My First F

Dear B.B.,

I failed the first glucose test.  In hindsight I feel like I was not prepared enough.  I needed a review to study but I’m being told that there is nothing I could have done to prevent or help this situation.  There must have been something that I did or didn’t do, though!  You mean gestational diabetes just tiptoes around every pregnant woman like the tapper in duck, duck, goose, and picks an unsuspecting goose?  It had to have been the ice cream sandwiches!  (And the mac n cheese, and the cinnamon toast crunch, and the Dove chocolates…)  But why didn’t someone tell me, “By the way, I understand that you are dry-heaving on the bathroom floor for extended periods of time, and the only thing that does not make chunks rush toward your facial cavities would be an ice cream sandwich, BUT you may be putting yourself and your unborn child at risk for complications…”  I might have put (some) of the junk food down!

When I got the message from Martha at the midwives office to call her back right away I knew it wasn’t a good sign.  I had been told that I wouldn’t hear anything if the tests came back at a reasonable level.  Martha proceeded to tell me that my glucose levels were slightly elevated and that it wasn’t anything that I failed at or did wrong, but she would have to schedule me for the more accurate 3-hour fasting glucose tolerance test.  I got the details and asked the questions.  First, no food after midnight before the test.  I would have to go into the hospital in the morning and drink more of the orange glucose syrup.  Sit at the hospital for an hour.  Get blood drawn.  Sit for two hours.  Get blood drawn again.  No eating.  Martha let me go to make the appointment.

I walked across the hallway at my school of employment to tell my principal that I would need a sub in the next week.  Instead I burst into tears and ugly cried where I couldn’t talk without snorting and gasping on my words.

Let me try to explain, besides the raging hormones, why I then cried fairly non-stop for the ensuing four hours.  Yes, even though Martha said I didn’t fail at something, I felt like I did.  That’s exactly what I felt like.  My illogical hormones kept crying out, “I messed up the baby already!”  I rubbed my belly and sniveled “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” over and over again.  I think that surrounded by amniotic fluid and bones will be the safest place your baby can ever be in their entire life.  If  you follow directions (I am VERY good at following directions) then it’s pretty hard to F up your kid while it’s in the womb.  Somehow I did that.  I stayed away from anything that might have the potential of listeria, was unpasteurized, had caffeine or alcohol in it.  No one told me to put down the ice cream!  In fact, I do believe it was encouraged!  Okay, not by the midwives, but by people who had had babies before.  I consider them professionals.  And allegedly it was not the ice cream that did this.  But, I don’t understand that.  Where did the sugar in my blood come from then?

I cried at school.  Tears dripped off my nose at the grocery store.  I let myself moan and wail while I rubbed my belly driving home.  I continued to sob while I explained to my husband that I had already managed to ruin our kid.

My husband logically (love him) listened to more information about the ordeal and stated the best truth to make the wimpering pause.  Mama, said he, my client, the 7 month pregnant crack and meth addict, is F-ing up her child.  You are not.

My sister followed up with genuine facts on the follow-up routine which really made gestational diabetes sound much more tame than the implications that surround the name.

So, I’m going to sleep now, and headed to the hospital with a tote bag of reading materials to get me through the torture tomorrow.  I am almost more nervous about how hungry I’m going to get while fasting.  Pregnant.  For about 11 hours.

Love you, BB.  Again, I’m sorry if I did anything wrong.

Mama B.

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