I Blame It On Low Blood Sugar

I Blame It On Low Blood Sugar

Pressing toward deadline, I sat on the couch during my daughter’s afternoon nap, languidly licking batter from a spatula while brownies baked in the oven.

I didn’t think of my gestational diabetes test the next morning; I didn’t really think of anything beyond getting through the strenuous week with a little chocolate boost.

So, at eleven the next morning, when the lab technician murmured, “Wow,” while looking at blood work results, I didn’t think he was talking about mine.

I was in no way nervous about the test, since I had passed the one with my daughter with flying colors, and so continued tapping away on my laptop, editing the manuscript that I hoped to turn in to my publisher by Friday.

The lab tech came over in his navy blue scrubs, holding a slip of yellow paper. He looked over his glasses and said, “Passing is 124 or below. You’re at 211.”

After conferring with the doctor, he proceeded to tell me that they weren’t even going to make me take the three-hour test because I had failed the first test so badly.

I had gestational diabetes.

I admit it, I was so taken aback that I cried. The nurse came over and shut my laptop and led me to a room where I could speak with the doctor.

After realizing that most cases can be monitored through diet and exercise, and that the baby was in no great danger beyond possibly being a larger baby than my first, I began to relax.

The next day, I set aside a critical day of editing to attend a meeting with the diabetes dietician. She took my blood, and it was 92 after lunch, which was wonderful since the normal level is 120 or under.

At home, I continued to ignore the (almost) untouched pan of brownies in the fridge and continued to take my blood, four times daily, and found that it mostly stayed in the low nineties.

I finally called the nurse again, told her my blood results continued to be below normal, and asked if I could retake the test. She conferred with the doctor and called me back.

I could retake the test, but the only available date—due to our family trip to Wisconsin—was July 1.

I knew this was a minor complication considering our baby’s healthy and her growth is right on target. However, this news put far more stress on deadline week.

Through the grace of God and a well-behaved toddler, I turned my manuscript in at 5 p.m. on Friday, threw some clothes into a carry-on, and hit Hwy. 111 for a book signing in Georgia.

Exactly twenty-four hours later, I was traveling the same road on my way back home when a police officer pulled me over in my minivan. (Aren’t minivans supposed to be exempt from such things!?)

For once, my wide-eyed “But, officer . . .” look of confusion was sincere. I hadn’t seen the signs for the speed zone change and thought it was still 65.

Digging past a jumble of Curious George and Veggie Tales videos in the glove box, I handed the officer my registration and proof of insurance. I sat there stewing, overcome with hunger, but I didn’t have anything in the car that someone who may or may not have gestational diabetes could eat.

Fifteen minutes later (or maybe it was five), I saw the ominous glint of the silver clipboard in the rearview mirror as the police officer made his way back to me. “Sign here, ma’am,” he said. “This doesn’t mean you’re guilty. It just means you’ve been told that you were speeding.”

All week I’d been viewing numbers on a tiny gray screen because someone told me to, and here the powers that be were presenting me with some more.

Apparently, I’d been going 70 in a 45. But I didn’t know if I believed him.

I started to think that maybe I didn’t believe the lab tech either. My blood results were probably 112, and he just read them backward.

My frustration erupted in my chest and spewed out my mouth, “You all don’t cut pregnant people with gestational diabetes a break just because they’re trying to get home for supper?”

The officer somehow maintained a straight face. “Just trying to keep everyone safe,” he said. I looked through the dusty windshield at the runway-flat highway with no other cars in sight.

It wasn’t exactly the autobahn.

Scribbling my signature, I handed the clipboard back and snapped, “Well, you all need to put up more signs.” Then I rolled my window back up and pulled out, all but squealing my minivan’s tires.

I blame it on low blood sugar . . . regardless if I have gestational diabetes or not.

How about you, ladies? Ever do or say anything crazy when you were pregnant?