The other day I got my results back from that memorable trip down needle lane. Those vampires were pretty quick getting my results back to me. My bruise hadn’t even faded yet. The numbers didn’t look too terribly bad—to me. I was normal in everything except the dreaded glucoserie department.
The good news is I will not have to repeat that test again in the near future. The bad news is my numbers were so bad that OB-GYN Kenobie called and got me an appointment with the endocrinologist herself. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! Yep, looks like the diabetes strikes again.
The really bitchy part of this whole story is that for the past two months I’ve been going to a dietitian and really paying attention to what I eat. No more sugary treat binges, no matter how loudly the chocolate calls my name. No more late-night/wee-hours-of-the-morning snacks. I’ve been doing really good. (Well, except for the last week, but you know, eating out makes it harder to control everything that goes in one’s mouth, cock included.) I’ve only gained a little this month, and that’s extremely good for my fat arse.
Tomorrow I get to go see the diabetes doctor, the African I saw while pregnant with Pooplette whose name I cannot and probably never will be able to pronounce. It’s Ngyu-somethingorother. I really like him, even if at times we find it hard to understand each other’s accents. Actually when it gets really bad we switch to English. But he was really cool last time around assuring me that my baby was never in any mortal danger, that he was just there to make sure things went smoothly and to help me calm the fuck down. I know gestational diabetes isn’t the end of the world, rationally I do.
But diabetes is what killed my mom, so I still freak out a bit each time. Because it’s a nasty, nasty disease.
So I sit here trying not to get the pre-post-natal blues, and trying not to worry about all the extra crap that I’ll have to do for the next 15 or so weeks. Checking my sugar, writing down what and how much I eat, waiting half a hour, checking my sugar again, rinse, repeat something like six times a day since that’s how many meals I got to eat last go ‘round—everything got cut in half to keep me from spiking. Plus the two monkeys, the hubs, the farm, the house…
Man, I so do not need this right now.
Next week, in addition to a dental appointment and a pre-natal visit, we have to go to court for the house. All in the same morning. Lovely, isn’t it.
It’s not that I’m stressed out whether will win or not. We’re going to win. It’s just that it’s another long, drawn out process. The other party concerned can ask for a two week extension, and then after that, the expertise judiciaire can take up to six months, and finally when that’s done we can start work on the house. During any of this time, the other party can just file bankruptcy and we take all of it in the ass.
"How bad can it be?", you’re probably wondering. Well, here’s a picture of half the roof. Mosey on over to Flickr to see just what’s wrong with it.
(Please note: This is just half of the roof. This is only a tiny part of the nightmare.)