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My pie hole revisited

Remember that pie I made? Well, Paul gets to finish it.

I failed my gestational diabetes test, and I failed it with a vengeance. Out of four blood draws, my blood sugar levels exceeded the norm on three of them. And my numbers weren't even close.

At the moment, I'm not sure what this means, aside from the fact that I'll have to alter my diet, do frequent finger-sticks, and continue to worry. I'm supposed to talk to a specialist in maternal fetal medicine and a nutritionist, but that consultation won't take place for a couple of weeks, so until then I'm a little bit lost. I've put in a call to a nurse to ask for some general guidelines to use while I wait for an individualized plan.

Only 15% of people who flunk the initial screening actually have gestational diabetes; it occurs in only 4-7% of pregnancies overall. I am starting to get tired of being so motherfucking lucky.

What frightens me more than the diabetes itself, which is generally manageable through diet and exercise alone, is my uneasy awareness that complications can snowball. For example, let's revisit my ill placed placenta — if it does, in fact, provoke a premature delivery, my baby is at greater risk for developing respiratory distress syndrome (RDS). But, wait, what's this? You say babies born to mothers with gestational diabetes are at risk of delayed lung maturity, and therefore also at higher risk for RDS?

Great! This calls for a goddamn donut. I told Paul he could have the last slice of pie. When I explained why, he said forlornly, "This wasn't how I wanted to have it...[long pause]...I kind of wanted to fight you for it."