In two days you’re going back to the doctor’s office. I didn’t want to talk about this before because I’m just too frightened, but we’re going in for an echocardiogram. Apparently diabetic women have a higher risk of fetal heart defects, and it’s standard procedure for a diabetic pregnant woman to get one around this time (22 weeks). Because my A1C numbers were fairly under control (a 6.0 is the first time they consider it abnormal and mine were 6.1/6.2) my endocrinologist’s nurse tells me my risk is barely above that of a non-diabetic.
None of that puts my heart at ease. Unlike the miscarriage I had with Hope, if something is wrong with your little heart, it is MY fault. And not just that it’s my fault, it’s the fault of the poor eating habits I hadn’t made much of an effort to improve in my 29 years on this earth. Yes, I’ve said, I’m overweight, but I don’t want to change my eating habits enough to make a difference. Sure I tried eating vegetables and I’m getting better, but it’s still such a slow road, and while these changes will make a difference for any sibs you may have in the future, the changes came too late-your heart was already formed by that point.
I want to believe that everything will be fine. But I’m a worrier by nature. I want to be in control and I have no control at this point over it.
One way or the other we’ll know by lunch on Tuesday. I can only sit here and be grateful that I’m delivering in Boston at a hospital with a top-rated NICU and Children’s Hospital across the street. I can only pray that I will need neither’s help, and that your little heart is okay.
Please be okay.