Sugar Bomb

March 23, 2010

Last week, instead of pounding green beers in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, I was at the Portsmouth hospital chugging a cup o’ sugary lime-flavored drink (I had a fruit-punch-flavor option as well, but lime seemed more in keeping with the season).

Apparently the glucose tolerance test is a ritual pregnant women undergo around the 24th-28th week of pregnancy to test for gestational diabetes. You’re told to quickly down the sugar bomb – which wasn’t as awful as I’d heard; it was a lot like too-sweet Gatorade –  sit around for an hour, and get your blood drawn. I guess they measure how well your body copes with the onslaught of simple carbs, and if the answer is “not well,” they do more extensive testing. It would be a lot more fun if they turned us loose with a big bowl of Skittles instead.

Adding to the entertainment value of the hospital excursion was the fact that it also involved a shot of RhoGAM, necessitated by the fact that my blood is Rh-negative and Eric’s is Rh-positive. The RhoGAM is administered intramuscularly (read: long needle plunged deep into the shoulder, though I was given the option of taking the shot in the bum instead – does anyone ever choose that option?). Combined with the four vials of blood they drew, I was pretty well poked and bruised by the time I left the hospital.

I did, however, get a peek at the hospital’s newly remodeled maternity wing, which is amazing. I saw a few babies being wheeled around in gorgeous bassinets with a satiny, honeyed wood finish. With the exception of the hand-crafted bookshelves Eric has made us, they were far nicer than pretty much any of the furniture we have here at our house. I hope the Olive doesn’t develop a snooty taste for the finer things when she’s still just hours old and turn up her tiny nose at the nursery-by-Ikea awaiting her.


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