A1C

When I went in initially to the doctor to see if it was even possible that I could get pregnant, upon finding that I had PCOS, they ordered an A1C test. As I've mentioned before, one of the fun stocking stuffers that PCOS packs is insulin insensitivity. So, even if I am eating a diet that wouldn't put a normal person at risk for diabetes, it might send my blood sugar over the moon. So, as healthy as I was eating, my first test came back at 5.7.

What does any of that even mean, Ashley? Great question. I had little idea, but knew it wasn't good because it was "flagged". I discovered what they're even testing for is the percentage of your blood that is glycated, that is coated in sugar. Since your blood cells live 3-4 months, this gives doctors a look at how your blood sugars have averaged over that time. A score over 7 is a diagnoses of diabetes and requires treatment, a score over 5.6 means you're pre-diabetic and require  treatment, like metformin to regulate blood sugars. Below that, you're within normal range and can carry on shoveling carbs into your face.

Why does it matter? We have all heard we're not supposed to have high blood sugar, but unless you know someone suffering from diabetes, you might not know why exactly it's so bad for you. Basically, too much sugar in your blood stream is poison. It damages organs and nerves. Long periods of out of control high sugars can lead to loss of eyesight, poor wound healing that could lead to infection and amputation, and just a body that can't cope and heal and restore itself so you can feel normal. This comes after years and years of bad high sugars, so please, don't start hyperventilating, you're likely fine. Low blood sugars are dangerous too. I'm sure you've forgotten lunch someday and felt woozy and like you could eat a living cow, maybe you even started to get shaky and panicky. It's like that, but could lead to unconsciousness and even coma. So, the 'betes isn't something you want, and here I was at 5.7.

The other thing I was concerned about was having the option of homebirth. I hate hospitals, like really, really hate them. Aside from my social anxiety and agoraphobia, I've had some traumatic experiences in hospitals, and would really like the option to have my baby in a space I feel comfortable. If you have diabetes, or are close to, that isn't an option. Also, high sugars can increase chances of miscarriage. So, it was a big deal to deal with this before we even started trying.

So, what do you do? My doctor of course said stop drinking juice and eat more fruits and veggies. Ok, I mean, we can all eat better. What I didn't expect was that this was going to cut so sharply into my life.

We knew this was our last year in our 20's and our last year potentially child-free. We kept referring to it as our YOLO year. We went to Death Valley, all over to the beach, we went to Colorado for a friend's wedding, and we had a weekly potluck with a new group of friends where the wine, beer, and carbs flowed freely. Tarra had also started playing kickball with that friend group in a XOSO league. She also picked up air guitar as a hobby. Which is a thing, a super real, legit thing people get really into. She's really good at it, like got to go to the Western Regional Finals, good. So, on top of running a farm, Tarra working full time, and being normal people, our social calendar was full and we had to find a way to put in running and yoga for fitness, and meditation for de-stressing about all of this shitty news we had just received from the doctor.

Here is Tarra before her air guitar Bikini Kill performance of Rebel Grrl.

Here is Tarra as Courtney Love performing Violet. 

Our gorgeous friend Stephanie at her Colorado wedding.

Our Big Sur de-stress trip.

Just as you might expect, this didn't go over well. We were overly busy, stressed so we wanted to eat easy food, which is never good for you. We wanted to go out and have fun, which meant drinking, then eating food a drunk person wants, not great. We traveled, which meant eating bad. And all of this leaves little room to work out, let alone leave time for mindful meditation. We'd get so wrapped up in having fun, a week would slip by and we forgot to go running. We'd get mad and frustrated and take it out on each other. So, long hours spent fighting, not exercising. We'd question weather we were ready to have kids, we couldn't even stick to an exercise regiment, how are we going to be examples for kids? So, we got on the binge/guilt rollercoaster and went for the worst ride we could manage.

That went on for three months, with little change, actually it kept getting worse. I went in for a retest of my A1C. I waited nervously for the results remembering how we hadn't had more than 1/2 cup of whole grains per meal, and even though we didn't run like we should have, we still were on schedule to run a 10k. I got an email with my results: 5.7. MOTHER FUCKER! I was so mad, so frustrated, so beaten down. How much more could I have sacrificed? I was angry at Tarra for not being 100% supportive. I was angry at myself for not having more control. I was frustrated with my body, which seemed to be betraying me.

Fortunately though, for us this was a rallying cry. We needed to be better. We needed to commit to this an each other. We started seeing a counsellor, cut back on social obligations, and worked together to get my body healthier. It wasn't perfect. We still fought, still fell off track, but we finished our 10k, then got on to training for a half marathon (which meant running 10k's weekly). I started saying things like, "Unnnn, I don't want to put on my running shoes for less than three miles, the first mile is horrid, and the last mile you're running home. You have to run at least three to enjoy any of it." Which as a fat girl, are strange words to pass my lips.

I used to hate running. I had all my P.E. coaches tell me there was no way I was trying running 15 minute miles. I internalized that and assumed I was fat and lazy, like my parents always told me I was. Being told I need to lose 40 pounds before I would likely get pregnant put a fire under my butt. Running was the most calories I could burn per hour, so fine. Let's run. The marathon we were training for seemed my speed. It was the Beat the Blerch run put on by the webcomic, The Oatmeal. He helped me believe it was ok to run just so you could eat cake. Actually, on the coarse there were Nutella sandwiches and cake. My kind of run.

Running felt like an affirmation that everyone who was ever cruel to me, and told me I wouldn't amount to anything (which, sadly was A LOT of really important people in my life) were total A-holes. We finished the half marathon running 15 minute miles. Yeah, coach A-hole, I was trying! I'm just slow. Like, I can run 13.1 miles, just 15 minutes each mile. Also, you try to move 210 pounds of person that far and for 3 1/2 hours! I'm basically superman: fat superman with giant boobs...you get the point.

Finish line!

Anyway, we were doing great, and I felt really confident. We tried to manage stress by not freaking out about food. We celebrated Tarra's birthday, my birthday, the holidays, New Years. I have to admit, it was work quieting that voice that kept screaming, "omg, that CARB! Remember babies!". It was a struggle to maintain balance. I'd be lying if I told you I felt great about our efforts.  I retested yesterday while Tarra was in the Urgent Care because she had a giant swelling under her jaw (who we named Pricilla: Queen of her neck). Good news, Tarra's goiter/spider egg sac/hamster storage pouch/pouch of baby seahorses was not any of those things I teased her about: it was a dental abscess. She got some antibiotics and we went home.

My A1C is currently 5.3. We did something right, I guess. I wanted to feel overjoyed and proud. I just feel tired and worn thin. I'm in the clear now though, and we're hoping to inseminate my next cycle. Fingers crossed and salad in hand.