I was standing in the candy aisle of the Dollar General Store when I got the call from my doctor's office.
"Hi! Your Gestinational Diabetes test came back - and it's too high-"
"Nah," I cut her off, "I'm sure I'm good. Kay? Bye!"
The nurse laughed politely - and put me in my place: "No, you need to come in for the three hour test-"
"Naaaaaaaah! I'm fine. Byeeeee!"
But she was relentless, and I was defeated.
Two days later, my weary-traveled hubs and I arrived for the Three Hour Test. I hadn't eaten since 8:30 the night before when some freak in mom jeans walks in carrying a gift tower of goodies. Harry held me back from eating through her hands to get at the sparkly cookies and fluffy baked goods.
"Holly?" it was my turn and as the woman in Cookie Monster scrubs sat me down and tied one of my chubby arms with a blue elastic she said : "No offense, but I hoped to never see you again. You're a hard stick!". I looked her in the eye. "No offense but I hoped to never see you, either!"
And off we went, she wedged a trash can between my Doc Martens and poked me, and released me back to the waiting area while telling me to "Drink this."
The bottle was tiny and menacing. I had five minutes to chug it and then wait an hour to be re-stuck. It was horrible stuff. Line someone left a Popsicle out, it melted, and now I had to drink it.
But I held it together- and chugged the foul orange goo - complaining all the while much to the merriment of the poor souls waiting in the area with us.
Four more pricks later and I was done.
I had survived and didn't have to know the results until at least Friday. I was good to go.
Well, at least I thought so.
While showering this morning I noticed large purple bruises covering the track marks up my arms.
But perhaps the biggest problem was my lack of ability to concentrate. Or to be discrete. I walked into work this morning, a place designated to help the mentally ill and the recovering addicts and squealed: "Look! I'M A JUNKIE!!"