Designated Fat Girl (14 page)

She looked baffled. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had to convince someone to take their thyroid medication. Usually women are thrilled to hear there’s a problem and a solution.”

I snorted. Been there, done that. I had tons of problems, and I was starting to be convinced there was no cure.

Health was hardly ever my focus. And when it was, I was usually disappointed in the outcome, as with the whole thyroid situation. I just wanted things to be black-and-white—if there was a problem, I wanted a cure. Period. No gray areas. No let’s try this, let’s see if that works. I guess I didn’t have patience for any of it, which is pretty ridiculous, seeing how I’d been morbidly obese for years. Why hadn’t I lost patience with that? Stubbornly, I dwelled on all the emotional issues, as well as the problems with my appearance, that my weight gain had brought on, and I did not devote enough time to the toll it was taking on my physical well-being.

That slowly started to change once I had children. And it didn’t change by choice, but out of necessity: For me, being pregnant meant I could no longer ignore my physical problems.

When I first found out we were having a baby, I was ecstatic. Michael and I had waited for so long, watched so many friends and family members become parents, welcoming new additions. Finally it was our turn. Sure, I would have liked to be thinner; as it was, I was still very heavy when I became pregnant with my daughter, Emma. But I had just lost a lot of weight, and I was in a pretty good place emotionally. I was coming off
the daily torture that is binge eating, and I was starting to have more natural, realistic thoughts when it came to what went into my mouth. Yes, I still ate too much, and too many of the wrong foods, but hey! I was pregnant! I was with child. That’s license, right? For the first time in really my whole life, I ate without guilt. I didn’t beat myself up with every indulgence, and that was so liberating. I could go through my days feeling good about myself and my situation, something that was so rare for me, I hardly knew what to do with it. And because I was in a good place, because I gave myself a break, I didn’t binge. I never once overstuffed myself with food, making frantic promises to do better the next day. I didn’t have to live under that threat umbrella. I was free.

All of that soon came to a screeching halt.

On the day I went in for my glucose test, where they determine if you’re suffering from gestational diabetes, I clearly had no clue. I’d been at work all day and thought the hour-long drive to the doctor’s office was the perfect time to drink a nice cold twenty-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew. Um … hello? Blood glucose test? Sugar? Probably not a good idea! Still, it wasn’t like they told me to fast or anything, and I figured I should go about my normal routine. I was still drinking one soda a day, and I didn’t think much about it.

I flunked the test.

It was only then that I truly considered the possibility of diabetes. Sure, this was gestational diabetes, a condition that would likely go away once my pregnancy was complete. But until then I would have to do all kinds of special things to monitor my health and that of my baby. Plus, having gestational
diabetes makes you more prone to develop the disease later in life.

I was devastated. Gone was the liberating feeling I’d had about eating; now I would have to worry over every little thing that went into my mouth. I’d have to monitor my blood sugar levels by sticking myself with a needle every day. And I would agonize about my unborn baby’s health.

Not how I envisioned my pregnancy.

I had a really hard time following the diet plan. My limited palate made it hard for me to find good foods to eat—ones that I actually liked. On a good day I was a carb-obsessed freak: breads, chips, sodas, and so on. And we already know how I felt about sugar—it deserved its own level on my personal food pyramid. This diet, however, called for no sugar and low carbs. For a person who’d gained more than 150 pounds because she couldn’t control her urges to overeat, and to eat the wrong foods, it was quite a lot to ask. How was I ever going to do this?

Slowly, believe it or not, I made progress. I learned to eat hamburgers without buns. I skipped the fries and (most of) the sodas, opting instead to snack on nuts and cheese and to drink water. Of course I found ways to cheat. I promised myself that if I was good all week, I could have whatever I wanted for dinner on Saturday, for example. I also got the hang of using the needle to check my blood sugar, and I learned to use that to my eating advantage. I kept a food diary and learned what foods made my blood sugar rise and what foods I could get away with eating. I found that if I simply scraped the toppings off of a piece of pizza without eating the crust, I was fine—or if I waited until the early evening to give in to my craving for soda, my
blood sugar wasn’t so bad. I was very disciplined about finding what worked, and it paid off. My doctor was pleased with my sugar levels and with the baby’s growth. My fear began to subside, and I found an inner peace with doing what was best for my baby.

Looking back, I am proud that I was able to step up for Emma’s sake. I’d always hoped somewhere deep within me, willpower did in fact exist, and here I had some proof. But I’m a little sad that it took pregnancy for me to have the strength to finally do what was necessary. I thought my baby’s health was worth a sacrifice, but I wasn’t willing to give up things in order to improve my own well-being. What did that say about my self-esteem, my self-worth?

In the end, the gestational diabetes all but went away. My blood sugar levels stabilized, meaning I no longer had to check them daily. Emma was a robust eight pounds when she was born, perfectly healthy and normal. Getting to hold her for the first time, and seeing for myself that she was okay, I felt like I dodged a major bullet. And I was ready to indulge. I told my dad I would do anything for a Mountain Dew, and he was happy to oblige, racing to the snack machine down the hall from my hospital room. Emma was only a couple hours old, and I drank that twenty-ounce soda in what seemed like three long sips. Nothing ever tasted so good.

When Emma was about six weeks old, I went in for a follow-up with my obstetrician, and she ran tests to see if the diabetes was definitely gone. When the results came back that it was, I was so relieved. I vowed I would never, ever have to deal with that again, and I really felt as though I was on my way. Having
Emma and manufacturing breast milk was having a big effect on me: I’d dropped about thirty pounds in a month. Amazingly, I still didn’t feel the need to binge eat—I hadn’t returned to my bad habits. I was finally starting to feel good about my weight-loss prospects. My doctor warned me that with a second pregnancy I would almost assuredly develop gestational diabetes, but I shrugged it off. I was going to get the weight off before any other pregnancies, so that wouldn’t be a factor.

I’m not quite sure where it went wrong. I should have just gone back to see the bariatric doctor and resumed the phentermine to lose the rest of the weight. But I’d decided not to go back to work full-time and took a huge pay cut. I didn’t think I could afford the medication and the doctor visits. Not to mention that the doctor’s office was near my work, more than an hour away from my house. I couldn’t make that commute with a newborn. Plus, I’d really convinced myself that I was now ready to do it on my own. Hadn’t I stepped up to the plate with the diabetic diet? Somehow I’d found the willpower to do what I needed to do … I just needed to find that motivation again.

But find it, I could not. I wanted to start exercising again, but as with any newborn, Emma’s sleeping was so unpredictable that I found myself too tired most of the time to do much of anything. I was stressed, trying to work from home and still make a difference at my job and trying to get the whole mothering thing down in a way that was beneficial to both my child and me. How did I usually deal with stress? This time was no
different—I turned to food, slowly allowing in all the temptations I’d gotten rid of while I was pregnant. When Emma wouldn’t stop screaming, I’d put her in the car—the ride soothed her to sleep—and the next thing I knew, I was at the drive-thru window. In no time my soda habit kicked back in, and I was back to drinking several Mountain Dews or Cokes a day. Predictably, the weight slowly piled on again. Of course that was when the deal making started, which began the binge-eating-and-regret cycle. I was right back to where I had been, and this time I was harder on myself than ever before. How could I not have learned my lesson after all this time, after all I’d been through? It now occurred to me that the implications were far more serious: I had a child to consider, and my health was very much an issue. This was no longer about wanting to wear jeans again or being an on-air reporter. This was about being around to see Emma grow up.

I could always count on some illogical thinking to come into play, and this time it did, too. Michael and I knew we wanted another child, just one sibling for Emma. In the back of my mind, I wanted to see how normal sibling relationships were supposed to work: bickering, yes; daily cruelty, no. I wasn’t getting any younger, and I knew that I would need to go back to work full-time at some point. When Emma was almost a year old, we decided to get pregnant again.

It didn’t happen the first time, this go-round.

It happened on the second try.

We announced it to our families at Emma’s first birthday party. They were really surprised, and my mom, in particular, was worried. Two small children would be such a handful. Plus
there were health concerns. I was heavier now than I was when I got pregnant with Emma. I was sure to develop gestational diabetes again. Would I be able to keep it at bay once more?

Again, illogical thinking on my part.
Of course I’d be okay!
I told myself. I did it the first time, didn’t I? When it came to my baby’s health, I was sure that I had what it took to do what I needed to do, period. I wasn’t too worried at all.

From the get-go, this pregnancy was far different than with Emma. I had terrible morning sickness—I was nauseated all the time, and smells were my worst enemy. I could barely be around Michael as he ate his breakfast or changed Emma’s messy diaper without running for the toilet. This went on for months, and it was debilitating. I was trying to take care of a toddler, I was working long hours from home, and I was trying to stay healthy, but it was too hard. The more I tried to avoid sugar, the more I craved it—and it seemed like the only thing that made me feel better, the only thing my body would tolerate. Nothing like a fizzy drink to calm down your tummy! I knew I was in trouble, but I didn’t know how to stop.

I had to have the blood glucose test early this time, and of course I failed it miserably. I had gestational diabetes again, and I had to go back on the diabetic diet. I halfheartedly pulled out my old food diaries, once more employing the strategies that had worked so well for me with my first pregnancy. Only now it wasn’t working. Foods that were okay for me to eat last time made my blood sugar soar this go-round. With my limited palate, I had very few choices, and I was always struggling to find something that was good for me to eat, that I liked, and that wouldn’t make me sick. Every single day was a struggle,
and I was miserable. The more desperate I became, the more I seemed to fail. I couldn’t get a grip, couldn’t pull it together. I was drinking tons of soda and eating carbs—all things that were bad for the baby and me. On the days I managed to do well and stick to the diet, my blood sugar numbers remained high. So I figured,
What is the point? Why “be good” if it isn’t working?
I’d find myself drinking all the soda and eating all the bread I wanted, vowing I would do better the next day. My perverse binge-and-regret cycle had penetrated my pregnancy, and I didn’t just feel sorry for myself—I was scared to death. My baby’s health was on the line, and I felt powerless to do anything about it.

When I was about seven months pregnant, I got the news I had been dreading: I had to go on daily insulin shots. I swear, I wanted to run right out of that doctor’s office and pretend I’d never heard those words. And if it was just my health at risk, I most certainly would have done so. But I knew that my baby’s well-being was at stake. I had no choice: I had to do whatever it took to make sure he was healthy. I reluctantly attended a session with the diabetic nurse, learning how to measure the insulin into the syringe and how to give myself the shots in my thigh. Gathering my supplies, I wondered if I could get any lower than I was at that moment.