I'd like to think that despite my on and off boo-hooing over my less than perfect figure, I'm a rather self-assured, confidant girl. Of course, what I'd like to think and what I really think don't always match...
Apparently, these past ten years of being less than perfect were really just a small bump in the road to the ultimate test: The Glucose Test. Most women experience this test after their 24th week of pregnancy. In other words, most women drink the disgusting, sickly sweet orange goo when they are at the height of the glowing 2nd trimester. They are no longer sick; no one has yet asked them if they are having twins. It's just a little break in their day where they get to sit on a comfy lounge chair and watch Rachael Ray with other pregnant women. Of course, as webmd states, " The test is generally given between the 24th and 28th week of pregnancy. If you have had gestational diabetes before, or if your health care provider is concerned about your risk of developing gestational diabetes, the test may be performed before the 13th week of pregnancy."
Who are these lovely ladies that must take the test before the 13th? Either woman that already had gestational diabetes and....me. 9 weeks pregnant and sick as a sorority girl after a frat party there I was drinking the disgusting orange Glocola. If that wasn't bad enough, I managed to fail test number one (where the Glocola has 50 g of glucose and you have to sit for one hour), and I had to take the dreaded test two: the THREE HOUR TEST where the Glucola has 100 g of glucose. There is nothing worse than drinking sugar when your morning sickness lasts morning, noon, and night. There is nothing worse than the nurse asking you over and over again if you are alright. And there is nothing worse than wasting three hours of your day in the doctors waiting room and then the rest of the day in bed, and then finding out...you passed the Test! I can tolerate glucose.
Did I ever have gestational diabetes? No. However, I'm, as my mother says, fluffy, so clearly, I must have diabetes.
When I called my doctors office to make my first appointment, I was informed that my doctor, whom I loved, was no longer delivering babies. Stupid medical malpractice suits...The secretary started listing other doctors that I might want to use. After a few moments, I interrupted her. "Um, I'm a bit, uh, chubby, and I need a doctor that will know how to handle it and will be NICE to me." The secretary pauses, takes a breath, and gives the name of a completely different doctor. Apparently, the 12 other doctors she listed can handle only skinny women with small chests and no butts. My new doctor is a very tall African American woman who tells me to chill out, and then shrugs her shoulders and says, "I guess you shouldn't really gain more than 10 to 15 pounds." I think I love her. Although, when I ran into my old doctor the other day, I had to sit and cry in the car for fifteen minutes because I missed her. (it may have been the progesterone pills crying)
Ugh. It doesn't help that at 12 weeks, I look more like 24 weeks. As Nordstrom pointed about at the pool the other day while she waved her hand at my stomach, " I think it's getting pretty obvious." She's right, it is.