In the wee hours of the morning this past Saturday, Scott and I drove to the hospital to waste away 4 hours of our lives while I made like a pin cushion and was poked. Luckily we came prepared with not only his iPhone stocked full of games, but we also brought travel Scrabble which I had picked up at a Starbucks during a road trip 5 years ago.
I was called into the outpatient lab where the first nurse, a sweet angel with a halo, wings and little cherubs flying around her took my fasting blood sugar first. She set the bar super high because I seriously didn’t feel a thing. Nada. Then I had to drink an entire bottle of the orange goo in under 5 minutes and go sit in the waiting room for the next hour. She told me to just walk right back in every hour for the next 3 hours to get poked and that I had first priority since it was timed. Whoopty yippers for me.
At first I felt normal, completely and utterly myself. But as our game of travel Scrabble got underway, I had a 15-minute-long uncontrollable laughing fit because of the fact that 3 of my letters in my tray spelled JUM. Seriously. Jum. At that point it was pretty clear that the sugar had hit me 🙂
My next 2 pokes over the next 2 hours were by a different woman, not as angelic as the first lady, but not too bad in the grand scheme of things. She alternated arms which was nice, so that was 2 pokes in the left and 1 in the right so far, and I went back out and sat for my last hour.
And for my final stick, I walked back into the lab and sat down. The awesomely wonderful beautiful painless nurse was in the back room with her back to me and there was grandpa…ancient, rickety, wobbly, shaky grandpa…stocking the boxes of gloves. I let him know that I was there for my last blood draw so he could let my angel know.
And that’s when it happened.
He walked up to me.
He pulled gauze and a roll of paper tape out of his pocket.
“No, no, no….” I thought.
He grabbed my hand and wiped down my ENTIRE forearm – wrist to elbow – with an alcohol swab. And no, it wasn’t the arm that had only been poked once, it was the one that had gotten it twice already.
I told him so.
I don’t think he heard me over the rattling of his own bones.
“This can’t be happening….”
He tied the tourniquet so tight I think I lost feeling in my pinky.
And then he did it.
He stuck me.
Lord, he stuck me hard.
And I shuddered.
And he officially became the reason to me that people cringe when they think about getting their blood drawn. He wrapped half of my freaking arm in that stupid paper tape like a cast and sent me on my way. Scott actually giggled when he saw it because it was so ridiculous.
So I survived. Barely. And I called my doctor’s office this morning for my test results….
The good news is my 3 sugar counts were normal so I do NOT have gestational diabetes! Woot woot! The bad news is that my fasting blood sugar count was elevated, so from now until baby comes – no white bread, white rice, white pasta, etc., and I have to watch my sugar which means no more orange juice! Poops.
I kinda wonder if my fasting blood sugar was high because of the 2 english muffins I had for dinner the night before.
Oh, and the granola bar.
And the other granola bar.
Um, and the graham crackers.
Maybe the girl scout cookies didn’t help much.
Seriously, you tell a pregnant woman 7 months along with the appetite of a shark that she can’t eat for 12 hours and she’s gonna stuff her face 5 mins before the fasting starts.
What, just me?
Meh, I never said there wasn’t a reason I now have to stretch out my underwear before I put it on.