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Pour some glucose on me

Written by: Rachel February 02 2012 Man, this pregancy is whizzing past. Like, wasn't it just yesterday that Iwas in slack-jawed shock about the fact that I was going to have a third kid? Oh wait, that was yesterday. This week I've hit the 26-week mark, and that means I'm approximately 14 days away from...

Written by: Rachel

Man, this pregancy is whizzing past. Like, wasn't it just yesterday that Iwas in slack-jawed shock about the fact that I was going to have a third kid? Oh wait, that was yesterday.

This week I've hit the 26-week mark, and that means I'm approximately 14 days away from the third trimester. Four. Teen. Days. That's like, not a lot of days. And it also means I'm ripe for shooting up with pure sugar and poking with a needle to make sure Idon't have Ye Olde Gestational Diabeetus. (Thank you Wilford Brimley.) Here's how that all went down at the OB/GYN farm:


Ah, the waiting room. My home away from home.

I go to check in for my appointment and I'm early, which has never happened before, ever, in all of my three pregnancies (or any of my dentist/eye/general practictioner apppointments in my entire life). Ithink the receptionists like to mess with the patients, though, and the clocks by the sign in sheet always read at least seven minutes faster than the clock in my car did when I exited it 30 seconds before Iwalked in the door. Isign my name, write down my check-in time, supress the urge to add an exclamation point after it (because BREAKINGNEWS—IWASEARLY! FILMAT11) flash my smile, and settle in for the long winter's wait.

Finally 30 minutes later I'm called back and a smiley nurse marches me straight to the scale, which is in the middle of the common area where all the other patients are being blood pressured and pricked and questioned. Iput down my bag and reluctantly step on, peering through one eye at the number that materializes. “SEVEN HUNDREDANDFIFTY-TWO POUNDS,” she yells out to the second nurse recording the data. (OK, she didn't yell. But she might as well have, for as public as it feels to get weighed in the middle of a crowded room. Also, I might be exaggerating the weight a little bit. But again:INTHEMIDDLEOFACROWDEDROOM. I am not a fan.) I ask to see my weight from last time, because Idon't remember it-slash-have blocked it from my mind. When she looks at it she sucks air through her teeth disapprovingly. “Oooh. Well, you're wearing boots today.That's probably adding some pounds on there.”Nice try, lady nurse, but these boots are barely a half a pound, and besides, Iwas wearing them last time I stood on that scale.

With a sigh I just hold out my hand for the pee cup.


No, YOUtook a picture in the OB office bathroom.

Peeing into a cup—is there anything less dignified? And without going into detail (you're welcome!), it becomes exponentially less dignified after a child has exited your body. It's just a really specific target, is all I'm saying. And then you have to put it in that little tiny door with the scary BIOHAZARD sticker on it for it to be whisked away by leprechauns. What it's like to be on the other side of that door, I can only imagine. It's a magical pee-producing portal! Arotating smorgasboard of liquid delight! Iharbor a secret fear that one day I will open it to find a face that yells “BOO!” and then laughs maniacally. Actually, that would be a pretty awesome April Fools joke, now that I think about it.

I deposit my specimen into the (face-free) door and leave to find smiley nurse waiting on me with a plastic bottle of fruit-punch delight. It's sugar go time. For a standard gestational diabetes test, you're required to drink the entire faux Kool Aid presented to you in less than five minutes, after which they start a timer to precisely time an hour's wait so that they can draw your blood exactly then to see if all the good sugar-regulating juju has kicked into your bloodstream like it should and not left any ruffians around to wreak havoc on all your systems, diabetes-style. Ithrow back the first sip like it's water and even chug a bit, thinking I'll have it all down in less than a minute. But then Ilower the bottle to pause before the next drink and realize, oh. Nope. Five minutes is necessary. This stuff is gross.

It's like a mixture of Powerade and cough syrup, with a hint of carbonation thrown in. Plus, this time I did not score a refrigerated drink, meaning it was nice and tepid. Things got hairy. But Iperservered!With a lot of grimacing and one or two blechs. Because I am 12 years old. Then I am given my timer and shuttled into the exam room, where I hop on the table to wait some more.


Same legs, different floor.

When the doctor comes in a while later, we have just a brief visit. She listens to the whoosha-whoosha of the baby's heartbeat, which she locates on the underside of my belly, indicating that he's head down (High five tiny dude! Head down is where it's at!), stretches a measuring tape across my girth to determine if I'm on target with bumpage size, asks if Ihave any concerns (Yes. I feel increasingly pregnant. What can I do about this?), reminds me of the practice's meet and greet at the hospital on February 14th (So romantic, right?) and then takes her leave with a handshake and a nod.

Back in the waiting room, timer in hand, Isit and count down the minutes with sugar coursing through my veins, watching a precocious 5- or 6-year old girl walk around to ask every person parked in a chair, “Do you have any kids' magazines?” and then sigh dramatically after each one says no. I shift my weight. Pick up a magazine. Put it down. Pick up another one. Feel like running a marathon. Feel like barfing. Feel like I will never eat or drink anything fruit punch-flavored ever again as long as Ilive.

And then:TIME!I go back and they rubber band my arm, I squeeze a ball, they drain my veins, cotton ball and bandage me up, and then I'm free. And a little hyper, as evidenced by the slightly-too-chipper-and-TMI-filled conversation I have with the secretary at checkout. With a note that says they'll call me to give me my results, Ileave, feeling pretty good about how I scored on my test. Which of course, is complete baloney. I'm just hoping for this:


Image courtesy of Pregnant Chicken, who is hilarious.

I point my car in the direction of the daycare, slip on my shades, and sing at the top of my glucose-riddled lungs all the way down the road to pick up Noah and Rosie, whom almost immediately ask me to please stop it already.

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