I got the dreaded call. Though this
is my third pregnancy, I failed the one-hour glucose
test by three points. Three little points. I’d have to return to take the more
grueling three-hour version. I wish I could say that I took this news
gracefully, but you better believe I called back and begged and pleaded with
the nurse to let me retake the one-hour test (yes, I’m that girl). The nurse
wouldn’t budge. Ugh. She explained the test, which in a nutshell was that I
would have to drink a disgusting drink, wait in the office for three hours (no
leaving) and give blood all morning—oh yeah, after fasting for 12 hours while
PREGNANT. Not my idea of a good time.
I ate an extra helping at dinner
the night before the test, knowing that I’d have to fast all morning. Remembering
a Muslim friend of mine who fasted 10 hours a day all month for Ramadan, I felt
(slightly) guilty for pathetically complaining that I had to skip one measly
meal. After leaving the kids with the sitter, I hopped in my car and prayed I’d
pass.
The nurses all gave me
sympathetic looks of I’m sorry we had to
ask you back here to torture you, as I walked in the door, which I
certainly appreciated. The morning started with the first of what would be four
blood draws. After that, my friendly nurse handed me an even sweeter drink than
I had in the previous test. But she and I chatted and laughed as I choked it
down. I gave a rueful thumbs up to the nurses at the station as I lugged my bag
out to the waiting area. My stomach started revolting during that first hour,
but I managed to keep the drink down. Then every hour for three hours, my
sweet, chipper nurse came out, apologized, then jabbed me with yet another
needle and I would head back out to the waiting area. Three hours. One nasty
drink. Four blood draws.
But here’s what I didn’t account
for—three hours TO MYSELF. Oh my sweet Jesus, there was a beauty and silver
lining to this pain and inconvenience that I hadn’t taken into account. I sat
in silence. I wrote. I read. I had thoughts. It was beautiful. Honestly, by the
end of it, I was begging that nurse to take more of my blood if it meant I
could sit there guiltlessly for a few more hours.
By the end of the morning, I
actually felt refreshed. Like I had spent the morning at a spa instead of
chugging down foul sugar water and being stabbed several times over the course
of the morning.
Our sitter looked at me dubiously
as I bounced back home after allegedly giving blood four times on an empty
stomach. “It was rough,” I said.
Labels: motherhood, pregnancy
