Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Just how important is this to me?

I had my 37 week checkup yesterday.

Here's the thing that I'm mulling over now. Well, one of the things. My mind has been a busy place of late.

I stress about wait gain. A lot. I stress, and I obsess.

Two days ago, I felt huge, and moaned to my husband that I had probably gained SO MUCH WEIGHT and was going to be so embarrassed at my epic failure come weigh in at the doctor's office.

Yesterday, I met my husband for lunch in the city before going to my appointment. As I mulled over the menu, I was struck with a lack of hunger as I grumpily realized that every bite I ate would show up on the scale in just an hour's time. He asked what was wrong, and I just said I was thinking about my weight again. He sighed, a bit exasperated now, and said, "You're pregnant.  You are supposed to gain weight."
I just grumbled, "Not that much."

I saw a large lady leave the restaurant with her newborn baby, and the look on my face as I watched her retreat made J say to me, "Don't worry. You're not that big."

Then, as we sat in the clinic waiting room, watching pregnant mamas of all shapes and sizes waddle or stroll gracefully past in turn, I compared myself to each and every one of them. As usual, I found myself lacking. Why are some pregnant women so elegant looking? Why do I get handed the dumpy end of the stick? J noticed my lack of ease and squeezed my hand. I just leaned over and whispered, "I bet you I gained 6lbs. Oh crap, we just ate lunch. I bet you I gained 8 lbs this week. I'm way over. I shouldn't be so huge."

Then I stepped on the scale. 225. Two hundred and twenty five. Blurgh.  The number itself made me feel gross. I tried to reorient my thinking, then.

My goal was to gain no more than 35 lbs this pregnancy, and I have made it to term-ish with a gain of 28. That's actually a real victory for me! My first two pregnancies were train wrecks where my diet was concerned.  And my third, though much better, didn't completely allay my fears of turning ginormous with baby number 4. So, really, I did just fine. But when you already feel huge, getting huge-er is never comforting.

So, just as I was starting to feel a little bit better about everything, the nurse asked, "Have you had your consultation with the anesthesiologist? In case of a C-Section, they like to meet with everyone who has a BMI over 40.

"Forty?" I asked, weakly. Surely, she couldn't mean me.

"Yeah," she said, nonchalant, non caring. "Lemme check... yeah. You're right at 40 now."

Dang.

Back to the spiral of feeling like a failure, feeling unacceptable. Feeling like everyone's eyes must be on me, their minds clicking with thoughts like, "Ugh. She has no self-control." "Get on a diet." "Ew. Eat a salad."

Caught somewhere between relieved at my low gain and ashamed for my BMI, I trudged back to the waiting room.

My only thought now is that I am ready for this pregnancy to be over so I can start doing something about my BMI. I told J last night in bed that, "No matter what it takes - having you feed me, hiring a trainer, driving half an hour to a gym, joining boot camp, going to rehab... whatever it takes, I have to lose this weight."

He rolled toward me and slid an arm over my barely-existent waist. Sleepily, he murmured, "You're beautiful the way you are. I'm still proud to be married to you, even if you aren't a size 2. I want you to be happy, so... whatever it takes, good."

He returned to even breathing as I lay awake, thinking about the doomsday feeling of impending labour, the subsequent lack of sleep, and the numbers on the scale. In the grande scheme of things, why does this seem to be so important to me?

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My weight loss journey