Nothing but pregnancy mentioned
Most pregnant women are tested for gestational diabetes sometime near the end of the second trimester or at the beginning of the third. If, however, you have a history of gestational diabetes, a family history of diabetes, a personal history of impaired glucose tolerance, or all of the above — It's called Julieosis. Look it up if you don't believe me — you will probably be tested early. I had my test last Monday.
In case you've never had the pleasure of a glucose tolerance test, it goes a little like this.
- Fast for at least 8 hours before the test. Think hateful thoughts about the man in the waiting room eating an Egg McMuffin — I mean, my God, who does that?
- In the space of seven seconds flat, chug the entire contents of a hummingbird feeder.
- Sit very still for three hours, interrupted only by the occasional blood draw.
- Hallucinate yourself into a psychedelic ecstasy, then into delusions of Messianic greatness, then into a crumpled heap on the floor.
- Wait, that last wasn't a hallucination. Get off the floor and stagger weakly out to the parking lot.
- Go home. Spend the next twelve hours exactly as your maternal/fetal medicine doctor predicted: "You're going to feel like crap. (Sorry.)"
And feel like crap I did, a sure sign that I failed the test. However, it is so far the only sign that I failed, as it is now a week later and no one seems to know where the results are. Which is fine — feeling like a hummingbird Jesus was really reward enough. I just wish I'd thought to smite that McMuffin-eating bastard.
At my OB's office, you have a choice: you can read magazines about pregnancy, or you can read pamphlets about menopause, incontinence, and uncomfortable vaginal dryness. Most recently, I chose the former. Because it seems likely that at some point we'll have to tell Charlie something — "Oh, you won't mind giving up your very special blanket for the baby, will you? Look, I'm just going to cut it in half — whoops, okay, well, the baby can have the bigger piece, all right?" — I read with some interest a page of reader submissions on how they told their child they were pregnant. ("We were at the Olive Garden when I told my little girl I was pregnant," said one reader. Stop right there, said Julie.)
This is the one that gave me the most pause:
Now I know most women don't have the 6-week, 7-week, 8-week, 9-week, aaaaand 10-week ultrasounds that we who are pregnant after infertility treatment customarily enjoy. I know it is quite likely that this woman's first ultrasound was at her first OB appointment — possibly as late as 12 weeks. But I cannot any more imagine asking Charlie to accompany me to an early scan, even when all signs are good, than I can imagine letting him hold the wand. Especially after a miscarriage.
I've been practicing. When a doctor says, "Oh, I see this pregnancy is from a donated egg," I nod. Then she asks, "How old was the donor?" And I say, "Fifteen." But I must not be telling it right, because no one ever laughs.
Comedy is hard. But I'm working on it. Next time that happens and the doctor frowns in consternation, I will hasten to reassure her. "Don't worry," I will say. "Her pimp said it was totally fine."