Maybe baby?

It was a Friday night no different from any other. The weekend ahead; tentative plans for dinner with friends on Saturday night and a relaxed, lazy Sunday. The dogs scurried around my feet as I stacked the Thai take away left-overs into the fridge. I poured myself a nip of melon liquor; it was Friday after all. Sliding into my Donna Karan fluffy slippers, I looked forward to a night of dim light and DVDs with my husband. Then it happened. Sometime between making the popcorn and relaxing on the leather recliner, our latest DINK (Double Income No Kids) purchase, we made the biggest decision of our lives. Drum roll… We were ready for a baby! After six years of dating then six of marriage, it was now time. Extradited from its former no-conversation zone, the ‘B’ word was now an official part of our vocabulary. How exciting! How scary! How on earth would I manage my diabetes?

Type 1 diabetes had been my partner in health, sickness and many sugar-induced cleaning frenzies for 20 years and I only hoped it would be faithful during maternity. The last I knew, babies borne from women with diabetes were large, prone to abnormalities and delivered with difficulty. Nineties Hollywood blockbuster, Steel Magnolias had much to answer for by depicting a sad fate for screen siren, Julia Roberts, a diabetic woman planning a family. I, and I’m sure a generation of young women, were disillusioned by the possibility that complications would ensue if we too pursued pregnancy.

So armed with an outdated cinematic reference, a ticking biological clock and a two month wait for an appointment with my endocrinologist, I set forth on a mission to collate my own research on pregnancy with diabetes. It was a child’s precious life, not to mention my own, in question and I didn’t feel at all inhibited to know specifics. Would the developing baby be hurt by fluctuating blood sugar levels? Do I need extra scans or tests? What were my options for delivery? Would having a baby seriously affect my post partum health? To my dismay I soon discovered it would have been easier to prise a donut from Homer’s sticky, yellow fingers than to find appropriate information at large.

After many a cold Diet Coke and a lengthy internet trawl, I finally stumbled upon my Holy Grail. It was an inviting website with a deluge of hot-off-the-press information; what more could I ask for? Oh! It was actually run by a dedicated group of young people with diabetes. Pinch me, I must be dreaming! To my glee they produced and distributed a booklet entitled, “Can I have a healthy baby?” Questions that had previously only roved in my mind were there in black and white and they had answers! It was a personal confirmation that diabetes and babies could mix and the proof of life I’d been searching for. A positive pregnancy and healthy baby were possible!

Further to this step in the right direction was my heartening experience as an insulin pump newbie. With the intention of getting my blood sugar as stable as possible before conceiving, I ventured to try this clever little machine. The mobile phone-sized unit would attach to me via a discreet cannula and deliver insulin continuously. Its objective was to match insulin with energy and food requirements resulting in better managed blood sugar levels. My diabetes control had always been acceptable (Endocrinologists aren’t praise machines are they?) but after enduring 7,000 injections over 20 years I was curious about alternatives. The result? Being on insulin pump therapy for only one month saw my energy levels rise, my weight lower and my diabetes begin a new chapter as my body functioned more effectively. I think I was eleven years old the last time I felt so buoyant!

I assessed my pre-conception To Do list: endo check-up, start pump therapy, revel in the luxury of spontaneity, shed a few pounds and take folate. I congratulated myself on such a tangible display of organisation. This efficiency would soon be tested by the objectively logical next stage of our baby plan: building a house. Of course! We couldn’t bring the baby home to a rented bungalow, a stone’s throw from the city. Oh no, no, no. We had to move closer to family. Start afresh. A new estate flanked by market gardens and towering gums looked ideal. It was half an hour from the metropolis but I was unperturbed… a three-bedroom, cream, rendered cottage with nine-foot ceilings would soon be ours.

The building was seemingly touched by an angel: from pouring the slab to possession of keys took all of three months. Was there a higher force at work, silently bustling the builders along? Was it my satiny smooth repartee with the site manager? Or perhaps ours was their only job. Hmmpf. Whatever the catalyst, the romance of stepping through the doors of our very own house had no comparison. Standing in the entrance way, I matter of factly announced to my husband that this was where we’d meet him when he came home from work. “Who?” he enquired. “The baby and me,” I returned, smiling.

The ‘B’ word became dotted into conversations more frequently and although not even conceived yet (points for trying!), the baby already had its own room. Despite my excitement, our active parenting plans remained undisclosed. Really, what was I going to say anyway? Sure, I mentioned ‘we’re trying’ to my hairdresser and the lady who tints my eyebrows… but family? I’d have to be crazy! Our bedroom was crowded enough with half unpacked boxes without the invasive apparition of my mother wondering if I was ‘pregnant yet’.

Thirty one years old, married to my sweetheart, glam job as a skincare manager and a gorgeous new house to boot. Mmm something’s missing. Sorry darling I nearly forgot you! Diabetes! My faithful partner! I ask her how she feels about this whole ‘trying for a baby thing’. She responds with a BSL of 6.0mmol and I give my glucometer a praising pat. I sense the scope of what I’m about to undertake is bigger than any amount of research can prepare me for, but just try wiping the smile off my face. Just try.