My number one phobia in LIFE is fruit. Eating. Touching. Smelling. No... I am not kidding. Let's get a few common queries out of the way, shall we? Yes, every kind of fruit. Even strawberries. Even watermelon. And yes, even tomatoes. Even fruit flavored things. No, nothing tragically fruit related ever happened to me. Yes, it's always been this way, ask my mother.
So, what so catastrophically horrendously heinous is going to victimize me tomorrow in all its fruity splendor? Three words people: Glucose Tolerance Test. If you've never been pregnant, the horror of week 28ish is the test for gestational diabetes. Let me offer a little glimpse into my personal hell, the forgotten level of Dante's Inferno, if you will. You have roughly 3-5 minutes in which you must ingest 10 ounces of thickish orange crush flavored syrupy "beverage", wait an hour, then get a blood test to see if your body is processing glucose properly. If it is, hurray, you can go on living a normal pregnancy. If it isn't, you might have gestational diabetes, in which case you get to do the procedure all over again, only you fast for several hours beforehand. Super.
This is my third pregnancy. I have never had gestational diabetes previously, but my doctor insists that I do this test again. I don't want any harm to come to my baby, or to me, so I will cooperate. However, I'm not going down without some choice words. Let me re-cap my previous experiences with this test.
#1, pregnant with Buddy Boy: My doctor is kind enough to give me the drink to take home to "chill", she says this helps with the taste. A few days later, one hour before my appointment. I gather the courage to commence sipping. Dry heaving ensues. Mascara running down my face as I moan, "Oh Dear Jesus please save me... Oh God... Oh God... Help me..." This was not sacrilege, I was literally praying. More dry heaving. Glance at the bottle, 1/4 down, 3/4 to go. More crying. More crying. Plugging the nose, 3/4 down. Barf-o-rama. Down the last ounce, hope it's enough. Blood test inconclusive. Repeat above one week later. Results negative.
#2, pregnant with Sweetpea: Same nice doctor willing to give me the drink to "chill" at home, Science has progressed, this time two flavor options, Cola and Orange. Before I know what I've done, the word "orange" comes out of my mouth, I'm handed the bottle, and am shoved out the door. Begin kicking myself in the parking lot asking my own dumb self, "what did you just do?!?". A few days later, one hour before my appointment. I gather the courage to commence sipping. Dry heaving ensues. Mascara running down my face as I moan, "Oh Dear Jesus please save me... Oh God... Oh God... Help me..." More dry heaving. Glance at the bottle, 1/4 down, 3/4 to go. More crying. More crying. Plugging the nose, 3/4 down. Up-chucking. Down the last ounce, hope it's enough. It was. Results negative.
#3, present day: New doctor, very strict. It isn't an option to get the drink prior, chill, and cry in the privacy of my own home. This time I MUST drink it under the supervision of a nurse, then sit in the waiting room for the blood work.
If you're reading this thinking, "oh puh-lease, so pathetic, it isn't that bad", just know that I hate you right about now, and don't want to hear it. I have spent the last three years dreading this event. More so than actually giving birth. I have brainstormed how to get around being subjected to this level of torture, including freezing said "beverage" and chopping it into little pill size pieces to swallow, eating the same sugar/carbohydrate amounts in jelly beans or cotton candy, skipping the test altogether. Here I am, on the verge of a major meltdown. Less that 24 hours until not only facing the biggest phobia I can possibly imagine, but also enduring the humiliation of a 2 year old style tantrum breakdown in front of a nurse, including but not limited to: begging for mercy, sobbing, my infamous "dry-heave face" that Gary thinks is so funny, and the actual puking and then having to start over.
This would all be freaking hilarious if it were happening to anyone but me. Please pray for me.