Well, Crap

On Monday, I pretty much skipped out of my 28-week doctor’s appointment. Charlotte had put on quite a show for Chris and me during the sonogram and everything looked PERFECT. I felt pretty smug in my baby-growing abilities and sent out a mass e-mail the next day, detailing the perfection of our child and my womb. Apparently I tempted fate. Yesterday morning I received a call from the nurse who told me that I had flat-out failed my blood glucose test. FAILED. She gave me instructions to schedule a 3-hour follow-up glucose tolerance test at a nearby lab to confirm that I have indeed developed gestational diabetes and I mechanically wrote down everything she said, completely dazed. Then she hit me with more great news: My blood count was quite low, indicating an iron deficiency. This just plain ticked me off because I have forced down Costco-sized portions of spinach and Chris has kept the red meat coming. But of course I promised the nurse to run out and buy her recommended brand of iron supplements. Finally, I got off the phone, closed my office door, and called Chris. I couldn’t reach him. So what did I do? I called my mommy. With the 3-hour time difference, she hadn’t left for work yet. As soon as she answered, I burst into tears and announced that I was failing to give my baby what she needed. Mums talked me off the ledge, trying to convince me that failing a blood test did not equate to failing at motherhood. Eventually I reached Chris and he was of the opinion that the test was a fluke. The only risk factor I have is that I’m over 25. “Besides,” he said, “you come from Opp blood. You’re strong like bull!” Eh, we’ll see. I simply felt beyond guilty. I want to give this little girl the best possible start in life and I’m totally missing the mark. And every time I thought of her total dependence on me and my potential inability make things perfect for her, I’d tear up again. It took a long, long time before I could pull myself together enough to open my office door. Cognitively, I understand that I’m seriously overreacting. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things. To boot, we’re not even sure there’s a problem! There just might be. About half of pregnant women who fail the first test PASS the second, longer test. I’m banking on this first one being a fluke because, well, I really want it to be a fluke. Besides, I feel FINE. Wouldn’t I have at least one symptom to tip me off that my body wasn’t metabolizing sugar? The other good news is that should the test come back positive, THIS IS NOT A BIRTH DEFECT. This isn’t a problem with Charlotte (although it’s certainly not great for her), it’s a problem with ME. If test #2 comes back positive, then gestational diabetes is unpleasant but manageable—and temporary. We’ll just deal with it. This whole thing just caught me by such surprise and really rattled me, I guess. I got so used to every appointment and every piece of news being “perfect,” so I naively assumed “perfection” would continue to be the case. At any rate, yesterday I felt blue and drained by the time I got to Chris’s office to pick up the car after work (Chris has class on Wednesday nights and I’m no longer “allowed” to walk home in pitch-black dark). As I was stuck in traffic for my 1-mile commute, I put on Christmas music because, well, I felt like it. Charlotte had been still for awhile, but I suddenly really, really wanted her to give me a good jab and let me know that all was well in there. So I pulled out my secret weapon, and skipped to Emmylou Harris’s “Little Drummer Boy” on the CD and cranked it up. Charlotte has never, ever failed to react to this song—I think it’s the rhythm of the “rum-pum-pum-pum” or something. Sure enough, she gave me two good kicks to tell me she was fine, and then she went back to sleep. You can tell me it’s all in my head or just a coincidence, but I don’t think so! The looooong follow-up test is on Monday, November 23. Here’s hoping that we get results before Thanksgiving so I know whether or not to pass on the pumpkin pie!