September 12, 2010 by Cara Lemieux
Fasting and Feet
Let me start with the fasting. I want to state that I believe that making a pregnant woman fast is a form of torture. Torture that is unethical and should be made illegal.
It all started when I was told that I had failed my initial one-hour glucose screening and that I would need to undergo a 3-hour version, that included fasting from midnight until the end of the test.
Fasting? Hold on. Wait a minute. That means not eating or drinking anything other than water.
You would think compared to the other medical tests I had been exposed to over the last couple weeks, this wouldn’t really even show up on the radar.
I like to eat.
So I show up, they do the initial blood draw and tell me to drink this veeeeerrrrrryyy sweet liquid that sort of tastes like flat Sprite soda. An hour later another blood draw, and this is repeated for 3 hours.
The first three blood tests were done by this very nice technician that carefully alternated arms and veins so that we didn’t blow a vein.
The last test took place at 1:07pm. That meant I had gone an eternity without eating, or about 6 hours from when I woke up – depending on how you much you too enjoy eating.
Additionally, I had to sit through lunch in the doctor’s office and could smell all of the food the doctors and nurses brought in for lunch. I have a VERY sensitive sense of smell and from what I could tell they were all eating the best food in the world.
When time for the last test came, I had trouble finding the person that did the initial tests and since this is a timed test and I needed the blood drawn at exactly one hour intervals, I sought out someone else who happily agreed to draw my blood.
She wasn’t nearly as gentle as the first person, and she admitted she was having trouble finding a good vein that was not already used. So she went for the one that was used in the test one hour earlier, despite the fact that I explained to her this one was pretty deep and crooked according to her colleague.
(Turn away if you are squeemish)
So she sticks the needle in my arm and starts wiggling it around. Now, anyone that has had blood drawn knows that never ends well. The stick and wiggle method has never resulted in anything good for me either.
I look to see that she isn’t any blood, well not in the vile. Under my skin, I can see a nice bruise forming.
Maybe it was the lack of food, maybe it was the pain, but I have to admit to you that I actually contemplated physical violence.
But because I am a lady with manners I said, “Um, I’m pretty sure we should try another vein, that one doesn’t seem to be working and my arm is all bruised now.”
So we switched arms, got the sample and I ran to the restaurant next door and ordered a spanish omelet. When it came, I took a big bite and realized it was so incredibly salty that I had to send it back. Now ask anyone that has dined with me, I am usually so hungry that sending food back is never really an option. I think I had only done it one other time in my life and this was because there was a worm in my salad. A live worm.
That is how salty this omelet was. It was on par with a live worm crawling in my food. I had no other option so I nicely sent it back and called my sister, trying not to cry from hunger.
She talked me down off the ledge like she normally does until my food came. I inhaled it and then had enough energy to take the subway home.
However every time I look at my left arm I feel a mild case of Post Traumatic Stress set in and I need to take deep breaths.
NOW ONTO THE FEET.
Take a look at my favorite boots in the world.
All weekend, I have been walking by them, obsessing about trying them on and I am pretty sure my collection of boots and shoes have been mocking me. And I don’t like to be mocked.
Why, you ask am I have a fight in my head with my boots?
Well, let’s start off with the fact that I love these boots. My mom bought them for me a couple years ago and I wear them all the time. They go with everything (according to me) and they are so comfortable that I wore them on my own personal foot tour of San Francisco last spring. And they are not cheap. But shoes are to my feet what tires are to your car, so I have absolved myself of the guilt of wearing something that costs more than my rent did in my college apartment.
I had a sneaky suspicion that I might have trouble getting these on my feet when I recently read that the hormones that make all of your ligaments loosen in places that the baby hangs out, don’t discriminate against the other places in your body.
Like your feet.
Okay, and maybe I had a lot of trouble fitting my feet into my favorite ballet flats a few weeks ago when I had a job interview.
But I held out hope that god was not cruel enough to make a woman have to abstain from, not only alcohol and sushi, but her favorite boots too.
My sister encouraged me to just try them on because perhaps they would still fit. She then followed that suggestion up with an anecdote about a friend of hers that delivered around Thanksgiving and never stopped wearing flip-flops during her pregnancy.
So I tried them on, or more like shoved my left foot in. Okay, okay, it was more snug than I recall, but perhaps I could get by if I just wore them and sat still, without any walking.
Then I tried the right one on.
Holy lord. I think I almost went into labor trying to get it off my foot as quickly as possible.
Tight is not the word. And my second favorite boots, my cowboy boots, I can’t even come close to getting them onto my feet.
They mocked me, and they won.
So when you see me walking around in flip-flops when there is snow on the ground, please do not judge. It is hopefully temporary.
And I know some women’s feet don’t go back to their original size post-pregnancy.
Hold your tongues. I can’t handle that reality right now.
The way I see it, I am 12 weeks and counting away from putting my Frye boots back on my feet, and walking to the nearest sushi restaurant where I will order a disgusting amount of rolls and a few glasses of wine. Okay, more realistically, I will probably be in my pajamas, at my parents house, ordering sushi takeout and asking my dad to pour me a glass of wine, but I promise you this – those damn boots will be on my feet.