At around six and a half months pregnant, they test for gestational diabetes by having you drink something resembling orange soda. Then they draw blood. As the nurse was weighing me today at my doctor’s appointment (161.5 lbs.), I mentioned to her that I’d had my glucose levels tested the other day. “The results should be in,” I began to say. But she was shaking her head, indicating she already knew, before I finished my sentence. I could tell, before the words came from her mouth, that it wasn’t good. “Yeah, about that…”
“You flunked,” my doctor said. It actually sounded kind coming from his mouth. It’s why I like him so much; he never scares me. "Your chances of having gestational diabetes are higher when you carry twins because of a hormone secreted by the placenta. And you’ve got two placentas, so…" I scored a 146. "Anything over 140 is failing." Shit. I can’t even study for tests like this, and tomorrow I have to take another one. That test is called the three-hour glucose test, but it lasts all day. I cannot eat or drink anything after 8pm tonight. At 8am, I’ll need to be at the clinic for my first of FOUR blood withdrawals. Then I drink the soda again. An hour later, they draw blood again. And then again, after another hour. And then again, after yet another hour. The beauty in all of this: I faint when I give blood. Mostly it’s fear. I’ve discussed this before. So having to do this is kind of a nightmare for me. If they have to stick me, fresh, each time, I might throw a small fit. I’ll most certainly whine. I know I’m having babies, that I need to grow the hell up, but I’m still a baby afraid of the needle. Actually, it’s not the needle. It’s the digging once they’re in there. It’s the lady who says, “sorry, I need to try again.” That is the shit I cannot handle. It’s so damn invasive. If I flunk this second test, it means I have gestational diabetes, which will suck the big fat hairy moose cock. Because it’s damn hard to gain enough weight for twins when monitoring my sugars and carbs. Not to mention the fact that I could really never again eat cow and be perfectly fine. We’ll see what happens. Tomorrow I’ll be at the clinic all day, getting the blood removed from my sausage arms. Wish me luck. And hey, at least I can come home to clean slippers, a new plush robe, and lots of Aveda products: my version of a pig in a blanket.