Tears of a Bat

What the hell?!?!  I have been busting my ass!  I have been eating like a granola crunching barefoot hippy and walking, and exercising....F***!!!!!

Today, in my state of neurosis, I decided that I would call and check and see if the results from my one hour glucose screen were in.  Lo and f-ing behold, they were.  My blood sugar was 152, and they like it at less than 135.  So guess who gets to waddle over to Quest Diagnostics and get the 3 hour test?  This pissed off Mama.

So I scheduled it for Monday at 10 in the gorram morning so I can just get it over with.  I am so incredibly bummed.  If it was possible for me to actually stain my cheeks with tears, I'd look like a weepy anime character. I am so hurt!  I have worked so hard!  With Dante, by 28/29 weeks, I was up 40 pounds, so I couldn't have been that surprised to get the gestational diabetes diagnosis.  This time, I've gained a whopping 15 pounds and have been walking, eating right, and even dancing with Dante on a regular basis.  I was so very much planning on beating the odds, simply with all my hard work.  Apparently my body hates me.  Which, I guess is fine.  The feeling is mutual.

And now I am on hold with the lab (I need their fax number) and at first the hold song was Candy Everybody Wants by 10,000 Maniacs, and now I am forced to listen to Hall and Oats Kiss on My List bullcrap.  I know I regularly want to pitch this pseudo smart phone at a wall, but this is about to do this phone in.  Ugh.  Insult, meet injury.  Injury, insult.  Are we all acquainted?

AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH!  I am currently the definition of frustrated.  There is nothing like elevated blood sugar to make me feel like a failure.  Yes, I was overweight when Little Miss decided to begin her existence.  I was working on it!  I was well on my way to being a hot 160 by this most recent birthday, and instead I got to look at the scale just long enough to make sure I wasn't 250 again.  But Life (and Death) happened, and now I am resting my phone on my belly, speaker phone blaring, waiting for these asshats to pick up.  How hard is it to answer a ph...wait.  THERE she is...and she transfered me without telling me and the message gave me the fax number before I was prepared.

Finally got it, and went to call the medical assistant back to give her the fax number, and I made the mistake of calling at 416pm when they stop taking calls at 415pm.  So, since the number is written on my hand, let me put it here so I don't lose it.  3-899-6185

I don't feel well.  I feel like a loser who can;t fu*king do anything right.  I can't do this again, I just can't.  How do I keep those gorram needles away from Dante?  How do I explain to him that I have to stab myself with insulin?  I know I'm jumping the gun, but I know my odds.  I was trying so hard to beat them!

Now, I'm covered in snot and tears and I know I'm jumping the gun, but I can't help it.  Nothing has been going right for me lately.  Makes me wonder why I even bother getting up.  Yes, I know, Dante.  But on days like today, even that little baby bat can't help me.