Failure. It’s an interesting concept. Failure itself has such a broad definition spectrum. We can fail at our latest Pinterest craft involving egg cartons, fairy eyelashes, and the saliva of a badger in heat to a huge deal at work. The word failure can instill the fear into someone’s soul or it can make us giggle. For example, when I was in high school and told I failed a biology exam I cried because well, that sucks. When I tried a smokey eye with a cat eye liner for the first time all I could do was laugh at myself in the mirror because I failed at it so miserably. What else can you do?
These last weeks I’ve really come to take the word failure to a new peak for myself. I posted the week before (it’s been a really crazy couple of weeks, sorry for missing last week!) that I had been diagnosed with gestational diabetes. After I admitted it on here I felt comfortable making statuses about it on my Facebook profile. Once I had to told the public what I was going through I got a lot of responses. Some were, “Oh, don’t worry about it. As soon as you deliver it’s gone!” “It’s not that big of a deal.” Some were, “Let go and let God. You can’t control it, so let go of whatever course it’s going to take.” “Still enjoy the pregnancy. This won’t take over the joy you are creating.” And my favorite, “Don’t stress about it.” Now, I completely understand that everyone was trying to offer a slight bit of comfort and let me know that it wasn’t the end of the world. It was a short term problem that could be managed and just a hiccup in everything going on.
I must admit, letting go of this problem has been beyond difficult. I can’t really not stress about it or stop thinking about it because this is taking over my life. I was told on February 19th I had gestational diabetes (GD). At that point we wanted to see if diet and exercise would control it. By the 26th I was on insulin. I prick my fingers four times a day. Have had to start eating on a schedule. Wake up early enough to test my fasting sugar. Take insulin at night. Walk after every meal. Count carbohydrates like I was counting precious gems. Call my diabetic healthcare center almost daily and go to regular doctor’s appointments. There is no way I could stop thinking/stressing about the GD because the GD was taking over my life. I’ve felt like a shut in for the last few weeks because I’m terrified to go out to eat.
I’m terrified of these things because we have learned I am insanely insulin resistant. No matter what I do I can’t lower my blood sugars. My nurses and doctors are dumbfounded and feel awful because all they can say is, “I’m so sorry, hunny. I can’t think of anything to tell you to do differently. You’re eating perfectly, you’re walking, you’re calling us. We’ll keep bumping up the insulin and hope that works.” It has not. It has failed. My body has failed me. I feel like I have failed my daughter already. I’ve tried to get to the point of thinking that this is something completely out of my control and is a placental issue. We can’t even blame genetics at this point. My hormones are so high that insulin just isn’t breaking through.
I wake up every day preparing to fail. Somehow and someway I feel like I’m failing. Whether it’s my own intentional fault or not. The feeling that your baby is in more harm in what is supposed to be the most perfect environment of their life is one of the most overwhelming feelings of my life. The mommy guilt I’ve already placed on myself because I don’t want to be pregnant anymore is one of the worse feelings I’ve had. I want her here in my arms, I want to be in my 40th week because I feel like my body is failing to give her what she needs. Not because I am insanely uncomfortable from having a nine month old fetus in me. As with this my other failures have piled up. Our kitchen is in shambles every day because I now eat all my meals and snacks in our house. The turn around on dishes is crazy and I’m exhausted at night to do dishes. Our house isn’t clean because I have to eat at certain times, go to the doctor’s at least twice a week if not more, call my health care center, continuously grocery shop so I have the correct foods at my finger tips, and I’m now eight months pregnant.
Believe me. I haven’t failed to see that I have so much to be thankful for through all this. I have an amazingly loving husband who lets me cry on him almost every day through this and desperately tries to make me feel better. Parents who call me almost daily to make sure I’m okay. Great insurance that helps take some of the financial aspect of this off of us. And from what modern medicine can see so far, a very healthy if not slightly chubby baby growing in my tummy. All these plus a dozen other thankfuls in my life are reminders that it could be worse. My failures right now shouldn’t outweigh the triumphs in my life. Your failures shouldn’t outweigh your triumphs in life.
Failure. A term that can bring us laughter and can bring us to our knees. Something that can be self inflicted or inflicted upon us. In our society today we are taught to focus on our failures because by god we will pull ourselves up by our boot straps and forge ahead. We learn from failures. We are taught not to focus too much on what we’ve done right because being boastful doesn’t get you anywhere. So why are we so wary to find the middle ground and give ourselves a break once and a while? I don’t think we should all get participation trophies but we should at least acknowledge that we show up. I’m showing up. According to all my doctors there is literally nothing more I can personally do. Not one single activity or food will make the problem go away. Why can’t I accept this fact? Why do I strive to find failure in my efforts instead of striving to giving myself a break and well needed, “You’ve done what you can.” I’m hoping to get to a point where I treat myself gently (a term from my diabetic nurse) because I can’t keep focusing on what I feel are my failures. I need to acknowledge that I’ve showed up. I’ve tried. Sometimes the failures are simply out of my control.