gestational diabetes + living within the French culture

dispatch from a day in hospital hell

For reasons unbeknownst to me, for this pregnancy, unlike the first, I was subjected to the abject oral glucose test.

Barely recovered from having caught the flu and having fasted the night before, I arrived at a laboratoire in Avon exhausted, before a needle was violently jabbed in my arm to draw an alarming amount of blood. Then, I had to drink an abominable fluorescent yellow liquid that contained 75 grams of sugar (!! [though two Cokes contain slightly more]). For the next two hours, I was confined to a tiny waiting room with a book, and then had blood drawn an hour afterward and then again at the two-hour mark.

If you know me, I’ve never even tasted Coca-Cola before. I am a salty person by nature, and felt even saltier when the results came back indicating that I indeed had gestational diabetes. Immediately, I was skeptical and found research online indicating the fallibility of the test and how a diagnosis may not even be helpful. Being sick can increase glucose levels, too. My midwife said nothing about the results, but when I went to the hospital at Fontainebleau for a mandatory inscription (I am planning a home birth but need to register at the hospital in case of transfer), the midwife there gave me the diagnosis, gave me a prescription for a blood glucose monitor, and mandated that I spend a day at the hospital for testing and workshops.

“You’ll be kept for eight to sixteen hours,” she told me. “Come having fasted, and all food will be provided.”

I can’t wait, I replied dryly in French. On the day I arrived with my kindle, journal and a book, after once again getting blood drawn and peeing in a cup, I was then shoved into a room with eight armchairs. In total we were seven; four pregnant women at various stages in pregnancy, lumped with three slightly more aged persons with type II diabetes. We were all instructed to test our blood levels with our monitors and then a nurse took our numbers before breakfast was served: two sad packets of dry, hard toast, two individually wrapped butter pats, a yogurt, and a piece of fruit, all to be washed down with a coffee or tea via instant powder packets. Inexplicably, there was a clear Duralex bowl with a spoon on my plastic platter. I asked for hot water in the paper cup I’d also received to get a strange glance before I realized that the glass bowl on my tray was already filled with hot water. Because I’m not French and did not grow up taking my tea or coffee in a bowl, I didn’t even perceive the water in there. I begrudgingly ate half the toast and the yogurt, even though normally I prefer something far more savory like eggs with chili oil in the mornings.

Cultural differences became more apparent throughout the day. After we broke our fast, a dietician came to talk to the group. We formed a circle of chairs like in group therapy and went through the food pyramid, receiving advice on what was and was not permitted when one had diabetes. Certain vegetables, like carrots, beets, and peas, were ill-advised, as were some fruits. Snacking between meals was verboten, as were sugary drinks and artificial sweeteners, much to the chagrin of an older man with bug-eyes. As we broached the milk, yogurt, and cheese group, the dietician asked the group, “who here is capable of eating their yogurt without any added sugar or jam?”

Everyone replied at once, so the dietician made us answer, one by one. When it came to my turn, I said that I didn’t normally eat yogurt.

“What? What do you eat for dairy, then?” The woman looked at me, shocked.

“Uh… tofu, I guess?”

Her shock turned into horror. “But, you know that tofu, all soy products are forbidden for pregnant women! The soy impacts the hormones!”

I was too shocked to counter her claim — like tell that to the millions of women in China who eat soy products during pregnancy. I was then advised to drink some brand of mineral water with added calcium, and then the conversation moved on. Another pregnant woman then raised the question of her vape.

“Since it’s flavored… I was wondering, is there sugar in there?”

“No,” the dietician shook her head. “No sugar, you’re fine.”

Tofu, forbidden. Vaping, sure. The absurdity of the day continued. Two hours painfully passed and then lunch was eventually served half-past noon. The group moved to the cafeteria-style dining tables, and we were randomly given a meal of either fish, meat, or a vegetarian omelette because the French hate tofu. My stomach was grumbling and I was given the meat platter; a salad of green lettuce with mustard dressing, a mysterious brown ball of ground animal flesh served with boiled potatoes, and ironically, the off-limit vegetables of carrots and peas. Another plain yogurt was there as dessert this time.

To my surprise, every single person finished their plate, leaving it completely clean. Like my husband, I guess everyone in France is educated to finish their given plate of food regardless if they like it or not. I tried to subtly throw the rest of my food out in the garbage without the others noticing afterward.

Halfway through the meal, the bugged-eye man complained that if his food wasn’t sweetened, he “barely tasted anything.”

“You can always add some hot sauce!” I said to him. His eyes bulged even more.

“Oh no, above all, anything but that,” he replied, before adding, “Though I’ve heard there are peppers that aren’t spicy!”

I sighed, regretting that I hadn’t bought my own hot sauce. I forgot that the French hate spice, too. After more pricking of the fingers and lunch, a psychologist came to talk to the group. I began zoning out the moment she said that depression was a chemical imbalance in the brain, an oft-repeated sentence that actually has no real scientific backing. We were then given instructions on how to give ourselves insulin shots, if necessary. Two hours after lunch I was called in to see the doctor, who said that my blood results were fine. I just had to monitor my blood sugar levels daily with my monitoring device — which sends my results automatically to the team of nurses at the hospital — until I give birth.

I tried to question the validity of the diagnosis — “I had the flu!” I protested, but she just shook her head at me. It’s very French never to question authority and I can only assume, for figures in positions of authority, to never question themselves. I went back home fairly annoyed I’d wasted a day, but also with a reinforced feeling that I am living in a culture that is not at all my own.

This brings me to the idea of raising a “third culture kid",” or a child “raised in one or several cultures that are not the same as that of your parents, or the rest of your family.” Technically, I am a third culture kid myself, since both of my parents immigrated to the US from Taiwan. But what does it mean to raise a kid in a culture that isn’t your own, while attempting to impart not one, but two other cultures? And a “mixed-race” kid at that?

If you’re raising a third-culture or mixed-race kid, I’d love to hear your thoughts. More on that next time… for now, I have to go and prick my finger to test a drop of blood.