Diabetogenic

Feeling calm after having my senses blasted! A Sunday afternoon spent with family at a beachside pub, eating good food, listening to good music followed by a windswept walk on the beach.

Calm and at peace. A perfect Sunday.

The bar at Balthazar NYC

There is a restaurant in New York called Balthazar. It’s quite well-known and has been a favourite of ours when we’re in the Big Apple. Each trip has seen us eat a few meals there, pop by for a coffees and pastries, and visit with friends.  We love it because the food is great, the staff are attentive and, with its dark timber-panelled and mirrored walls, it makes us feel like we’re in an old Parisian brasserie. And because there are playing cards on the ceiling.

Scattered across the ornate plaster work, are a dozen or so cards. Some are face up, others face down. We noticed them on our first visit there and tried to work out how they got there.  The second time we ate there, we asked our waitress for the story behind the cards. ‘We had a party here quite a few years ago and a magician did a trick. And they stuck to the ceiling,’ she told us. Now we knew how they got there, but we weren’t too sure how they stayed there.  We knew the result, just not the secret to their sticking power.

There are days that diabetes just works. Numbers stay in target, boluses give exactly the right amount of insulin for consumed carbs and no alarms squeal warning of falling or rising BGLs.  Most times, I can’t work out why that happens; it just does. And I love it!

I’ve decided that on those days, I don’t try to analyse it. I sit back and watch the pretty flat line on my CGM and smile at yet another BGL check beginning with the number 6. I just accept the fact that I feel good and energetic and that coping with diabetes seems easy for a day or so.

The longer I’ve lived with diabetes the more I’ve come to realise that there are times that what we put in may not necessarily correlate with the results we’re getting. Sometimes, I need to throw my hands in the air and accept the day has gone to diabetes. Other days, I claim victory for doing nothing special. It’s the nature of the beast. Coming to accept that has been quite refreshing. Accept the result but know that sometimes I just can’t work out why.

This last weekend, the family went to a little French café in Fitzroy. We were enjoying our meals in the timber-lined room, with shelves filled with French wine and Champagne. All of a sudden, Aaron pointed to the ceiling. ‘Look!’ he said. There on the ceiling was a solitary playing card. We looked at each other in surprise and as soon as our waitress walked by asked her about it. ‘We had a party here a while ago’, she began. ‘And a magician did a trick. It’s been there for years.’ I knew that would be the answer she gave, but it still didn’t explain the magic. Sometimes, the method doesn’t matter. But the result is delightful.

Do you know the secret for getting playing cards to stick to the ceiling? I’m kinda torn between wanting to know and keeping the secret alive…..

Grief is an emotion that is, at times, quite toxic. It is all consuming and can be irrational. I’ve written before about grieving for my pre-diabetes life and how once given permission to do so, I was able to put in perspective where diabetes belongs in my make-up.

But the grief I have been experiencing for the last month has been like nothing I have ever known. It has moved in, made itself at home and is now ordering me around and making me angry.

It may come as a surprise, but I am actually quite pragmatic about the miscarriage. It happens. I knew the stats. At our first ‘Oh-my-god-we’re-pregnant’ appointment with the obstetrician, he calmly, but firmly, told us the stats. Thirty per cent chance of miscarriage at my age. I took it in, smiled weakly and added ‘plus, I’m not good at being pregnant….’ and let my voice trail off.

I refused to get too hopeful and every visit to the bathroom for the next few weeks, I expected to see the tell-tale signs of the pregnancy ending. Throughout our holiday, as I counted another week down, I got a bit more confident, a bit more hopeful. And even though I thought as I ticked of the 12 week and then 13 week mark that I was getting close to feeling sure the pregnancy had ‘stuck’ the stats were always in my mind.

When I miscarried, I was prepared for sadness, although not the all-encompassing grief that engulfed me and took over. But even that was understandable. I was grieving the loss of a baby and the addition to our family.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the anger. It started two days before we were due to get on a plane and head home. I woke up, and there in the pit of my stomach, I felt a heavy stillness that at times threatened to overtake me. At first, I was able to aim the anger at diabetes and to a degree, I still do. I cursed by body. MY stupid fucking diabetes made this happen. The rational side of my brain – which, in all honesty hasn’t had much of a look in lately – reminded me that an A1c sitting in the 6s would not have in any way contributed to the end of the pregnancy. The side that had been overtaken by anger simply disregards common sense. It does it well.

But diabetes – and me – were not the only targets for my anger. As is often the case, the people closest to me bore the brunt of my fury. Aaron was in the direct firing line and there was nothing he could do to avoid – or understand – where this was coming from.

As it became apparent that I’d need further treatment for the miscarriage – another D&C the week we returned home because the one in the US hadn’t been completely successful – I pulled away more. He was compassionate and concerned and I pushed him away. As we sat in the hospital waiting for my name to be called to go into surgery, he tried to hold my hand and I pulled it away.

I was short with my parents – especially my mother. I withdrew from them too and became silent and sullen. And angry.

I realise now though, that it wasn’t really anger towards them that I felt. It was just easier to yell or dish out the silent treatment or be nasty. Because the truth is that the anger was really directed at myself. I couldn’t tell my family that I felt that I’d failed them because I knew that they would tell me that it wasn’t the truth. I didn’t tell them that I was blaming myself for the miscarriage because they would try to make me see that it wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t tell them how much I was hurting or how sad I was because there were no words that expressed those emotions.

It’s been four weeks now. I still feel emotionally wrecked and my heart is heavy with sadness. There are moments when I feel my eyes fill with tears for no real reason – just because. But I can now look at myself in the mirror and not feel hopeless because my stomach has returned to its completely flat state.  I can look at photos from our trip and smile at the memories rather than just focus on the fact that I was pregnant then. And now, I’m not. I’m healing and I’m breathing again and that is a victory.

I know that this is a stage on my way to acceptance. I just wish that there were a way that I could take loved ones along for the ride rather than attack them and alienate them.

This is the last time I’ll be writing about my miscarriage here. Diabetogenic is about real life with diabetes and despite trying with all my might, I can’t blame the miscarriage on diabetes. Thank you to everyone who has read, commented and sent their love through this time. It’s greatly appreciated.