoimmune disease, so-
Nurse: Do your eyes get all dry?
Me: I've got tear-duct plugs.
Nurse: That seems extreme. Why not just use eye drops?
Me: Well, my eyes are like a desert the doctor said and-
Nurse: Just two drops a day. Tear-ducts plugs. Wow. And it's really painful, isn't it?
Me: Excuse me?
Nurse: I heard it just progresses and is really, really painful ...
Me: (stunned silence)
Exhibit D:
Nurse: You're going to need insulin shots.
Me: No, I'm going to control it through diet. And then, if I need to, I'll get insulin shots, but-
Nurse: You'll need shots. You'll have to go to Dr. L- for the insulin shots. And your doctor always freaks out when someone has gestational diabetes.
Me: I've known my ob. for eight years. I've never seen him freak out. He said that-
Nurse: You'll have to get insulin shots-
Me: I'm not getting insulin shots immediately. First, I'll control it through diet.
Nurse: The babies can get sick. Do you understand?
Me: (stunned silence)
My reaction was mostly that. Just stunned silence. I was not used to the uncomfortable little chairs (considering I've been on modified bed rest) nor such pessimism.
Later that week, on my way to my regular obstetrician, I had an epiphany: I am in charge of my health.
If I wanted to, I could avoid all prenatal appointments and just show up one evening in ER and give birth. Of course, I wouldn't. But there's no rule, no law that states that I had to do everything that the women said. They were pushing me to get insulin shots and badgered me about odd little things. And, though I had felt helpless when I was before them, I suddenly felt empowered.
I have the tools to learn what to do to help control gestational diabetes. I'm the one who will follow the diet. I am the one who read about the link between gestational diabetes and autoimmune illnesses. I am the one who loves the child within her and will do anything for the baby.
This experience reminded me of when we first chose to home school our children. Everyone around us had 1,001 rules about how to home school, who to report to, what school district to tell, etc. The red tape was astounding. The paperwork, overwhelming. But once I did some research, I realized that almost all the rules were imposed by bodies that I did not have to obey. They just wanted to make it difficult.
Likewise, I realized that the nurses were pushing for my insulin shots, more doctor's visits, hospital visits, etc. for the money. Or a misguided belief that pregnancy is like an illness, something to be treated.
Once I started thinking about what I could do for the baby---such as follow the diet, be eagle-eyed about sugar snuck into drinks and foods, etc.--- and what I could do for me---such as fax the form to my doctor rather than go to the hospital twice a week to be badgered by the nurses---I felt more confident.
Gestational diabetes isn't something to be taken lightly. But it doesn't mean an automatic route to insulin or a horrible future for myself and the baby. Sure, I might follow the diet and still need insulin. That's all right. Anything for the baby. But a pregnancy deals with life, a little one growing who needs to be nurtured. I don't have a disease that needs to be medicated right off the bat.
I just wish I would have said something earlier to the nurses.
"Life is a flower of which love is the honey."
(Victor Hugo)
The little girl at the doctor's office waited patiently for her mother to fill out the insurance forms for a good thirty minutes, then became restless. With her bouncy little curls in short pigtails and a sweet vintage dress, the tiny girl reminded me of my own daughter at two. The mother spoke sweetly to her and gave her a few goldfish crackers to tide her over. Meanwhile, the father spoke to the daughter in a gentle voice. "All right, sweetheart, Mommy's almost done."
The tone was gentle and warm. It lacked the condescending syrupy tones that most adults use for children, the one used in most t.v. shows. And it lacked the cooler, wearier tone of parents of older children. They both spoke so kindly but firmly that it really made me think about myself lately.
How do I speak to my children? What tone do I use? Does my voice lack that same marveling gentleness that new parents have? Does it have that tired I've-repeated-this-a-thousand-times tone? At what point did I start sounding rougher and less gentle?
Granted, the little girl in the doctor's office can't sass anyone, can't roll her eyes, can't contradict her parents yet. So maybe it's just easier to use dulcet tones for little ones. But as I sat there, listening to the conversation, I wondered if maybe the older children, ones who can get smart-mouthed and irritable, are ones who need to hear calmer, loving voices. Not fake sugar. Not falseness. But true kindness in a tone. Everyone treats you sweetly and kindly when you're two years old. How many people treat 9-year-olds and 7-year-olds with the same patience and gentleness?
Inspired
This morning, as I worked at my home desk, the two boys wandered in. Miguel had some handwriting practice to do; Sebastian wanted to do work, too. I told them it's OK to be in the room when I work---as long as I don't have a meeting and they are quiet.
Sebastian, however, was having a hard time settling down. He was being too loud and yet didn't want to go play in another room. He wanted to be with Miguel and me. "Me work! Me want to do work!" Instead of getting upset, I thought I'd try to make the room seem calmer and more relaxed. Maybe, I thought, if I imitate what I want, then I'll get it.
I put on a calming Mozart CD, told him softly that I had some work to do, gave him a sticky note pad and pencil. Then I turned and kept working quietly at the computer. His older brother did the same. And then Sebastian got the point.
As I edited, Sebastian scribbled a little then quietly asked Miguel to spell his name. Miguel, in soft library tones, explained the letters to him then returned to his work. It was a truly sweet hour.
The couple at the obstetrician's office don't know it, but the sweetness of their doctor's visit not only made their daughter's morning a good one ... but it reminded this complete stranger to carry that gentle attitude toward her own children as well.
Thank you for the reminder.
The visits to the obstetrician are now becoming more frequent due to the high-risk nature of the pregnancy. What's the risk?
The term "heart block" frightened me when I first heard it in reference to the little one growing inside me. It was a vague, horrifying term that left me trembling. However, after meeting with the specialist and being reassured by my own obstetrician, I am not as fearful as before.
Long story short: The autoimmune disease Sjogren's Syndrome attacks the nerve center in the baby's heart that is responsible for its beating. See, the antibodies in the mother’s blood can cross the placenta and reach the baby’s heart and changes the function of the conduction system of the heart. It messes up the electrical circuit transmitting electrical signals from the upper chambers of the heart to the lower pumping chambers of the heart. So, the baby's heart ends up beating erratically.
The baby in utero can handle the strange tempo. However, it is when the baby is born that the heart can undergo stress, and a baby can be stillborn. Or, if undetected, the baby can suffer heart block and then die in his/her early years due to the irregular heartbeat. This is rare, though, because today, prenatal care means listening in on the beating of the baby's heart. An irregular heartbeat will almost always be detected.
If the doctors do detect the irregularity plus know of the mother's autoimmune illness, the doctors will then prescribe a steroid that will completely lower the mom's autoimmune system. The medicine will stop the mom's antibodies from attacking the nerve center of the baby's heart. Unfortunately, the mother's autoimmune system will be lowered even more than usual, and she will end up very, very sick. This is why they don't prescribe it automatically. It messes up the mother, and so it is only used when the baby is in danger.
The doctors assured me that the baby seems to be fine. The baby is kicking all the time, very active, and showing no irregularities in the heartbeat. Plus, the fact that I've three other children 
who do not have heart troubles bodes well. With this Sjogren's heart block problem, it either affects all the children or none of them, for some reason. The doctors say that they are almost sure that I will not have such a problem.
But just to be safe, I am being monitored very frequently. I've had ultrasounds galore, heard the baby's heartbeat more than I heard that of the other children.
I'm happy to report that everything, aside from the gestational diabetes and bed rest, seems to be pretty much the norm.
(p.s. If you have Sjogren's and are pregnant, please discuss this with your doctor. My explanation is not meant as medical advice, but it's just my wording of a condition.)
Ahh, the satisfaction of organized bookmarks! Below is a quick list of my favorite word-loving sites. No, I'm not linking to Merriam-Webster or Roget's Thesaurus. You can Google those. These are places I peruse for fun.
Really.
Etymology
Online Etymology Dictionary
The Word Detective
Grammar
Grammar Police
The Grammar Vandal
I Judge You When You Use Poor Grammar (a Facebook group of gaffes)
Dictionaries
A.Word.A.Day
Urban Dictionary
Word Spy: The Word Lover's Guide to New Words
She opens a wee little online business, of course!
Yes, I've fallen in love with felt and embroidery thread. And owls. Well, I've always loved owls. Whooo knew?
I grew up in the shadows of a great seamstress.
My mother had been taught by her mother to love the feel of fabrics and the pull of thread. Though her skills are numerous, she worked for a long time as a seamstress, taking projects for the Buck Hill Inn Resort and other clients. Mostly, though, I was her doll. For special occasions, my mother would buy Simplicity patterns and make me dresses from hand-picked fabrics. Many afternoons, I spent with my mother buzzing around me, pinning here and there, murmuring softly to herself. What she created was always beautiful and unique, sure to gain compliments from my friends and neighbors.
She attempted a few times to teach me how to sew. After all, her mother had taught her.
"It's a skill every girl should know," my mother said. Unfortunately, that statement to me was like the kiss of death. As a child, young girl, and teenager, I'd rebel against anything typically "girlish"---although it was a losing battle considering my love of lipstick, perfume and boys who looked like Matt Dillon.
I was too restless, too unruly, too noisy to settle down to learn to sew. I wanted to learn, I wanted to be the type of girl who could sit down and focus inward on her spirit and outward on her sewing. I'd see the patterns and wish I could dream up something. But my hems always ran all over the fabric, the lines erratic like drunken sailors on return from shore leave. My buttons were put on so tightly that they bunched up the fabric, puckered at me with angry faces. Finally, I just gave up the whole stupid idea and flung down the needle, thread and fabric. "But you need to do a basic hem!" my mother said, somewhat shocked at her daughter's unladylike behavior.
"Sc*** it," I said. "There's always a stapler or Scotch tape, right?"
And for years, I really did mend my hems that way.
Now, however, many, many years later, on modified bed rest, I've long stretches of time on the sofa. My sketching for Paper Dali has been abandoned for now. There's no flat surface for drawing. My belly is large and cumbersome. Plus, it likes to go into contractions at the slightest touch, so I can't use it as a desk. And I do some reading, but since I do that for a living, I need a break from words. So what was there to do?
Preston was cleaning out the garage and found a bin full of my craft items from kiddie projects. He put it beside me on the sofa and went to continue on his mission. I opened the bin and stared at the bits of felt and fabric, thread and a needle from some sewing travel kit. And I thought of my mother and her gorgeous Simplicity creations. And I thought of my grandmother who wielded knitting needles and crochet hooks like magical wands ... bibbity-bobbity-BOO! I knew I couldn't make anything like that, so I almost closed the lid
on the bin.
Almost closed it. But I didn't.
Instead, under no one's watchful eye, under no one's scrutinizing gaze, with everyone playing cheerfully outside, I sketched a few things, cut some felt and did some running stitches in the right places. When I was done, I was so happy with what showed up that I summoned my daughter and showed her what I had made. "They needed purses," I said. "And a pretty apron."
"You can sew?" she asked me in wonder. "Of course, you can. Look at what you did! Can I sew, too?"
And somehow, the girl who was all thumbs, who pricked herself with the needle constantly, who failed miserably at the domestic arts, found herself on the sofa with her daughter and son on each side of her, teaching them to do a running stitch.
Now, that's what we do some afternoons. Essie pulls out a blanket that she is working on for her doll. Miguel likes to practice running stitches that form words, so I write his name or the name of his stuffed animals in fabric, and he moves the needle up and down along the traced pattern.
The hems are all crooked. The thread often gets tangled. They take forever to make a few stitches. But that's perfectly all right. I undo the tangles (although I'm tempted to pull an Alexander the Great with the Gordian knot), offer some word of encouragement, but keep the criticism to myself.
No one has given up so far. The girl actually draws pictures of what she wants to sew and what I should sew. (That's a post for another day.) And the boy will play basketball outside for the whole day then come inside, shower and settle onto the sofa. "Can I sew now?"
It's a funny question to ask me.
But it's even funnier to say, "Sure, let's sew!"
Delighted about being pregnant.
Not so delighted about modified bedrest.
I sneeze. I move. I breathe. And
Stay in there, child. Just a little while longer.
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