142

Monday morning I woke up bright and early to do the one-hour gestational diabetes screening.  It wasn't as bad as I had heard, but it wasn't the most exciting thing either.

Since my 28 week appointment was today, I knew I'd hear the results.  

Guess what?

I failed.

The cut-off for passing is 130 and my blood sugar level was 142.  

This means I get to take the three-hour test to determine whether or not I have gestational diabetes.

Ugggggh.

I was not happy to hear this information from the nurse.  In fact, I had to turn away so she wouldn't hear the slew of potty words I was positive were about to come spewing forth from my vocal chords.

Once she skipped out of the room, I had the opportunity to stew over the information she had just given me and decided it must somehow be my fault.  Then, in typical hormone-fueled fashion, began sobbing.

My doctor walked in a few minutes later to find me wallowing in a puddle of my own hysterical tears.  It clearly shocked him.  I think he thought someone close to me had been hit by a train or that my dog had died.  He spent the next ten minutes consoling me and telling me it wasn't anything I did.  At one point I recall the words "I don't want a big baby!  I want to deprive you of the opportunity to cut my uterus open!" coming out of my mouth.  True story.  I said it. 

Pray for me, people.  Pray for my pancreas.  Pray that it does its job when I go in for the three-hour test.  I don't want to meet with a nutritionist.  I don't want to test my blood sugar several times a day.  I definitely don't want to give myself insulin injections.

And, most importantly, I don't want to do something that can jeopardize the health of my unborn baby.