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.