Aaah....Sugar, Sugar

If you've read the previous post by my dear husband (and if you haven't, do so immediately), you know that he can make any situation funny. Too bad he wasn't with me for my 30 week appointment. The whole fiasco actually began at home 45 minutes before my appointment time when, after fasting since midnight, I got to drink an entire bottle of Sunkist-flavored glucose. Then I got to hop in the car and be driven down Overton Road to 280 then to Brookwood Hospital. In case you've never taken this route, please be advised that it presents the ideal conditions for severe motion sickness -- a constant serpentine route punctuated with hairpin curves and unexpected stop and go traffic -- I'm convinced the Army Corps of Engineers laid it out for just this purpose. Now try to imagine it from the passenger seat with your previously empty stomach constantly threatening to expel the huge amount of syrupy sweet orange gunk you just chugged in under a minute. And the day has just begun.

Immediately upon arrival, I informed them I was loaded up on glucose and ready for my finger stick. In the mean-time blood pressure (normal), weight (5 more pounds, just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic at this point). Finally, glucose level *dun, dun, DUN* 209. Instinctually, I know that isn't good, I'm not sure what it should be, but 209 just has an ominous look about it. Sure enough, it's supposed to be under 140. So I haven't failed the test in an "oops, missed it by that much" kind of way, but in more of a "shot down in a blaze of glory" style. I carry this little black cloud of information with me to the ultrasound room.

The ultrasound goes well in that all the babies' heartbeats look good, but they are now packed as tightly as sardines, and don't provide much of a show. From the looks of them, they are as ready for September 25 as I am. In case I failed to mention it before, this is the almost drop-dead, probably definite date of my c-section.

On to my consult with Dr. Robinette. In addition to confirming that I failed my 1-hour test "real good", he informs me that I have to come back for the three hour fasting glucose test. I opt to do it next day, just to get it over with. He then adds insult to injury by letting me know that I can now stop gaining weight. Not that I don't appreciate his permission to stop my uphill climb to morbid obesity, but what I would really like to know is HOW exactly I'm supposed to keep the pounds at bay. After all, I am on bedrest and burn approximately 3 calories per day. Maybe I'm supposed to start waving my arms around a lot, or aggressively kicking off the blankets three or four times a day. Points to ponder on my way home.

I arrive bright and shiny next day to complete my 3-hour ordeal. First they take a baseline blood sample from my arm -- no sweat, Miss Lida hits it first stick. Then I get to drink another truckload of syrupy-sweet, flat Sunkist drink. Mmmm...Mmmm. And so the wait begins. Some skinny girl has the only love seat staked out already. I immediately decide to hate her. I've brought a book, and attempt to read away the first hour. It's a little hard to concentrate because I'm so thirsty I can't think straight. I ask about some water, and am told I can't have it yet. Apparently water can throw off a glucose test. I'm really unclear on how this works, since I thought there was nothing in water but...well, water. They're all for the stuff on Weight Watchers. Maybe someone should tell them about this? At last, one hour down and the real fun begins.

I go for my second stick. One in my arm, much twisting in search of the vein -- no go. I point out a big vein on the inside of my wrist. This time she breaks out the butterfly -- this is a really thin needle attached to a tube which I now know represents real desperation on the part of most phlebotomists. Much sticking and twisting, and still not a drop. Apparently, I'm too dehydrated because of the aforementioned water embargo. Long story short, they track down a Dr. to place a hep-lock from which to do the remaining three draws. In the process, I bleed all over the cuff of my pants, and almost make some poor girl faint with dread over being next in line. Take a number, sister. If anybody's earned that kind of drama, it's me. At least they feel guilty enough to give me some ice chips and tell me I'm a real sweetheart. Good thing they haven't heard a word I've been thinking for the last hour.

Somewhere after hour two, skinny girl disappears, and I take over her loveseat. Only a hugely pregnant woman can accomplish the ugly sprawl in which I finished my final hour. Thankfully there was a really nice lady who is pregnant with twins sitting next to me. I give up pretending to read. I'm so hungry, none of the words make sense anyway. So we just talk about being pregnant, what we're naming our babies, and whether she's going to get a regular or a jumbo sized Frosty from Wendy's once she leaves. Finally, it's all over, and I leave looking like a poorly wrapped mummy from all the needle sticks. I resign myself to a diabetic diet and try to catalog all the low-carb food in the house. It's a short list.

Today, I received a call from Nurse Debbie telling me that the results of the 3-hour test were completely normal. I can't explain it, but am glad to hear it. I decide to celebrate with a bowl of ice cream. I always was a blaze of glory kind of girl.