I would be a terrible junkie. No one can find my veins.
“They’re veeeeerrrry deep,” growled the frustrated phlebotomist.
I’m in the middle of The Three Hour Glucose Torture Experiment wherein I may NOT have water and have already been poked with needles five times. I will likely have just two more needle sticks now that they called in The Big Gun from the lab to deal with me.
Veeeeerrrrry deep veins.
Turns out, I may have gestational diabetes after all! Not everyone would call that a cause for celebration, but I do. Gestational diabetes is a reasonable excuse for the extra amniotic fluid I’m making. It makes sense. I’m of “advanced maternal age.” It is my fourth pregnancy. I’m fat. I come from a long line of diabetics. (You know how people with the last name Smith were likely called that because they were blacksmiths? My family name is probably another word for diabetic. And if you go back far enough, before last names even existed, my family heritage would likely be traced to someone called Joan the Diabetic.) The great thing about gestational diabetes is, it can be controlled. And that’s much better than some fetal issue that results in the death of my child, which is what I’ve been fearing above anything else.
That fear is still in the back of my mind. But it’s toned down from the anxiety attack proportions it had ballooned to over the weekend.
Gestational diabetes is perfect for me. It’s my fault! And feeling guilty is really my wheelhouse. It’s where I do my best work.
Tomorrow I will see the specialist from Akron Children’s Hospital. I will get an in-depth ultrasound and they will tell me Jackson is perfectly healthy. (This is called positive thinking.)
Meanwhile, I’m feeling pretty great about the man I’m married to. He has a way of making me feel like everything will be okay. I’m so glad I have a Dave. (Everyone should have one.)(But not mine. Everyone should get their own.)