Last week, I took my one-hour glucose test.  Apparently, I failed miserably; not an easy thing for a type-A perfectionist to stomach.  A call from my doctor on Friday revealed that, because my test results were so “off the charts,” taking the dreaded three-hour test was not even an option.  I am to bypass that test and go straight to monitoring for gestational diabetes.

After a good cry, at work, no less (I totally blame the hormones), I’ve come to terms with the diagnosis.  If, by coming to terms I mean being bitter and angry over it all, then, yes, I’m handling this news very well.  I’ve had the weekend to stew it over, needing to wait until today or Tuesday to hear from yet a fresh set of doctors who specialize in this sort of thing.  In the meantime, I’ve been second-guessing every bite of food, wondering if it’s the right thing to eat, and imagining my baby doubling in size after every meal.  I know I’m overreacting, but I just don’t know what to think right now.  I’ll feel some relief after the phone call when I can set up an appointment and talk to a doctor about the next steps.

From what I understand, this diagnosis may mean a diet change, extra doctor appointments for me and Baby G, and possibly pricking my finger after every meal to check my blood sugar.  I’m anxious to hear what the doctors will say.  Even with my bitter, angry moments, I’m committed to doing what is best to ensure a happy, healthy baby, so I’ll do whatever it takes.  It is only 11 more weeks of a lifestyle change after all, a drop in the bucket when you stop to consider it.  I may not like the diagnosis, but I can learn to accept it.

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