All pregnant women are asked to perform a one-hour glucose test between 24 and 28 weeks; for me, that happened last week. It entailed showing up, non-fasting, drinking something that tasted like Gatorade, and waiting in the lobby for an hour before the phlebotomist drew my blood for review. The lab is really nice, complete with a leather recliner and blanket. I snagged that spot and proceeded to return calls I’d been neglecting to make. (Yup, I was that obnoxious person on the phone in the waiting room. Deal.) All in all, it was a decently pleasant experience. I mean, I got to sit.
The call from my OB’s office came at quite possibly the worst moment of my week. I was in the throes of filing a subpoena with the sheriff’s office to summon to court the person who hit and totaled our truck parked outside the house a few weeks ago. (Funny story: We’d owned the truck for less than a month, the perp didn’t have insurance, and has stopped returning our calls. Hilarity!) The process had me running up, down, and sideways through the county court building with Seabass in tow. He was being *extremely* good, but even a very well-behaved two-year-old is still a curious two-year-old. I swear, no electricity outlet in that building went uninspected.
“Hi Jaime, this is Gladys from the OB’s office.”
“Uh-oh, this can’t be good news,” I said, already knowing why she was calling.
“You didn’t pass your glucose test.”
“Hmm. Seabass, no! No licking the carpet! So, what does that mean?”
“That means you need to take another test.”
“Like what kind of test?”
[Pause] “You need to do a fasting three-hour test at the lab. And it needs to be within the next few days.”
[Seabass yelling “Mamamamamamamamamamamama” in the background.]
“You’re kidding me.”
The test itself sounded awful. But even worse, how would I handle childcare??? I couldn’t bring the untamable Seabass along for a three-hour wait. If I did, someone wouldn’t leave the building alive, and my bet would be on the fasting pregnant woman.
But Jake and I were able to work out a complex plan that is too boring to detail here. So here I sit, alone, back in the waiting room’s recliner, starving and cranky. And it’s only the first hour.
Did I mention that they’re taking my blood FOUR TIMES this morning? FASTING????
What does it all mean? Apparently I’m at risk for gestational diabetes, and frankly, I’m not too surprised. My skin, my bones, my ligaments, every part of me is stretched to the limit holding this sweet little giant girl. Even though my OB tells me I’m “right on track,” I know without a doubt that I am far larger than I was with Seabass at this point in the game. And yeah, I know everyone’s bigger the second time around. I’m talking A LOT bigger.
If I do, in fact, have gestational diabetes, but don’t follow the prescribed no-carb diet, I could end up giving birth to, like, a 15-pound baby.
There is actually a medical term for a “fat baby” at birth: macrosomia. And macrosomiatic babies don’t enter the world easily, as you can imagine. Oh geez. The thought of anything larger than the 9-pound Seabass swimming through my birth canal kind of makes me kinda gag.
End of post.
[THREE DAYS LATER]
Got the call. Fat baby, here we come.