What saved me from being taken under by this turn of events was the fact that I was still losing weight, thanks to the fen-phen. I could face anything as long as the scales were going in the right direction. Still—it did mark how I would treat such events in the future.
In early 2001, after I’d stopped taking fen-phen and had gained all the weight back, the thyroid issue popped up again. This time I was heavier than I’d ever been and despondent about my inability to do anything about it. At my yearly physical my gynecologist ran a routine blood panel. I didn’t even allow myself to hope for an answer—I couldn’t go there. So I was truly surprised when I got the phone call from her office a few days later: My blood levels showed I clearly had hypothyroidism. No borderline results, no further testing needed. I would be starting medication right away.
I fell back onto my bed, dissolving into tears. I cried because deep down I still hadn’t believed those doctors when they said my tests were normal. I had convinced myself that my problems were medical in nature. And finally, years later, I was being vindicated. But most of all I cried with relief. I was weary from the fight, and I was finally going to get some help—assistance that would not be yanked away from me without notice, a real solution that would help rid me of this problem for life. I wasn’t bitter at what I considered to be a misdiagnosis for all those years; I was just grateful that the wrong had been righted and I was going to benefit. Finally I was going to be fixed.
The nurse called to tell me about the medication she’d phoned in to the pharmacy. She explained that it would take a little while to see any real changes, but I would eventually notice my energy level increase, my hair loss subside, and, yes, some weight loss. I choked back tears, thanking her profusely before heading out right away to pick up the medicine. I didn’t want to waste any more time.
After taking the medication for two weeks, I didn’t notice any improvement. Hair was still clogging the shower drain, my energy was almost nil, and I was just as heavy as I’d been before. I called the nurse, and she assured me that the pills would work; I just needed to give it more time. I was starting to worry a little, but I quickly brushed those concerns aside. Don’t do this to yourself, Jennifer, I said. This is the break you need.
For once, let yourself off the hook. Enjoy!
Sadly, it wasn’t what I’d hoped for. Two months went by, and there was no change. I went to see the doctor, and she was stumped. She agreed I should have seen an improvement by then, so she increased the dosage. I waited for signs of improvement, but they didn’t come. A new blood test showed the higher dosage was too much, and the doctor had to dial back my medication. The blood work did verify that my thyroid was being helped by the medicine; the pills were working. But my symptoms were as bad as ever, and now there was no way of knowing if they would ever be helped.
I truly didn’t know what I was supposed to do with this latest failure. Again all I could think of was how the medication was supposed to help me lose weight and stop the hair loss. If it wasn’t doing that, then why take it? I was angry and I was bitter … and I stopped taking the medication. What was the point? It was just empty promises to me, and I was done.
In later years, during my pregnancies, I’d read about the importance of taking medication for hypothyroidism and how if you didn’t, you could put the baby at risk. So I took the medicine religiously, every day for nine months, with both pregnancies. While the weight loss wasn’t a factor, I noticed my hair loss did not improve, further convincing me that the medication wasn’t doing me any good. As soon as I had the babies, I stopped taking it.
Any reasonable person would ask why I stopped the medication. Sure, there was no physical evidence it was helping me, but there also weren’t any negative side effects. Why not do what my doctor asked and just take the stupid pill? I really have no explanation for this—it makes complete sense that I shouldn’t go off on my own and make these decisions without any factual basis. I just didn’t want to take them—having to take a pill every day made me feel like I was sick. I knew there was something wrong with me, for sure, but if I were going to have to take maintenance drugs, then I would have to see a physical benefit. Period.
In 2007, when my health was reaching a critical point, I had a doctor question me about my latest blood work. “Are you taking your Synthroid?” she asked. “Because your levels are really low.”
Usually I would just make up a lame excuse, not wanting to admit to a doctor some of my rogue ways of thinking. But this time I was full-on depressed, and just jaded at the whole medical community. “No, I don’t take it,” I said bluntly. “It doesn’t do me any good.”
She looked baffled. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had to convince someone to take their thyroid medication. Usually women are thrilled to hear there’s a problem and a solution.”
I snorted. Been there, done that. I had tons of problems, and I was starting to be convinced there was no cure.
Health was hardly ever my focus. And when it was, I was usually disappointed in the outcome, as with the whole thyroid situation. I just wanted things to be black-and-white—if there was a problem, I wanted a cure. Period. No gray areas. No let’s try this, let’s see if that works. I guess I didn’t have patience for any of it, which is pretty ridiculous, seeing how I’d been morbidly obese for years. Why hadn’t I lost patience with that? Stubbornly, I dwelled on all the emotional issues, as well as the problems with my appearance, that my weight gain had brought on, and I did not devote enough time to the toll it was taking on my physical well-being.
That slowly started to change once I had children. And it didn’t change by choice, but out of necessity: For me, being pregnant meant I could no longer ignore my physical problems.
When I first found out we were having a baby, I was ecstatic. Michael and I had waited for so long, watched so many friends and family members become parents, welcoming new additions. Finally it was our turn. Sure, I would have liked to be thinner; as it was, I was still very heavy when I became pregnant with my daughter, Emma. But I had just lost a lot of weight, and I was in a pretty good place emotionally. I was coming off the daily torture that is binge eating, and I was starting to have more natural, realistic thoughts when it came to what went into my mouth. Yes, I still ate too much, and too many of the wrong foods, but hey! I was pregnant! I was with child. That’s license, right? For the first time in really my whole life, I ate without guilt. I didn’t beat myself up with every indulgence, and that was so liberating. I could go through my days feeling good about myself and my situation, something that was so rare for me, I hardly knew what to do with it. And because I was in a good place, because I gave myself a break, I didn’t binge. I never once overstuffed myself with food, making frantic promises to do better the next day. I didn’t have to live under that threat umbrella. I was free.
All of that soon came to a screeching halt.
On the day I went in for my glucose test, where they determine if you’re suffering from gestational diabetes, I clearly had no clue. I’d been at work all day and thought the hour-long drive to the doctor’s office was the perfect time to drink a nice cold twenty-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew. Um … hello? Blood glucose test? Sugar? Probably not a good idea! Still, it wasn’t like they told me to fast or anything, and I figured I should go about my normal routine. I was still drinking one soda a day, and I didn’t think much about it.
I flunked the test.
It was only then that I truly considered the possibility of diabetes. Sure, this was gestational diabetes, a condition that would likely go away once my pregnancy was complete. But until then I would have to do all kinds of special things to monitor my health and that of my baby. Plus, having gestational diabetes makes you more prone to develop the disease later in life.
I was devastated. Gone was the liberating feeling I’d had about eating; now I would have to worry over every little thing that went into my mouth. I’d have to monitor my blood sugar levels by sticking myself with a needle every day. And I would a
gonize about my unborn baby’s health.
Not how I envisioned my pregnancy.
I had a really hard time following the diet plan. My limited palate made it hard for me to find good foods to eat—ones that I actually liked. On a good day I was a carb-obsessed freak: breads, chips, sodas, and so on. And we already know how I felt about sugar—it deserved its own level on my personal food pyramid. This diet, however, called for no sugar and low carbs. For a person who’d gained more than 150 pounds because she couldn’t control her urges to overeat, and to eat the wrong foods, it was quite a lot to ask. How was I ever going to do this?
Slowly, believe it or not, I made progress. I learned to eat hamburgers without buns. I skipped the fries and (most of) the sodas, opting instead to snack on nuts and cheese and to drink water. Of course I found ways to cheat. I promised myself that if I was good all week, I could have whatever I wanted for dinner on Saturday, for example. I also got the hang of using the needle to check my blood sugar, and I learned to use that to my eating advantage. I kept a food diary and learned what foods made my blood sugar rise and what foods I could get away with eating. I found that if I simply scraped the toppings off of a piece of pizza without eating the crust, I was fine—or if I waited until the early evening to give in to my craving for soda, my blood sugar wasn’t so bad. I was very disciplined about finding what worked, and it paid off. My doctor was pleased with my sugar levels and with the baby’s growth. My fear began to subside, and I found an inner peace with doing what was best for my baby.
Looking back, I am proud that I was able to step up for Emma’s sake. I’d always hoped somewhere deep within me, willpower did in fact exist, and here I had some proof. But I’m a little sad that it took pregnancy for me to have the strength to finally do what was necessary. I thought my baby’s health was worth a sacrifice, but I wasn’t willing to give up things in order to improve my own well-being. What did that say about my self-esteem, my self-worth?
In the end, the gestational diabetes all but went away. My blood sugar levels stabilized, meaning I no longer had to check them daily. Emma was a robust eight pounds when she was born, perfectly healthy and normal. Getting to hold her for the first time, and seeing for myself that she was okay, I felt like I dodged a major bullet. And I was ready to indulge. I told my dad I would do anything for a Mountain Dew, and he was happy to oblige, racing to the snack machine down the hall from my hospital room. Emma was only a couple hours old, and I drank that twenty-ounce soda in what seemed like three long sips. Nothing ever tasted so good.
When Emma was about six weeks old, I went in for a follow-up with my obstetrician, and she ran tests to see if the diabetes was definitely gone. When the results came back that it was, I was so relieved. I vowed I would never, ever have to deal with that again, and I really felt as though I was on my way. Having Emma and manufacturing breast milk was having a big effect on me: I’d dropped about thirty pounds in a month. Amazingly, I still didn’t feel the need to binge eat—I hadn’t returned to my bad habits. I was finally starting to feel good about my weight-loss prospects. My doctor warned me that with a second pregnancy I would almost assuredly develop gestational diabetes, but I shrugged it off. I was going to get the weight off before any other pregnancies, so that wouldn’t be a factor.
I’m not quite sure where it went wrong. I should have just gone back to see the bariatric doctor and resumed the phentermine to lose the rest of the weight. But I’d decided not to go back to work full-time and took a huge pay cut. I didn’t think I could afford the medication and the doctor visits. Not to mention that the doctor’s office was near my work, more than an hour away from my house. I couldn’t make that commute with a newborn. Plus, I’d really convinced myself that I was now ready to do it on my own. Hadn’t I stepped up to the plate with the diabetic diet? Somehow I’d found the willpower to do what I needed to do … I just needed to find that motivation again.
But find it, I could not. I wanted to start exercising again, but as with any newborn, Emma’s sleeping was so unpredictable that I found myself too tired most of the time to do much of anything. I was stressed, trying to work from home and still make a difference at my job and trying to get the whole mothering thing down in a way that was beneficial to both my child and me. How did I usually deal with stress? This time was no different—I turned to food, slowly allowing in all the temptations I’d gotten rid of while I was pregnant. When Emma wouldn’t stop screaming, I’d put her in the car—the ride soothed her to sleep—and the next thing I knew, I was at the drive-thru window. In no time my soda habit kicked back in, and I was back to drinking several Mountain Dews or Cokes a day. Predictably, the weight slowly piled on again. Of course that was when the deal making started, which began the binge-eating-and-regret cycle. I was right back to where I had been, and this time I was harder on myself than ever before. How could I not have learned my lesson after all this time, after all I’d been through? It now occurred to me that the implications were far more serious: I had a child to consider, and my health was very much an issue. This was no longer about wanting to wear jeans again or being an on-air reporter. This was about being around to see Emma grow up.
I could always count on some illogical thinking to come into play, and this time it did, too. Michael and I knew we wanted another child, just one sibling for Emma. In the back of my mind, I wanted to see how normal sibling relationships were supposed to work: bickering, yes; daily cruelty, no. I wasn’t getting any younger, and I knew that I would need to go back to work full-time at some point. When Emma was almost a year old, we decided to get pregnant again.
It didn’t happen the first time, this go-round.
It happened on the second try.
We announced it to our families at Emma’s first birthday party. They were really surprised, and my mom, in particular, was worried. Two small children would be such a handful. Plus there were health concerns. I was heavier now than I was when I got pregnant with Emma. I was sure to develop gestational diabetes again. Would I be able to keep it at bay once more?
Again, illogical thinking on my part. Of course I’d be okay! I told myself. I did it the first time, didn’t I? When it came to my baby’s health, I was sure that I had what it took to do what I needed to do, period. I wasn’t too worried at all.
From the get-go, this pregnancy was far different than with Emma. I had terrible morning sickness—I was nauseated all the time, and smells were my worst enemy. I could barely be around Michael as he ate his breakfast or changed Emma’s messy diaper without running for the toilet. This went on for months, and it was debilitating. I was trying to take care of a toddler, I was working long hours from home, and I was trying to stay healthy, but it was too hard. The more I tried to avoid sugar, the more I craved it—and it seemed like the only thing that made me feel better, the only thing my body would tolerate. Nothing like a fizzy drink to calm down your tummy! I knew I was in trouble, but I didn’t know how to stop.
I had to have the blood glucose test early this time, and of course I failed it miserably. I had gestational diabetes again, and I had to go back on the diabetic diet. I halfheartedly pulled out my old food diaries, once more employing the strategies that had worked so well for me with my first pregnancy. Only now it wasn’t working. Foods that were okay for me to eat last time made my blood sugar soar this go-round. With my limited palate, I had very few choices, and I was always struggling to find something that was good for me to eat, that I liked, and that wouldn’t make me sick. Every single day was a struggle, and I was miserable. The more desperate I became, the more I seemed to fail. I couldn’t get a grip, couldn’t pull it together. I was drinking tons of soda and eating carbs—all things that were bad for the baby and me. On the days I managed to do well and stick to the diet, my blood sugar numbers remained high. So I figured, What is the point? Why “be good” if it isn’t working? I’d find myself drinking all the soda and eating all the bread I wanted, vowing I would do better the next day. My perverse binge-an
d-regret cycle had penetrated my pregnancy, and I didn’t just feel sorry for myself—I was scared to death. My baby’s health was on the line, and I felt powerless to do anything about it.
When I was about seven months pregnant, I got the news I had been dreading: I had to go on daily insulin shots. I swear, I wanted to run right out of that doctor’s office and pretend I’d never heard those words. And if it was just my health at risk, I most certainly would have done so. But I knew that my baby’s well-being was at stake. I had no choice: I had to do whatever it took to make sure he was healthy. I reluctantly attended a session with the diabetic nurse, learning how to measure the insulin into the syringe and how to give myself the shots in my thigh. Gathering my supplies, I wondered if I could get any lower than I was at that moment.
I had to check my blood sugar four times a day, and I had to give myself injections after each meal. With every shot I felt like such a failure, as if I’d done this to myself and to my child. I became really depressed, unable to believe that I’d actually let things reach this point. On my better days, I told myself that it would all be over soon; once the baby was born, I wouldn’t have to do the shots anymore—I could start to get my life back. I never thought about the long-term health implications; I simply couldn’t allow myself to go there.
I was increasingly worried about my baby’s size. We’ve all read stories about big babies at birth, seen the television news stories about the fourteen-pound newborn. I started to have nightmares that I was in the hospital when a nurse hands me a five-year-old to take home. I so didn’t want to be that mother, and with good reason: Big babies have a lot of health issues. Because my diabetes was not going away, I already knew Eli would have health concerns at birth. He’d have to go to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) so they could monitor his blood sugar, making sure it went down once he was separated from me. That was so hard to contemplate—that my child would need special care because of my inability to take care of myself. I wallowed in self-pity and fear.
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