I asked stupid questions that I didn’t really want to know the answers to.  Deep down, I guess I knew that I would have to face those answers at some point.  Better that I do it sooner, rather than later, right?  Not right, because now I can’t even get out of the house to go to work.

I arrived early.  I’m not sure if it’s my fear of being late and missing the appointment, or my desire to get out of work that does it, but it happens every time.  I’ve been in the hospital when I’ve turned up 40 minutes early before: it’s eerie.  Last time I sat outside and it was a pleasant enough afternoon.  This time I sat outside and froze.  It’s my own fault for only carrying a thin jacket and no jumper, but I never really need them between home, the tube and the office, and I certainly don’t need them when on the tube or at the office. 

Blood pressure and urine checked.  Fine.  Blood pressure was 102/62.  Apparently that’s ok, but looking at the notes, it seems to me that it’s the lowest it’s been so far.  Whether that’s a side effect of the pregnancy or the lofepramine I don’t know.  Another mystery we’ll probably never know the answer to.  Poked and prodded.  Lumpy was lying head down with his back to my left side.  Heartbeat apparently sounds good.  I wouldn’t know what good or bad was anyway. 

Blood taken for the dreaded glucose check.  I’d originally asked the husband to come with me.  You remember, I don’t do well with needles.  But then it occurred to me that he’d have to bring the boy, and the boy wouldn’t do waiting.  And as I’d not thought to ask what sort of testing they were going to be doing, there was a chance it could be a very long wait between two draws.  So I figured I’d just have to suck it and get on with it alone.  And I did.  I was rather proud of myself. 

And then for my questions.  Well one question really.  I explained that I still wanted a home birth and asked what the earliest date I could have one would be.  37 Weeks.  Not that I could work out in my head at that point when 37 weeks would be.  The midwife explained how they’d book it and that was all good.  Except, she said, if there were any complications.  Like gestational diabetes. 

Oh shit.

You see last time round, I didn’t really have a clue what was going on.  I got my blood tested, the results were so borderline that I may as well have had gestational diabetes as far as the doctor was concerned and off I went to the dietitian to learn how to cut out all sugar from my diet.  They transferred my care across to the hospital straight away (instead of leaving it until the last minute) where once a week I’d get my finger jabbed with a needle and told that I was doing a good job of keeping my blood sugar within acceptable levels.  An explanation of what this all mean for me and the pregnancy was never given to me, the closest I got was that it would go away once the boy had been born.  Whether it was that the doctor never felt it necessary to give an explanation, it got lost in the translation, or the husband felt that it would best if I didn’t know what it all meant, I don’t know.

What I do know is that this time round I needed it explained to me.  Just in case.  There’s enough you can read about it butthe upshot is, if I do get it this time around, during labour my blood sugar would be closely monitored and treated.  And yes, that means more needles.  It also means no home birth.

Of course none of that really hit me until I walked out of there.  I worked out when 37 weeks would start.  27 December if you go by their dates produced from the scan.  If Lumpy is born at the same point the boy was, he’ll appear on 23 December.  4 days difference.  4 days being enough to land me in hospital.

And then it began.  Because I realised there’s a good chance that I could have to go to hospital in order to get this kid out.  And it’s only just occurred to me that I just can’t deal with that.  Just the thought of it scares me beyond belief.  And with everything that’s going on at the moment, that fear is just one more thing to deal with.  One more thing that I can’t deal with.

I went to bed at 7:30 last night.  I wasn’t feeling well anyway.  I was tired, I’d been sick (sorry Tooting Broadway station).  I still felt like my stomach was churning.  The last thing I wanted to do was stay awake with my thoughts.  I was too tired to even talk about it, so didn’t even get the chance to tell the husband what was going on.  But I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t clear my mind of that nagging fear of hospital.  And the tears.  And even when I did and actually managed to fall asleep I’d only wake up and it would start all over again.  I wasn’t even lucky enough to get a block of sleep before the night really began.  I just kept waking.  And waking.  And waking.  I managed three hours just after 3:00.

And so I woke up exhausted this morning.  But at least I didn’t feel sick.  The trouble is though, it seems that even the act of eating a small breakfast these days is enough to make the nausea start.   And it did.  And I cried a little over my breakfast.  And then again in the shower.  And it felt like I just couldn’t hold it all together.  Even though I was desperately trying to suck it up and be strong.  Because I was sure that if I could just make it to work, that would be half the battle over. 

But I made a mistake.  I weighed myself.  Last time I did that I was happy.  I’d put on just over 2lbs.  Pregnancy is the one time I’m allowed to be happy about weight gain.  But this time no such luck.  I’d lost 4lbs.  4 freaking pounds.  Because I can’t eat half the time, and when I can, there’s a good chance it’ll come back up again.  And I shouldn’t be losing weight. 

But it was too late.  And I couldn’t hold it together.  And by that point I knew that there was no way I was going to make it in to work.  No point in going in to spend most of the day hiding in the toilets trying not to cry.  And so I called in sick despite knowing that I won’t get paid for the time off. 

And I stayed home and blogged.  And cried.

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