A month ago I had days where the pain was so bad I couldn't get out of bed, just lay there with tears streaming down my face. Just trying to get to the bathroom was a huge undertaking: the pain and inactivity made me stiff, I had a leg that wasn't working at all, and no idea where my center of gravity was. J was already working mega overtime on a project that had been doomed for months but was now nearing peak catastrophe levels, no family in town to help, it was scary because I was only at 25 weeks. The Cracker was born at 42 weeks, 1 day. What the hell was I going to do if things not only didn't get better but got worse over the next 15-17 weeks? It was all so unpredictable...one day I would be okay, and then a string of bad days would follow. I didn't really feel like it was fair to ask my parents to drag themselves out here from California to take care of the Cracker when who even knew how I'd feel tomorrow. It was after 5 really bad days in a row that I totally lost my shit and became hysterical and was able to get my first Chiropractor appointment moved up on an emergency basis. That was a Thursday. Whaddaya know? The next day was a better day...I was able to get out of bed. By my first appointment the following Monday things were much better again. I felt like an ass.
So...yesterday I was shooting my mouth off to J about how positively fantastic I was feeling. With all the little episodes of mini drama during my first and second trimesters resolved, my back problems/sciatica are under control under the care of an amazing (specializes in pregnancy) Chiropractor I felt on top of the world. I even had more energy, much more than I've had pretty much this entire pregnancy. And it all felt soooo good, not just physically, but mentally too. I'm 29 weeks pregnant, feeling fucking like Wonder Woman. I was done with the drama...this was how it was going to be dammit!
And today was going to be the best day yet, because this was my one day this week to sleep in past 7:15a. No school, no school functions, no Midwife/Doctor/Dentist appointments, no birthday parties, and none of that blasted Saturday morning soccer.
At 7:23a the phone rang. "You failed your 1 hour glucose test." I'm sorry...didn't you get the "No More Drama No Matter How Minor" memo? It's before 8a and I haven't had any caffeine since goddamn August.
"How badly did I fail?"
"Your level was elevated. We need more information."
"Did I barely fail, solidly fail, or miserably fail?"
Fucking fantastic. My happy bubble is officially popped.
I know this isn't a diagnosis, and even if it were, it's not the end of the world. But just like clockwork, here we go again with a new thing every 3-4 weeks.
I am seriously pissed off.