Worst Morning Ever
If, a few days ago, you’d asked me to describe the most hideous morning of personal torture I could imagine, I probably would have described a morning much like this one: four blood tests in four hours. I failed my glucose tolerance test this week, and so today was my more diagnostically rigorous follow-up, involving eight hours of fasting, a post-fasting blood test, a drink of cringe-inducing glucose serum, and then a blood test every hour for three hours. Now I get to wait and see if I have gestational diabetes.
I made the morning as tolerable as possible for myself by waiting until today to start reading The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, a book whose release I’ve been eagerly anticipating all summer. It’s set in Barcelona—a gothic, mysterious Barcelona—and definitely made the time pass quickly.
By the time I left, with bandages on each arm and each hand, I looked pretty pathetic. Andrew picked me up and we went for lunch at Panera, where the cashier took one look at me and asked, aghast, “What have they done to you, you poor pregnant girl?”
Indeed. But four blood tests can’t compare to labor, which two of the three blood-drawers today helpfully reminded me. Helpful.
I made the morning as tolerable as possible for myself by waiting until today to start reading The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, a book whose release I’ve been eagerly anticipating all summer. It’s set in Barcelona—a gothic, mysterious Barcelona—and definitely made the time pass quickly.
By the time I left, with bandages on each arm and each hand, I looked pretty pathetic. Andrew picked me up and we went for lunch at Panera, where the cashier took one look at me and asked, aghast, “What have they done to you, you poor pregnant girl?”
Indeed. But four blood tests can’t compare to labor, which two of the three blood-drawers today helpfully reminded me. Helpful.
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