So what did you do with YOUR Saturday?

I had to take the horrible three-hour glucose tolerance test today, and it did not make me a happy camper. First of all, the test itself is stupid. The "failure" rate for the one-hour test is absolutely ridiculous, and most women go on to pass the three-hour just fine. Obviously, I have no idea what my numbers are yet, but I suspect that I will be among those women. I wasn't shocked that I had to take the three-hour test; I "failed" the one-hour when I was pregnant with Suzannah as well, but just barely. This time when the nurse called to break the news, she didn't even want to tell me what my number was -- she suspected, correctly, that I'd be pretty pissy about it.

"If it makes you feel any better, I've seen way higher numbers than yours today," she said.

"I still have to drink that sludge after FASTING," I grumbled. And that's the absolutely stupidity, right there. In what universe does it seem like a good idea to have a pregnant woman fast for twelve hours and then drink a bottle of syrupy grossness, get her blood drawn about a thousand times (okay, four), and continue to not eat for three hours? Because I will tell you right now that almost the first thing I have to do upon waking up is EAT SOMETHING or I will still get sick, in a noisily heaving way that does not scream HOW SEXY AM I? to my husband on the other side of the bathroom door. That's just the way I do pregnancy.

Anyway, I was so tempted to decline the test altogether. But one of the drawbacks of delivering a baby in a hospital is that they come up with all kinds of ways to bully women into submitting to their standard procedures, and I'd really prefer to keep my label of low-risk pregnancy. I'd also like my insurance to continue to cover me and blah blah blabbity blah. (I should add the disclaimer here that I'm as comfortable with my hospital as it is possible to be, and I'm pretty appreciative of the care I've received there. But I had to do my homework -- all hospitals are not created equal.) And in the grand scheme of things, it's not the end of the world, but it did mean going without food for a very long time and getting up way too early on a Saturday morning. I wanted to be there when the doors opened.

I stopped at the clinic first to pick up my paperwork, then hiked across the street to the hospital. The lab was closed. What? My midwife's nurse specifically told me I could do this on a Saturday! Why was I reading a sign that told me that FOR MY CONVENIENCE the lab was open Monday through Friday, 6:30 a.m. - 6:30 p.m.?

I hiked back across the street (since the hospital was also completely deserted; no one was stationed at the information desk yet, and I didn't see anyone who looked like they'd be able to tell me if there was another secret lab somewhere). They told me they thought there was another lab on the ground floor. They gave me a map.

I hiked back to the hospital. I found the second lab. IT WAS CLOSED.

I hiked back to the clinic, sweaty and irritated. I did not wake up before dawn and drive all the way to Tacoma for the lab to be closed. (Or to walk back and forth between the hospital and the clinic eighty-five times.)

The receptionist had no idea what to say; she was very nice, though, and started digging through phone numbers to try to track down someone. Then a nurse appeared and said, "Oh -- there's an after-hours button around the corner. You have to push that, I think."

"Will an actual human being appear?" I asked, only half-joking.

I hiked back to the hospital. (Did I mention I was carrying a bag full of papers I planned to spend three hours grading? You wouldn't think they'd be so heavy, BUT THEY TOTALLY WERE.)

I found the after-hours button. I pushed it. SOMEONE OPENED THE DOOR. He looked as though he'd slept there and it took him a moment to process what he was seeing: a sweaty pregnant woman frantically brandishing her lab paperwork and possibly making some desperate threats. He let me in. Told me to have a seat. I flopped onto a moderately uncomfortable chair while he disappeared into a back room for five minutes. When he reappeared, he said, "Okay, I'm going to send you to a different lab -- they'll take care of you there."

I was skeptical at this point. But I followed his directions and hiked across a skybridge and into the medical plaza connected with the hospital -- and found yet another lab. With people behind the desk! And one or two bleary-eyed people in the waiting area! Hallelujah! And I'd only left my house a mere ninety minutes ago!

My treat for all that work, of course, was a bottle of lime-flavored glucose solution that didn't taste all that horrible but left my throat burning from the syrup overload. And then I got to spend the next three hours trying not to throw it up. It actually wasn't too bad after the first hour (during which I felt shaky and awful); I'd taken a Zofran before I left the house. The lab technician smiled approvingly after my second or third blood draw when I told her I felt pretty okay; she said my body "seemed to be handling this really well, and that's a good sign." (Uh, okay!)

My last blood draw was at 12:06. At 12:07, I was hightailing it out of there to meet Kyanne and Becca for LUNCH! with FOOD! that I could EAT! We met at Mary's Burger Bistro and downed enough fry sauce with our homemade french fries to service the homemade french fry needs of an army. And I ordered a milkshake, which I never do, but today? Today I deserved a milkshake. An Oreo milkshake. (And they're the perfect size there, not like the giant milkshakes that come in a huge glass plus a container of extra. I was so justified in ordering this milkshake. Oh, and the baby wanted it. AND I've eaten roasted vegetables with polenta or brown rice about eight times this week.)

I felt shaky and tired for the rest of the afternoon, but I'm mostly fine. Fine enough, anyway, that I decided I absolutely had to do paint touch-ups in Suzannah's room, our bedroom, and the kitchen tonight. Can't really blame that on pregnancy, though -- that is my normal.