I am roughly 32 weeks into the physical journey towards this baby. While I can't say that I've embraced this pregnancy with the same awe-struck enthusiasm that I felt with Seven, I have still found things to relish. Late-night wiggles. Listening to the reassuring thwip-thwip-thwip of the heartbeat on the doctor's doppler. Watching my abdomen grow and fill with new life. The joy that each of the children has had in preparing to meet this new little person. Lounging in bed with my beloved and giggling with each other over how this baby likes to poke and kick him squarely in the kidneys. The amazement that, once again, I get to be the vessel that brings a new person into this world.
Sadly, the balance has tipped slowly towards more negative than positive. About a month ago, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. While that certainly hasn't been the worst thing to ever happen-- and doesn't even register on the "tragedy scale"-- it's been a hump of feeling yucky, balancing meals for a family and myself, and learning that sometimes, medication is the only way to go (which is hard for a natural-loving Momma like me). Just as I settled in to a place of peace in riding out the last few weeks before we meet this wee one with a couple of bottles of pills and a glucose monitor at my side, I got the less-than-encouraging news that my blood pressure is a tad too high, the amniotic fluid is a tad too low, and by the way, we really need to keep a closer eye on this baby. Twice a week, to be exact. And you should have childcare lined up for an emergency delivery on those days. Just in case.
Normally, I'd put up a bit of a fight here. I'm a huge advocate for myself in the area of health care. I know my body. I know how it performs. I know how I feel. And frankly, I am not reckless. I don't take risks on a whim. Those things that the establishment does see as risky behavior on my behalf (no IV during labor, no drops in my baby's eyes post-birth, passing on the hospital-recommended vaccinations before discharge, etc.) are born from calculated, careful education on both my behalf and Mr. Blandings'. There are some hills I am willing to die on, medically speaking.
This time, though, I have peace.
Absolute, stunning peace.
Really--considering that 24 hours ago I was sitting in on my second maternal/fetal specialist consult in three weeks, I'm doing fine. My labor and delivery might look nothing like what I have experienced in the past. I am becoming a greater and greater candidate for a c-section. My baby will need to have his or her blood sugar tested frequently during what will probably be a slightly extended stay. I may be whisked off to deliver with no warning after one of my twice-weekly non-stress tests and fluid checks.
And I feel pretty good about it all.
Call me crazy, but my motto this entire pregnancy-- from the shocking realization of its existence to the less-than-stellar health record I am currently enjoying-- has been "God's got this." And if you've read my past few posts since coming back to the bloggy world, you know that I wrestled with this stance mightily this summer.
But this ... this feels like God's hand. It feels like God's comfort. And it most certainly feels like God's careful working out of His plan.
So God has this. He has me. He most certainly has this baby. So the view from here-- clouded though it is by specialists and appointments and tests-- is pretty darn beautiful, after all.