I took the 3-hr glucose tolerance test last week and it was torture. I laid on a cot in the clinic for over 3 hrs fighting the urge to vomit up the horrendous 100-g glucose orange sludge. And then this morning I got word that I failed spectacularly. Only my fasting and 3-hr levels were normal; it only takes 2 out of 4 abnormal values to declare gestational diabetes. And my 2 abnormals were out-of-the-park abnormal. So the kind nurse instructed me to sign up for some all-day class on how to eat whole grains and how to poke your finger to test blood sugars and what diabetes is or whatever and the thought of sweating through such a thing that is beneath even my first-year biology course education made me stabby. So I pulled rank and informed her that I hold a biomedical doctorate from a top-10 medical school and worked my way through college as a nurse aide drawing blood and doing finger sticks (in addition to taking blood pressures and emptying bed pans) and now consult for a major pharma company on, among other things, diabetes therapy protocols and health outcomes. Therefore I will be taking no such class and instead just want to know if there's a specific glucometer they want me to use, how many hours postprandial they want me to test, what reference values they want me to use, and when/whom to call for abnormal results. I also politely reminded her that we drew thyroid labs weeks ago and if they indicate that the synthroid my RE put me on during IVF cycling is still suppressing my TSH, then I can stop taking that annoying little pill every day. I want a paycheck for my own advocacy 'cause it appears I'm the only one working hard at it.
So I'm depressed about this, since it means mandatory OCD over every meal and every snack (when nausea is STILL a goddamned problem for me, not to mention the chronic bowel obstruction I have to contend with every day -- thanks, progresterone! hcg! estrogen!). It means stabbing my fingers a minimum of three times daily to check blood glucose levels. It means higher risk of induction and/or C-section. Fuck me sideways, y'all. Just when I thought the universe was done laughing at me, here we are. I also need to plan for rapid weight loss after I'm cleared at my 6-wk postpartum check since GD increases risk (through correlation, not necessarily mechanism of action) for a later diagnosis of type 2 diabetes. I will probably have to go through rounds of postpartum testing to rule this out. Fucking YAY!
And KB has been gone on his man-trip to Vegas since Friday, so all this great news comes when I am already on edge. My sister is here but being a colossal pain the ass. It's just crushing to her to not be the center of attention or to win the Who Has the Worst Ailments game, so she has suddenly developed some kind of generalized malaise and just can't be bothered to help much these last couple of days. Like, back of the hand to the forehead, damsel-in-distress, in need of smelling salts, Oscar-worthy acting. She lays in bed (which is an air mattress in the family room) awake, listening to me struggle to get Jackson up and ready in the morning with him crying and me doubled over. And just lays there. Because she's so ill, everybody. Woe. So I've been contending with a cranky toddler who's asking where Daddy is every day and wants to be held all the time and I'm not sleeping more than 2-3 hrs per night and just wishing this week was over. The end.
Although, I do have a therapy appointment Wednesday that should help. Sometimes it's refreshing to cry your fucking eyes out to a sympathetic person, even if you're paying them. And I booked a day of haircut and pedicure and in-room dining at a downtown hotel for Thursday night and Friday morning, because fuck it. I probably won't get any better sleep but at least I can have solitude. And some low-carb bullshit meal from the menu.
Pregnancy is so beautiful. *snort* But thankfully almost over. Just 7 weeks until I'm full-term. Please let spontaneous labor and a non-giant baby come through in the clutch.