Yesterday was my gestational diabetes test (also called a glucose tolerance test), which I had to take after work, which meant fasting all afternoon, which meant killer indigestion and a stabbing headache behind one eye. It also meant chugging 50g of glucose in an ice cold, bright orange solution that didn’t exactly taste bad but which almost made me gag somewhere around the 40g mark.
(For my own memory, or for anyone reading this who will get the reference: my darling husband sang Fresno’s chugging song, the title of which I won’t put into print, at me as I knocked back the glucola. I think he’s probably a keeper.)
I didn’t like fasting, and I didn’t like the drink, but they were both fine and dandy compared to the actual testing. Why? Because, you see, I am a turnip. Or perhaps a stone. One of those things from which one cannot squeeze blood. I am the veinless wonder, astonishing phlebotomists and nurses wherever I go! (It’s good to have talents, I suppose. I’m “one of the hardest draws I’ve done in a long time,” apparently; when I get my trophy, I’ll put it on my shelf next to the “oh my goodness, that’s the worst UTI I’ve ever seen” trophies that I collect every time I go to a new doctor with an infection.)
Herein lies the saga of the blood draw. If you are Ryan, or of his tribe, stop reading now.
When they called me back from the waiting room, the first thing the nurse said sent chills down my spine. “We have a dilemma. The guy who comes to pick up the blood is coming at 5:30, and we can’t draw yours until 5:45. We know that one of the vials has preservatives and will be okay to be picked up tomorrow, but we may have to send you in to the lab to do a second draw for the test that can’t have preservatives in it.”
I guess I was convincing when I told her that I really hoped that wasn’t the case, because she called the pick-up guy and ascertained that the sample would be fine for up to three days, so they could get it taken care of at once. At this point, the nurse was still smiling when I told her what a hard draw I was.
After the OB listened to the heartrate (“sounds perfect!”), measured my bump (“looks okay” — seriously, who says “okay” to a pregnant woman and then doesn’t clarify? what was that supposed to mean?), and answered a few questions, I sent Ryan back to the waiting room and went with the nurse to the vampiricism room. While she set up, I gave her a quick history of my blood-drawing problems. I guess she finally believed me, because she put away the rubber hosing tourniquet thing and fetched a portable blood pressure cuff, calling it the “big guns.” She got out a butterfly needle (ah, overconfidence… as if this was only going to take one needle) and began the poking and prodding process.
She decided that the right arm was the best option, strapped on the cuff, and pumped that bad boy up to almost 200. I had no idea that an arm could fall asleep that quickly (or that painfully); as she dug into the crook of my arm with the needle she saw me wincing and apologized for hurting me. “It’s not the needle,” I assured her through gritted teeth. My fingers were buzzing like a hive of bees and my arm was cramping up… and, to top it off, the vein kept hiding and she had to give up on that arm.
She tried the same tactic on the other arm, and was just about to go in when she realized that what she thought was a vein was actually a tendon. I’m very happy that she figured that out in time!
She pulled back from the table and asked whether I thought we should try again on the other arm. I jokingly asked if we couldn’t try the femoral artery, but then told her that she might as well go for the hand — if she could get it in one try, I didn’t care where it happened, and the hand had been what eventually worked last time. She laughed and pumped up the cuff.
If you’ve ever had blood drawn from your hand, you know it is not an enjoyable experience. The poor nurse (who was awesome, by the way — much more compassionate and cautious than the phlebotomist from the lab) thought she had a vein and began the draw. I was looking away at this point (I’m not needle-phobic, but I really don’t like seeing the needle sitting there inside me or the blood coming out) so I don’t know precisely what she meant by, “Oh shoot, it’s blowing up on me”… but she and the needle beat a hasty retreat, no blood gathered.
The nurse apologized and asked how I was doing. “I’m fine,” I said, and I was telling the truth up until the last fragment of the word fine escaped my mouth, at which point suddenly I wasn’t fine. The combination of hunger, sugar high, stress, pretending I wasn’t freaked out, crazy pressure on my arms, and being stabbed hit me all at once. Fortunately, I recognized the dizzy, tingly hot feeling in my face and we didn’t let things get to the actual blacking out stage, but I ended up with my head down for the rest of the procedure. The nurse called for backup, and Nurse #2 put a cold compress on my neck and rubbed my shoulders for a few moments, and then they began hunting for veins again. They found a likely suspect in the same hand and then tag-teamed to draw two vials of blood as efficiently as possible.
Thing is… that second vein in the left hand? HURT. Like, toe-curling pain. But I was so thankful to be done that I didn’t even care, and by the time they taped the cotton ball on there, the dizziness had gone away and I was able to sit up again.
So. Three holes (one fewer than the lab!), two near misses, three butterfly needles, two nurses, a blood pressure cuff, and a cold compress. And I’d damned well have better passed the damn thing (yes, that’s worth two damns) because I do not want to have to deal with the follow-up test.*
Although Nurse #2 had encouraged me by telling me I could go have an ice cream afterward I didn’t want anything sweet at that point, so I had a big ole cheeseburger instead.
The weird thing is, my hand didn’t stop hurting. I guess there was something sensitive in there next to that vein. I iced it against the side of my glass of water throughout dinner, and then coddled it all evening, but it still hurt badly all night long. It ached, and when I touched it along that bone/tendon of the ring finger, it felt very tender.
I thought sure I’d have an awesome bruise this morning. But no. My hand refuses to show evidence of my ordeal, and instead looks like this:
Even though it feels like this:
Oh well. Boo hoo.
I’ll finish off this TOTALLY THRILLING POST by saying that I have only one more four-week appointment, and then I have two appointments at two-week intervals, and then they started scheduling weekly appointments that went straight up to my due date! Exciting! And terrifying! I have so much to do in the house and at work before then… yikes!
*To whit: ”For the follow-up test, you’ll be asked to fast overnight and then have your fasting blood sugar level measured. Then you’ll drink another sweet solution — this one containing a higher concentration of glucose — and your blood sugar level will be checked every hour for a period of three hours. If at least two of the blood sugar readings are higher than normal, you’ll be diagnosed with gestational diabetes.”