The gestational
diabetes test is a shame – not because it’s a bullshit test[1]
that requires a pregnant woman to needlessly suffer[2]
– but because it comes during this magical time in your pregnancy[3]. This time
when, all of a sudden, the stars begin to align. The nausea has (almost
totally) dissipated. You’re back to waking only once or twice a night to pee,
rather than the 9-12 times of yore. You’ve begun to feel much more like a human
being (albeit rounder), rather than the
emotional-sexless-ravenous-nauseated-train-wreck of trimesters pasts. You’re
even starting to appear pregnant in a way that says glowing! rather than in a way that says I-just-ate-several-burritos-and-need-to-unbutton completely-take-off-my-pants.
What I mean to say is that, at least for me, starting around five months,
things started to feel pretty good. Sure, there was the occasional nighttime
leg cramp – oh, the shrillness of my screams! – and my first Braxton-Hicks
experience – must-stop-moving-and-stand-VERY-VERY-STILL
– and heartburn, obviously and always. But overall, I was feeling good. Like, almost really good.
That is, until
<drums!> the
test to end all tests: THE. GREAT. GLUCOSE. CHALLENGE.
Simply put, the
gestational diabetes test boils down to this:
one part 12 hour
fast + one part 2 hour test + one horrendous bottle of
orange-fizzy-cough-syrup-that-a-well-meaning-phlebotomist-will-assure-you-tastes-just-like-gatorade! + a million
needle sticks + one seriously overdramatic, dizzy and nauseated pregnant lady –
I’m creating a human life here, people!
= an entire morning of unfettered joy/shiny happy people dancing/bliss[4]!
[Spoiler alert:
here’s where I make it seem so-unsimple
and so-very-overdramatic].
When I arrived
at the office, the woman at the front desk, searching for the right word and at
first not realizing the depths of her well-placed irony, asked me “did you starve?” before correcting
herself and confirming that I fasted.
I probably laughed too hard/too long/too
maniacally at the accuracy of her initial inquiry. Because yeah. I starved.
Because I am six months pregnant and not eating for AN ENTIRE TWELVE HOURS is basically state sanctioned torture. Now
checked in, it was time for my first blood letting.
I have to admit,
at this point in my life, I thought I was an old pro. Yeah, I have a history of
blood-draw-induced-fainting
but I really thought that the infertility rollercoaster had shed me of my bad
habit. That the incredibly efficient resident blood-letter in the infertility
clinic had restored in me a confidence, trust and ease. I mean, shucks, by the
end of my infertility clinic tenure, I wasn’t even lying down anymore. I was sitting! Like a person! (With my eyes
closed, tightly wringing my hands and in great terror).
All of this is
to say that my backslide into blood-drawing-mediocrity was that much harder to
swallow. But let me not be the only one to blame: this blood-drawer was not
exactly a match made in heaven. When I warned her that I had fainted in the
past[5],
she grew immediately wary – of both me and her own ability. Points for instilling
confidence? Check! During the first blood draw, she announced that “blood is
going back in your arm and under your skin, hmmm”.
To round things out, she removed the needle and confirmed what I was already
feeling “there’s a lot of blood still coming out!” Super. Let’s all just close
our eyes and go to our happy place…
Luckily, blood
draw number one was followed by my first refreshment of the morning. A Sunny D size bottle of NOTHING-BUT-ORANGE-SUGAR[6].
After dry heaving/gulping it down, I wandered aimlessly into the waiting room
where, in a fit of nausea and sudden post-fasting-sugar-rush, it’s possible
that I may have taken a brief nap.
An hour later,
blood draw number two and an entire hour
after that, the hat trick: blood draw number three. Let’s just cut to the
chase. Blood draw number three was a bust: I fainted <takes bow> and the
tech only managed to eek out half a tube. She assured me that it would suffice.
And I, even in my delirious state, nodded in agreement, though DEEPLY TERRIFIED of having to repeat
this whole affair again if we were wrong.
The rest of the
day is something of a blur. I stumbled in to work where I proceeded to try to
eat like a ravenous-but-still-nauseated human being, while alternately dazed in
debilitating a kind of head-on-desk-sugar-stupor. It was all very dramatic –
and TOTALLY NOT A BIG DEAL IN THE SCHEME OF THINGS. But I’m never one to
downplay a good bloodletting. Plus, I am again reminded how charming it is to
have the forearms of a heroin addict. Thankfully this particular shade of
purple-blue compliments many of my outfits.
*Fingers crossed
that I don’t actually have
gestational diabetes.* Because that might actually be kind of a bummer.
[1] Totally not licensed to play a doctor.
Not even on the internet. So let me be clear: the gestational diabetes test is
REALLY IMPORTANT. Now I will ceaselessly complain about it.
[2] I am nothing if not overdramatic.
[3] A funny thing happens when you Google
image search “pregnancy magic.” No, seriously, watch that. I’ll wait.
<patiently waiting>.
[4] This just felt… right?
[5] Mistake number one.
[6] This woman knows what’s up.
