Total Fail

I had to call The Center this morning.  Worse yet, I had a day to think about it and freak myself out. 

It all started Saturday night.  We'd joined my friend for a fantastic birthday dinner, and I ordered sensibly, ate some delicious Korean BBQ, brown rice, and veggie slaws, and had a perfectly acceptable post-dinner sugar level.  (This was after my husband made me walk around the bar at the restaurant and circle our table several times since I wasn't getting my standard post-dinner walk.) 

After dinner, we stayed for several more hours enjoying the company, sang Happy Birthday in an unintentional round, and headed home for the night after 10:00 p.m., getting home at 11:00, leaving me with a dilemma:  to snack or not to snack.

Daily, I am supposed to eat breakfast, a snack, lunch, a snack, dinner, and a night time snack, too.  The point is to spread out my carb intake, ensuring I get enough carbs for my energy and the baby's growth, but to space them out out so I don't get any spikes.  Occasionally, I have fallen asleep without my night snack, but that's happened when I've had a later dinner, did my test, and pretty much zonked out afterwards.  But, I should eat the night snack to make sure my morning fasting rate isn't too low.  A drop in my sugar levels is also a big no-no.    Saturday night, I ate my dinner at a regular time for me--about 7:40--and they don't like you going 12 hours without eating, which, if I *didn't* eat a snack, I would be doing if I went to bed without a snack.

For the record, the huge fresh baked brownie a la mode that everyone had at the restaurant in no way influenced my decision to have a snack.  If it had, I would have had something resembling a dessert, not a piece of toast with peanut butter and a glass of milk.  Not that it wasn't tasty, but it was no megabrownie.

Not shown actual size. Actual size of said megabrownie a la mode was roughly the diameter of the moon.  Actually, more like one of Jupiter's moons.  I'm thinking Ganymede or, my personal favorite, Io.  (Only because one of my favorite moravecs is from there, not because I hear they have good brownies.  And no, I don't think anyone will get this particular reference, but that's ok, too.)

The problem was, though, we had to get up bright and early to go to church the next morning.  So when I woke up, it had only been about 8 hours since my snack.  I waited as long as I could, tested, and, sadly, was 3 measly points over the limit.   I'd hoped by waiting until the last possible moment, I'd give my body a chance to process a little more sugar.  Didn't work. 

That alone wouldn't have been an issue, because I'd never "failed" at fasting before.  The rule is, you have to fail twice at the same testing time before they want you to report yourself to the Center.  

What got me was, I had to eat breakfast and then head to church right after my fasting-test.  So, normally I wake up, test, poke around the house a bit, and then test.  Or, if I'm heading to the office or have some place I need to  be, I wake up, test, shower & get ready, then make myself breakfast.  This was the fastest fast-test-eat turnaround I'd had.

So I ate my breakfast, picking foods I *knew* were safe.  Sausage.  1/2 a sourdough English muffin.  Some margarine.  I'd eaten this same combo many times before and never had a higher reading than 115--15 points below the cutoff.

But I'd never eaten them after starting with an elevated blood sugar range.

So, as the organ prelude is filling the church, I pop out of the pew to the restroom, wash my hands, and head into the Family Room.  (For the record, don't get me started on churches that don't have a family room.  They suck.)  I set my kit out, poke my finger, and...

This guy shows up. 

Ok, not really, but he might as well have.   Two--count them, TWO points over the limit.

But after my Cream of Failure a few weeks ago, I get no more "tries" at breakfast.  I had to call The Center.  Which is closed on Sunday.

So I slunk back to my pew, let myself become engrossed in the service, listened to one of Pastor Doug's excellent sermons on Unanswered Prayer (wondering if I should have prayed before I pricked myself), and then told my hubby on the way home that I was a big ol' ball of fail, and had to call in.

The rest of the day, I ate normally (for a Voodoo Doll) and had normal readings all day long.   Dinner was terrible, but that's because my fish exploded and I dumped bacos everywhere.  (Today Seltzer blew up all over the kitchen so I think there is just something weird going on here).  But my readings were fine, which is the important thing.

Until today. 

I woke up, tested--good reading, good start for the day--made some breakfast, tested again--another good reading--and considered just "forgetting" to call.  Unfortunately I hardly ever forget to do things I'm supposed to do, especially with regard to making phone calls.

So I call in.  I report myself, head hanging in shame.  Of course, they can't see that on the phone, but maybe they knew.  And I fessed up to what had happened.  And I told them WHY I thought it had happened.

Did I get a slap on the wrist?  Threatened with insulin?  Told to give up the sausages?

Nope.

The Center's henchlady told me that I was probably right--that the late night snack, followed by insufficient fasting time, and back to back fast-test-eat pattern was probably the issue, and that it didn't, in of itself, mean there was any problem or reason to change my routine.   She noted my next appointment was next week, and she was putting this down in my chart, but that I would just need to come in as already scheduled, and keep an eye on my sugar to see if there were any patterns or particular meals that I was having a problem with. 

So, yeah, I'm a failure. 

But at least I'm not a failure on insulin. 

Going to a Restaurant with a Voodoo Doll

Tonight, Pinky & her husband are joining one of Pinky's best friends for a dinner celebration at a brewhouse.  I rarely drank before my pregtastic state, so I don't mind being DD for everyone who wants to sample all the hop-happenings.  And this particular restaurant is a chain, with a great menu selection, so I am looking forward to a fun evening, without any concern that there won't be anything that I can eat. 

For dinner, this is usually the case for a Voodoo Doll.  Dinner's the easiest meal to work with.   You get 2-3 starches, 2 veggies, 2 proteins, and 2 fats.  Just about any meal will meet these criteria, so long as you are flexible, and/or can read the labels yourself.  For example, a few nights ago, we grilled up some tasty cheeseburgers, and I still got tater tots on the side, even after eating a regular bun.  Why?  For some reason, Roman Meal buns are about 1/2 the carbs as their Country Harvest counterparts.  That may be because the Roman Meal buns are smaller, but they aren't 1/2 the size.  All I can figure is either Roman Meal uses more whole grains, or less refined sugars, than Country Harvest.  Either way, I like Roman Meal well enough and they happened to be cheaper, too, so the label was a pleasant surprise.   So I'm not going to fuss with those ridiculous sandwich thins, which are like a perforated pita, and leaked mustard on my fingers.  They didn't fool me.  It wasn't a real bun.  That burger, plus a salad, and those tots, left my blood sugar at a healthy 114.  Good deal!

But when you're out, you don't really get to read the nutrition labels.  Sometimes you might find the restaurants with their nutrition guides, but they have one flaw: they are for the meal, not per item.  So it's hard to know if the reason, say, your Buffalo Chicken Wrap is over the carb limit is because of the tortilla, the sauce, breading, or all of the above.  All you know is it's a "no."   You can start peeling off pieces of the possibly offending starch, but that's a risky move.  (For reference, see my Quiz-NOS experience, where removing 1/2 the roll still gave me a spike.  Coulda been the sauce.  Coulda been that roll is the most carb-loaded item on the planet.  Coulda been just evil, I dunno.)

So when you're out, you have to be a bit more careful.  I wouldn't order a burger AND fries when out, because I can't see the roll's breakdown, or know exactly how many fries I'm getting.  (Tots are easy to count.  9 per serving.)    And when you add the normal pregnancy restrictions/recommendations, such as avoiding raw fish, raw eggs, and unpasteurized dairy, (oh, and alcohol, too,) eating out gets a little more tricky.  But if the restaurant is willing to, say, switch your bleu for cheddar (since bleu isn't always pasteurized, and your server is unlikely to know the source of your cheese and know whether that particular cheese was pasteurized if it is a type that isn't always made from pasteurized milk,) or leave off the aioli or hollandaise (what with their raw eggs), you are probably going to be able to pick just about anything on the menu.

Or, you could go to a restaurant where the menu states on the bottom that they won't do any substitutions, because the chef is a pretentious jerk. 

Ok, well, that isn't the exact text, but that's the message. 

Add in a fairly limited menu and a waiter who, when told matter-of-factly that you have gestational diabetes and would like to know how strict they are with the "policy" regarding switcheroos says, "hey, don't get mad at ME," as if you'd thrown your steak knife at him, waited for the cut to well up, and drizzle some lemon juice in that open wound, and you have a recipe for a fussy Voodoo Doll. 

I won't call out the restaurant on here for a couple of reasons.  One, it's local, so most of you reading this will never have the occasion to stage an angry boycott anyway, and two, a good friend of mine quite likes the place and I don't want the waiter to spit in his food in the future.  But, if you like riddles, and can figure it out, here is the name:

Two words:

First word is a new show on the SyFy channel that is based on a Stephen King story,

First letter of the second word is the first letter of a kids' toy and cartoon show that totally rocked the 80's, because it's about "real american heroes,"

Followed by the name of the Jetsons's dog,

Ending with a word that rhymes with a word that means to exfoliate, or what you do to a potato.

Got it?

Ok, anyway, after establishing that they couldn't adjust a salad to remove an egg, you know, because lettuces grow in the field with poached eggs already on them, I ended up ordering a salad with duck breast on it.  Hubby was ordering shrimp and grits, and we were going to share.   This would have been an excellent meal if the food wasn't awful.

Actually, if I had Hubby's meal instead, I'd have been fine, because I'm a sick individual who likes soggy fatty bacon, which snuggled each grilled shrimp.  I ate all of the bacon and two of the shrimp.  Hubby was disgusted by watching me eat the bacon, but hoped at least I got some protein out of it, because the salad was a wreck.

Ever watch Top Chef and watch someone get sent home from a salad?  It seems pretty pathetic, getting sunk by a salad, because amateur home chefs know a salad is pretty darn simple and follows a few basic rules:  have a variety of tasty ingredients, have a good dressing, and don't overdress it.   My sister, for example, makes her own dressing, which is fabulous, and my Hubby wants to inject directly into his veins.  She shakes it up fresh, different each time, with fresh herbs, oils, vinegars, and adjusts it to fit the salad.  

I'd think at a place where the chef is so confident in his creations that he prints it on the menu that you can eat it as it is served or can go jump off a cliff, they'd make their own dressings. 

And I think they did.  It was just awful.

For the record, I'm practically part deer.  You give me a salt lick and I'm a happy camper.  So when I tell you that this dressing was too salty, that's saying it was actually inedible.  But I ate it anyway.

And of course, the focus of this salad was the duck breast. 

I admit, if there is duck on a menu, I will order it, unless one of two things occur:  (1) it's a duckling, because I don't eat baby anythings except corn or carrots, or (2) my sis beats me to it and then I want a bite of hers.    Duck shows up on menus so rarely that I feel compelled to indulge.   I don't remember when I first tried duck, but it started me down a road that led to quail and other less traditional fowl.  Duck, duck, goose, mmm!  That's the best menu ever.

I sliced a piece of the duck and put it into my mouth, and it wasn't fowl.  It was foul.   Absolutely terrible.  I don't know what they did to the duck--it didn't taste overcooked.  I can't tell you what was wrong with it and I wish I could, but it didn't taste like duck.  All I can think is they imported this duck from the gulf, and I was tasting Duck a la British Petroleum, but they'd failed to use the Dawn to wash its troubles away first.  (I love that commerical!) 

So with salty greens and inedible duck, you'd think I'd have sent it back.

I didn't.

A waiter who is rude to a pregnant woman asking about substitutions is not the kind of man I want handling my food.   The dressing was liquified sodium, and the bird was nasty, but neither would have been improved with the addition of his saliva.

So I ate my greens, ignored the duck, and did the waiter ask if the food was ok?  Nope.  When he took away the plate with the duck essentially untouched, did he ask if there was a problem?  Nope.

Will I ever go back there?

Nope.

But I'm not worried about that tonight.  We're going to a place that rhymes with "A Guard Mouse," and we're going to have a great time.

Sweet Cheats!

I don't think I've ever plowed through an entire 1-pound box of Sees.   I've never, even in my most heartbroken depression, devoured a pint of Ben & Jerry's in a single solo sitting.   That "whole bag of oreos" thing?  I just like it as a metaphor.  They're metaphor-cookies.  Really.

But I do have a sweet tooth. 

After several months of first trimester "random-time-of-day-sickness," I was definitely enjoying flashing my pregnancy card in my second trimester to entitle me to ice cream, cookies, donuts...ok, things I was already eating more than I ought to have before I was ever pregnant.  But the pregnancy gave me a "get out of guilt free" pass.   At least, it did in my head, where it counts.  Especially considering the fact that I had actually lost weight in my first trimester, and for once, I wanted to watch my waistband expand. 

And it did.  I was finally about on track for my weight gain by the end of my second trimester, with one visit recording a staggering (to me, anyway) ten-pound gain in a month's time.   My doctor said that was fine, though--she said everyone gets one "spurt" that they don't worry about, and for me, considering that it was only at the prior visit that I actually regained my pre-pregnancy weight, this spurt was probably needed, because I hadn't put on the weight most people do by that point in a pregnancy.  (I'll post my blood sugar levels here, but if you think I'm posting my weight on this, you're crazy).  Let's just leave it at this:  I'm not very tall and my weight was in the normal BMI range, so, I know for some women who start out their pregnancy heavier, they don't worry if you don't put on much weight for the first few weeks, but I didn't have a lot of cushion in that regard. 

Was I worried about turning into a pumpkin by my Halloween due date?  Not particularly.  Maybe I should have been--and everyone has told me that the "perk" of being a Voodoo Doll is that massive weight gain just won't happen, assuming you are following the plan, because of what you are allowed to eat, and the exercise you are supposed to be doing.    But that wasn't my real concern.   Wrong or not, given the option, I think I would have rather put on too much weight during this pregnancy and been able to eat what I wanted, when I wanted, and later have to fight it off, vs. get stuck with gestational diabetes and have a much more constrained weight gain. 

So when I was preparing to be tested to find out if I was a Voodoo Doll, I admit, there was one thing I kept fixating on, picking at it like a scab:  No cake at my own baby shower.  And there was a reason for that:  a few years back, at my sister's baby shower, there are two things I remember about the cake:  One, there was a stork on the cake that everyone thought was a duck, and it drove my mother crazy, and two, my sister had the tiniest sliver of the cake possible, and it was HER cake.  I think I was traumatized by that.

When I got the news that I had, indeed, failed both the 1 hour AND the 3 hour tests, and would be forced to eat "sensibly" and "be active" (isn't eating an activity?), you better believe that the first thing I thought of was this:  No cake at my shower. 

Well, I got to experience a sneak preview of that the next day at work, where I faced not one, but TWO cakes.   I ate salad and pouted. 

So, at my first clinic visit, I asked a lot of questions about Sweet Cheats.  You know, sugar free, fake food products that I could still have, even while being a Voodoo Doll.

The first thing the clinician told me is, if I wanted Hershey's Kisses, I could have them.  Like, one per meal.  And that's good to know.  But the willpower to eat one kiss and not a handful?  For me, it's better to just pretend they don't exist.  A bite of something--unless it's a Bordeaux from Sees--just makes me want more. 

What was better news was all the Sweet Cheats I *could* have, in portion sizes that humans eat.   Sugar free jello.  Sugar free popsicles.  (Much appreciated in this recent heat.)  These were "free" foods that didn't even count towards my other meals or snacks--which, especially when it comes to a popsicle, it was nice to have after my post-dinner exercise and blood test, when my "night snack" would be more than an hour away.  And I get a whole popsicle.  Not a bite, then shove it back in the freezer, another bite four hours later, shove it back in the freezer, repeat ad nauseum.

Other cheats? Sugar free pudding, sugar free ice cream--mine is sweetened with Splenda, sugar free mousse, sugar free frozen yogurt.  These weren't free, because they counted as my milk serving.  But, I get three milk servings a day, one per snack.  So, I still couldn't eat even a whole pint of sugar free Breyers, but I certainly don't feel deprived if I'm eating a pudding cup and chomping on some almonds.  (Every milk must also have a protein portion.)   She even told me I could make smoothies.

And smoothies have basically been my salvation.  We got a rocket blender when we got married, and I had used it exactly twice, to marginal results.  (Aioli and pesto.)  Now, it lives on my counter, and is working overtime. 

So, here are some of my favorite smoothie "recipes," and I use that term loosely, because I basically eyeball everything and throw in whatever I want, so long as it's allowed. 

Chocolate Peanut Butter Banana Smoothie:
Ice + either chocolate or vanilla SF ice cream (I prefer Breyers) + 2 T peanut butter (creamy) + small banana (or 1/2 large banana) + a little splash of milk + SF chocolate syrup (if you were using vanilla ice cream, that is).    Rocket blender it, drink!

The best thing about that one?  It's a complete snack.  The PB is your protein, the milk and ice cream are your milk serving, and the banana is your fruit.  Great in the afternoon.

Yogurt & Fruit Smoothie:
Ice + 1 container light yogurt in whatever flavor you have + fruit, best if frozen + splash of milk.  Rocket blender, drink!

You can mix and match fruits--strawberry yogurt + banana added, or go for an overdose of berry, like I did with blueberry yogurt and frozen blueberries.  

This one is delicious, but you need a protein source too, so you either have to eat a protein portion on the side, OR, add protein powder to the mix.  Once I got a carton of protein powder from Trader Joes, it was easier, because honestly?  I don't want to eat a handful of nuts with every drink, or snack on cheese too, while I am trying to enjoy my shake.  The protein powder does have some carbs in it, but fairly low, and a serving is two scoops, while I only use one.  Nutritionally, I've compared it to the peanut butter, and the peanut butter is actually worse in that department:
PB:  1 serving = 2 T, 200 cal, 16 g fat, 7 carbs, 8 g protein;
Protein powder (vanilla): 2 scoops (I only use one, so I am halving the amounts for the values): 65 cal, 1 g fat, 5.5 carbs, 8 g protein. 

So I am getting the same protein but actually less fat and fewer carbs.  And I love peanut butter but it does not belong in a yogurt shake!

My favorite cheat? 

Frosted Mocha Shake: 
This one is full of so many cheats it's ridiculous:
Ice + milk (and/or a little sf ice cream, if you have it, you don't need it) + 3 tsp of sugar free decaf international foods instant mocha coffee mix + sf chocolate syrup + protein powder, Rocket blend, pretend you're at Starbucks!   

Here, you've got all these sugar free products, so this isn't one you should have *every* day, because while the splenda based products are "free," they don't want you overdosing on aspartame and other artificial sweeteners.  But in limited amounts, they are a much needed treat!  And if you can find them all with splenda as the base instead?  Knock yourself out! 

Finally, last but not least, a non-smoothie, non-creamy drink that I also think is a lifesaver, for a few different reasons.

First, I miss juice.  I love juice.  Juice is a no-no when you are a Voodoo Doll.   Second, I take iron supplements due to my low hemoglobin levels.  I am supposed to take it with OJ because iron absorption is increased with Vitamin C.  But I hadn't been able to do that.  And my hemoglobins were not increasing.   But, thanks to my Aunt Sue, I tried some "diet" juice from Ocean Spray.  It's sweetened with Splenda (bingo!) and has only a few carbs per serving--as few as my sugar free popsicles.  So I count it as "free." 

But, since I take my iron at breakfast (where it won't be mixing with dairy, which actually blocks iron absorption, and I can't have milk at breakfast), and breakfast is the meal where most people are likely to spike in their sugars because you've been fasting overnight, I don't want to risk an entire glass of even this "diet" juice.

My solution?  1/2 serving of juice in a big, tall glass, and fill with sparkling water.  Now you've got a juice spritzer that is better than what you can buy.  Most "juice spritzers" have almost no juice in them, and little to no Vitamin C.  This has 50% of your Vitamin C, actual juice, and no carb impact.  I can have juice at breakfast, take my iron, get my C's, and the other nice perk?  It's easier on the wallet than drinking straight juice, because a bottle of sparkling water costs much less than juice. 

Since I'm not a doctor and don't play one on TV, I can't say that all these things are "good" for you.  I can just say they haven't made me have a single spike, and if I enjoying an ice cream shake or a yogurt smoothie, I am in a better mood, and c'mon, who doesn't want that?

Pinky Visits the Herpetologist and Goes for Yogurt

Yesterday, I had to see the hematologist. For some reason, my brain keeps trying to say the "blood doctor" is the herpetologist. That's a snake scientist and I know that.

I would blame "pregnancy brain" for the slip but honestly I have been known to do things like that even without the assistance of extra hormones, inadequate sleep, and a dancing baby wriggling inside while I am trying to think.

For the record, it's not exactly the gestational diabetes that sent me to visit the, uh, blood doctor. About a month ago--actually, at the same time they ran my 1 hour blood glucose test that ultimately sent me down the Voodoo Doll path--they also ran an antibody scan because I am Rh negative (B- blood type) and wanted to make sure I wasn't "fighting" the baby's blood, and did a CBC (complete blood count) to see how things were going in Pinky on a cellular level.

Things weren't going so well. My hemoglobin count (indicating iron) was low. I was started the next day on an iron supplement. My white blood cell count was high--indicating...well, that's why I ended up at the blood doctor. Because usually it indicates infection. But I wasn't sick. After testing and retesting and running some other, uh, tests, my counts weren't changing.  My OB/GYN said the gestational diabetes might be playing a role, but if that were "all," every woman with GD would have similar levels, and they don't.  So I was sent to the hematologist and wasn't given an appointment until yesterday.

In I went, and wrote out my health history, and I was called back to a room where they weighed me and took my vitals.

Then a lady came in and said, "Which finger?" Heh. Seriously, no preamble, no explanation, not even a hello. Just, "Which finger?"

"For what?" I asked.

"We need to get a blood sample."

I was surprised, because this Voodoo Doll has gotten quite a bit of blood drawn in the last 7 months, and never have they asked for a finger. They want veins. The gold mine.

Then again, what else would they want a finger for? Fingerprints? Finger sandwiches? Finger puppets?

I shrugged. "Look, I have gestational diabetes. I prick myself four times a day. Pick a finger, any finger, it'll work."

She picked my middle finger. So I gave it to her.

I have no idea what she used to skewer my fingertip, but it was no quickprick autolancet. Then she set about squashing it into a tube for a few minutes, then smeared my finger all over a few slides. I probably should have stopped watching at this point.

Next, an RNP came in to get a more detailed health history. This took longer than it should have because (a) my health history is less straightforward than it should be and (b) I am not sure she was listening very well. Fortunately, I watched what she wrote and she didn't write anything down until she'd gotten it straightened out in her head.

She also had the results from my blood tests. The tests they just poked my finger for ten minutes earlier. I was impressed!

Less than impressive were all the H's and L's. Seriously. For the roughly 20 or so levels they checked, about half either were marked with an H (too high) or an L (too low.) Honestly, I was reading it upside down, and we didn't go over most of them, so I don't even know all of the "failures" in my blood.

The worst part? My WBC's were even higher than the last, oh, three times they'd been checked (which had been holding steady up until then, even if they were holding steady in an elevated range.) And no, my iron wasn't any higher. All my RBC levels were low. So I'm paying extra for that iron supplement that my insurance sees no need to cover because of why again? 

The RNP left with my health history for the doctor to review, and the doctor came in a bit later. Honestly, I am not sure why they asked for my health history when I got there, because the RNP hadn't read it. And I'm not sure why the RNP asked for my health history later, because the doctor hadn't read that, either.

Still, we discussed my pregnancy, my blood levels, and he gave me his diagnosis: NO CLUE!

Well, that's one I'm used to.

He said that the way my white blood cells broke down, it was unlikely to be a leukemia or lymphoma, which I already knew from my own OB/GYN. But he said it could be a chronic myeloma of some sort, but doubted it, since that usually hit people in their 60's. That should have comforted me more, but I've been called a "medical mystery" more often than I'd like, and have often defied the categories of what should be happening based on my demographics. (Such as having a failed gallbladder at 28, when that usually strikes older women and heavier women, or having heart attacks--induced by a virus--at 30.)

But he also said it could be stress-induced. Me? Stressed? I've never heard such a thing! (Is the sarcasm translating to text?) Mostly, he said he didn't know and we'd (a) run more tests (YIPPEE!) and (b) follow up with me in two weeks, when the tests would all be back.

The good news though? He determined that, due to my lack of external symptoms and 98.6 temp, I'm not contagious to anyone, which was a relief. 

And so he was done with me. But I wasn't done for the day. Nope. I got sent down to the lab because--you guessed it--they want more blood. Apparently the finger assault was just the opening salvo, and my veins would, in fact, be needed.


I opened the door to the lab and did a double-take. I have been a little addlebrained lately but I was sure I hadn’t left the building and was not already sneaking off to get some sugar free fro yo. But the décor could have convinced me otherwise. The last time I had seen so much lime green plastic was at Yogurtmania, where I have two stamps towards a free treat.

I was quickly escorted back to a cubicle and placed in the padded throne. I watched as the phlebotomist counted out the vials she’d need me to fill, based on all the different tests the hematologist ordered.

One.

Two.

Three.


Four (this one was bigger than the others).

Five (another whopper).

Six.


She stuck labels on each and then grabbed three MORE vials. Fortunately she just wanted me to squeeze those so I’d pop a vein. What, no squeezie toy?

She found her vein easy enough and I wisely began examining every other object in the cubicle while she stabbed me and began filling up all six vials.

Amazingly, I wasn’t lightheaded when I walked out a few minutes later—considering my low hemoglobin levels, I probably should have been—and was done being a Voodoo Doll for the day.


Or at least until my post-dinner prick.

No Whammy, No Whammy, No Whammy!

Does anyone else remember Press Your Luck?  This little guy?  (The image is probably trademarked and I'm totally using him under the Fair Use Doctrine, so there!)

The contestants would sit and wait for the perfect moment to depress their plungers to make the board stop moving its little light up rings around various amounts of money, but if it lands on THAT guy, they're outta luck.


That is how it has felt for the last week every time I stick a test strip into my glucometer. 

If you've been following along with this Voodoo Doll who has to prick herself 4x daily, you may recall that I had two spikes last week (one at breakfast and one at lunch) and a third NEAR-spike where I hit the upper limit (130) allowed after a burrito with some questionable sauce.  (Possibly too much sugar in Del Taco's sauce, says the Peanut Gallery.)   The rule is, if I get two spikes after the same meal time (or fasting time), then I am in trouble. 

The first few weeks of dealing with gestational diabetes, I was vigilant, but not really stressed about it.  I was reading my little journal from Global Dynamics/The Center/Evil Clinic and following the diet and exercise regimen, and getting good numbers in response.  But after those 2 (3?) spikes, I began to dread the glucometer. 

Because three strikes and I'm out.  (Well, technically it's 2 at the same time and I'm out, but I already am down in the count for breakfast and lunch, and the pitcher is looking at me like he wants to throw a curveball, or possibly bean me in the head.)

That's when I have to call the Center.  Will they put me on insulin?  I don't know.  I hope not.  I hope that if I can track the reason for the spike and avoid repeating the same behavior that caused the spike, I can stay off insulin.   But I don't know their policy, how many "spikes" they allow before they say, "That's it, Pinky, this isn't something you can control and so it's the syringe for you!"  And honestly?  I just don't want to have to find out.  I want to have good, low numbers every time, and I don't want to deal with the Center until my next regularly scheduled visit in a few weeks.

Which means avoiding the Whammy. 

So I've been cheating.  No, not really 'cheating' as in, not testing, testing late, fakin' my numbers.  I don't want to do anything that will harm The Niblet.   As it is, I was told I have a high level of amniotic fluid and that's GD related, they think.   With that comes risks of preterm labor, a detached placenta, and me bleeding out.  I'd like to avoid all of those, thanks. 

So I cheat in a different way.  Dinner says, "2-3 starch, 2 veggies, 2 protein, 2 fat."   But instead I have a salad with dressing (veggie and fat) and a shish kabob (2 protein, big hunks of steak, and another veggie--bell pepper and onion laced along the skewer.)    Notice what I didn't have?

And I've been doing it a lot.    1/2 slice of toast instead of 2 that I'm allowed.  Hawaiian style pork and green beans, no rice or macaroni salad at all.  (And eating Hawaiian food without rice or macaroni salad is nearly criminal, so don't tell anyone I did that.  They'll take away my Spam privileges.)

Because I am scared of the Whammy.  So my sugar levels have been pretty low.  Not too low, still in range, for sure.  But many times, not even over 100 after a meal.    Which isn't surprising if I ate only 1 of 2 allowed carbs, or skipped them entirely. 

But I just can't deal with the Whammy.  I don't like getting nervous and antsy as I watch the clock tick towards the one hour mark when I need to test. 

I get up to test and I feel (almost) as nervous as I did waiting for the computer screen to tell me whether I'd passed the Bar.  But I only had to do that ONCE.   I have to do this 4x a day.

I stick in the test strip, the glucometer beeps and the game's begun.  I grab my autolancet device and depress the plunger, loading the needle.  I pick a lucky finger.  I click the yellow button that jabs me ever so lightly, and I wait for the little red dot to appear on my finger.  I drop the autolancet and grab my finger with the opposite hand, and squeeze so the dot expands, growing from a dot to a splotch, and then take my finger and guide it to the end of the test strip.

The blood zips up the strip like it's being sucked up by a straw.  The glucometer beeps again and the screen flashes to an image of a little hourglass.  What is this, Pictionary?   I hold my breath as I wait, but still reach over to rip a handful of toilet paper off the stand so I can wrap up my bloody fingertip before I smear red all over the bathroom.   All the while thinking, "No Whammy.  No Whammy.  No Whammy."
Which makes every meal a time I have to decide to Press My Luck.  Will I skip the carbs entirely?  If I do, will I have enough energy to go upstairs?   Do I deviate at all from a known "safe meal," even though I am bored silly with eating the same few items and might possibly overdose on peanut butter and eggs?

This morning, I decided I would go for it. 

I followed some excellent advice (Thanks, Aubrey!) and traded in the evil Cream of Wheat for Steel Cut Irish Oats. (For the record, it isn't oatmeal and doesn't taste like oatmeal. It's way more fibrous and chunky than that.  But a sprinkle of cinnamon and Splenda and it was still quite good, but you will not confuse it for Quaker Instant, assuming you have a tongue.)

I also followed my Aunt Sue's suggestion and tried some diet juice --Ocean Spray Blue-Pom, 4 calories, 2 carbs in a cup, (I had 1/2 a cup), and a good dose of Vitamin C to take with my Iron supplement.  (Oh, yeah, because I have gestational diabetes, low iron, high white blood cell counts, and am Rh-negative.  Anything else I'm forgetting?)  I had originally been told to take the Iron with OJ but as soon as I was told I had GD there was no way I could have any OJ.  It's a spike in a glass.    Aunt Sue suggested the juice, and I didn't think I could have it, but when I read the label--Splenda sweetened (check!) and only 2 carbs in a cup?  I thought it was worth a shot, and a good way to get my extra C.  (Which apparently I need.  After several weeks on the iron, my last blood draw did not show any improvement in the low hemoglobin department.  Maybe this will help my body get the iron.  And I take the iron at breakfast because I am not supposed to mix it with milk, and I can't have milk at breakfast, so that works.) 

But despite the advice, I was still nervous.  Was any hot cereal going to be a problem?  Would even diet juice send me for a spike?  Was I being stupid for even trying these instead of just sticking with my morning eggs and 1/2 an english muffin?  Was I wrong for lusting after juice?

I pressed my luck. 

And there was no whammy. 

Take that, gestational diabetes!

SPIKE!

Pinky the Voodoo Doll will unashamedly state that she is a Buffy the Vampire Slayer aficionado. (It sounds so much nicer than "addict" or "groupie.") She is also a bigger fan of Spike than Angel, and can give you a list of why Spike is better. (That's for another post.) However, I now must go on the record and say that I like Spike on TV and I do not like to see a SPIKE in my blood sugar.


After yesterday's Cream of Wheat debacle, I thought I'd play it safe the rest of the day. Protein only snack after breakfast. Low(ish) carb lunch. So far, so good. And for dinner? Food very similar to the same thing I had eaten for dinner the previous two nights.

So what went wrong?

That's where I am scratching my head, because I still got a SPIKE.

Technically, I still passed. It was exactly 130. My sugar must be 130 or lower, so this one doesn't count towards my "two spikes after the same meal and you have to call in Manticore." It did, however, make me nervous. And fussy. Because with the prior two spikes, after Quiz-NOs and after the Cream of Wheat, I could directly trace it back to excessive bread/excessive processed carbs. I didn't think, going into it, that either item WOULD make my blood spike, but I could go back afterwards and say, Well, I hate you, Quiz-NOs, and Cream of Wheat, you can bite me.

That wasn't the case last night, though, because I'd eaten just like I'd BEEN eating. All three nights, I was out and needed to rely on a drive through/fast food place to feed me my dinner. Tuesday: Rubios: Shrimp Burrito. Wednesday (after breastfeeding class): Taco Bell: Two chalupas, but I only ate one of the "shells." Thursday: Del Taco: Chicken burrito. All three had a mix of protein and veggies and a wrappable bread product. For dinner, I get 2-3 starches, so the tortilla or chalupa shell (1) should have been ok.

Tuesday post-dinner sugar: 121.


Wednesday post-dinner sugar: 115.

So why the frustrating Thursday?



Ok, so I admit that the difference between Tuesday's reading and Thursday's reading is only 9 points. But 121 doesn't rile me up. 130 does. Because just one more point--testing maybe a minute sooner?--and I'd have then lined myself up for ANY other spike requiring a call to The Center. So I don't like risking it.

So the logical part of me wants to know: What's up, Thursday burrito, why the 130 when a similar (heck, bigger!) Tuesday burrito didn't have me sweating?

At this point, I don't know. I have a theory, but it could be wrong.

Tuesday, I was eating consistently at about the right times for me to be eating. I am supposed to eat every 2-3 hours. On Tuesday, I ate my snack at 5:00 and dinner at 8:00. 3 hours, pretty much exactly. Thursday, though, I ate my snack at 3:20 and then went bridesmaid dress shopping (or observing the shopping, since I am too oddly shapen to try on dresses at this point) with my best friend and her sister in law, who modeled for us. I thought we'd be done in an hour or so but it took longer, and by the time I got to eat, it was 8:45, partially because the drive through line was really long and they screwed up my order. (I wonder if they screwed up other people's orders, too, contributing to the really long line?)

Then I had my spike into the almost-danger zone. So...was it the time lapse? Was it that I had gone so long without food that I caused the spike?

Could be. Both nights, I had a little-post-dinner walking, but not much. Not enough. And not more one night than another.

So now I am going to be even MORE vigilant about when I eat. I should have marched right into the bridal salon with my dinner. They may have frowned on that, but what if I brought enough for the whole class?  And promised not to use the veils as a napkin?



Besides, who is going to argue with a hungry pregnant woman?


Oh, that's right, the jerkface waiter at Haven Gastropub. But that's another story.

Farewell, Cream of Wheat

I suppose I celebrated too soon.  On the bright side, after one week on the Voodoo Doll Diet, I didn't have a single elevated blood sugar reading.   That meant NO INSULIN!   And there was much rejoicing!

But I think it also meant that, in my head, I had myself convinced that I didn't *really* have gestational diabetes.  You know, that I shouldn't be trying to drink an ultra-dense, uber-sugary drink that I would never drink INTENTIONALLY anyway just to spike my sugar levels, but if I ate "like a normal person,"  I would be fine.

I would be wrong.

Two days ago I was helping my husband set up his classroom before the onslaught of munchkins, set to invade this upcoming Tuesday.  Channeling the powers of my librarian mother, I took on the task of organizing all the books, separating fiction from non, getting all of the Arthur books together, and testing my memory by getting all the Arch Books in order, from Old Testament to New.  (Daniel is before or after Elijah?  Some of these I had as a kid, and some may actually be as old as the ones I had growing up.  I don't know who gave me these books, but my money is on Uncle Tim & Aunt Sue.)  Lifting stacks of books while you are 30 weeks pregnant is less than fun, but getting up and down from the floor is the bigger challenge.  I had worked up an appetite!  So I set out to grab us lunch. 

I'm not terribly familiar with the area of my husband's new school.  Enough that I don't get lost most of the time.  I know of only one close shopping center where I could find us lunch, and ended up at Quiznos.  I knew I could have 2 carbs for lunch, and got a turkey sub--toasted, with pesto and cheese.  I even took off the top part of the roll for 1/2 the sub and gave it to my hubby.  (He couldn't resist--it was covered in pesto, and pesto is crack cocaine, but without the nasty criminal charges attached.)  And I went back to working.  No, I wasn't walking around much, but I was up and down, sorting and sifting, lifting and hefting, sweating like a pregnant piggie.

And an hour later, my sugar was 10 over the limit. 

Well, thanks a lot, Quiznos.  You and your singing hands with faces and googley eyes that creep out everyone except my mom, you can take that singing hand and wave goodbye to Pinky until November.

Lesson learned.  Or not.

The rule with The Center/Manticore/Wolfram & Hart is that I need to contact them if I have two irregular readings at the same time of the day.  So, the next day for lunch, you better believe I went protein style when we hit In n Out and only poke at a fry or two.  Blood sugar:  98.   (Acceptable range one hour after lunch: 60-130.)  98 is great!

This morning, I woke up with a grumbly in my tumbly.  Eggs?  Eh.  Toast?  Again?  I really wanted cereal.   But cereal without milk is pointless.  Unless...the cereal doesn't need milk!  I consult my little guidebook:  a ha!  Hot cereal serving size = 1/2 cup.    And I don't need milk to make Cream of Wheat.  So I eat some cottage cheese for my protein servings while my water is nucrowaving for the CoW, and then mixed in a little sugar free jelly in the piping hot goodness that is Cream of Wheat.

And then my blood sugar was THIRTY over the limit. 

Did I inadvertantly mix in some Glucola in my Cream of Wheat? 

It wasn't just a bit too high. My heart actually started racing--is this going to hurt our little girl?  (Probably not.)  Will I need insulin?  (I better not.)  What the HECK did Cream of Wheat do to me?

I tested again 15 minutes later and it had gone down a measly seven points (but at least it was going down). 

Well, they say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  For those on the Voodoo Doll Diet, it's also the hardest.  Fewest carbs allowed (just 1 serving of a starch), no fruit, no milk.  We're more likely to have sugar spikes then, too.

So goodbye, Cream of Wheat. 

I won't skip breakfast, because it IS important that I keep my sugar levels, well, level. After sleeping and going without food for hours (hence, breaking your fast,) skipping the meal isn't an option, either.

I don't have to call The Center yet because my spikes weren't after the same meals.  But still...two strikes against me, as far as I'm concerned.   Tomorrow's breakfast has to be mega-protein and carb-light.  I might just gnaw on a cow. 

I will stick with my eggs, even though I am tired of them--and wondering about my cholesterol and what's up with that egg recall?-- or some peanut butter on toast--and worrying that I am totally overdoing the peanuts, eating peanut butter at least once a day and actual peanuts another time and thinking, will the Niblet come out allergic to peanuts if I can't ease off on the goobers? 

Those are questions for another day.  (And someone who knows more about allergies than I do.)

Prick Me All You Want, But I Draw the Line at Syringes!

Yesterday, I had my one-week follow up appointment with The Center. (Isn’t that where Jarrod escaped from in The Pretender?) I’ve decided not to refer to it as “Sweet Beginnings” as it just annoys me. I’m considering using the names of other random fictional evil corporations instead, but I just keep coming back to “Manticore.” (And I never even watched Dark Angel, but how awesome is the name Manticore? Isn’t it also the tiger that ate Roy?)


The big reason for the appointment was to check my weight gain (a pound since last week? Really?!) but also to see how I was doing overall—and whether I needed to start using insulin. If following the diet plan wasn’t enough to keep my blood sugar levels from spiking after meals, it’d be the syringe for me.


Isn’t it bad enough I have to poke my finger four times a day, force myself to bleed, and smear it around? Do I also now need to play with actual syringes?






What’s the difference, you ask? It’s the same reason I am afraid of scuba diving. As a kid, I remember hearing about your lungs popping if you don’t depressurize properly, or something, when you resurface. (I was in 3rd grade, and was all proud of myself because I knew what SCUBA stood for, because I’d seen it on Family Ties. And they say TV rots your brain.)


But with a syringe, you can die if the tiniest air bubble gets in your veins. Is that even true? I honestly don’t know. I don’t know when I heard it. I just know I don’t like syringes. I’ve had my blood drawn a ton of times, and so long as it’s just taking a little blood, I can deal. But I prefer not to get shots—and yes, I’m Rh negative so I just got a shot in the butt of Rhogam last week—because I am not a fan of syringes.


Still, in the hands of professionals, I figure they know how to handle a syringe. And I figure: I don’t. And I shouldn’t be allowed to play with sharp things, either.


So I was relieved that after discussing my blood glucose levels over the past week, my diet and exercise regimen, and my (quite-on-track) weight gain, the counselor told me that I was in the clear, and did not need to add insulin to my daily list of Pinky-Pokings. HOORAY for one test I’ve gotten “right” during this pregnancy!


And on the quick topic of Pinky-Pokings: the counselor I saw yesterday wasn’t the same one that I saw for my initial orientation, but I did tell her (and the intern sitting in our visit) that the other nurse/whatever she is conveniently omitted that I need to put the blood on the edge of the test strip, and not come down directly on top, or it WILL NOT function. I told her about the issues I had the first night, and she was very apologetic. She didn’t, however, offer a free bottle of test strips to make up for all the ones I wasted. (Maybe I should have demanded it, but whatever.) I just hope that the next ladies who have been told to steer clear of the Chocodiles who get counseled by Manticore are given better instructions than I was. Pay it forward, people!

By Request: THE CHART!

I'd been asked to post the chart they gave me at my first appointment, the one that dictates what food combinations I had to have at each meal.  Just a warning, every dietician/nurse/white coat may have a different take on what you are supposed to have.  This one certainly wasn't tailored for me--it came pre-printed in the log book--but it may not be exactly the same formulation that another health facility may mandate.  So, insert whatever disclaimer about this not giving out medical advice or diagnosing, treating, or curing any condition.  Think of it as a chart, with words on it, and go from here!

Here goes!   I also added samples of what I ate of the last week in these spots, in case you are wondering what I ate (voyeur much?) or want some suggestions of what to try.

Breakfast:  
1 starch                         1/2 a whole wheat English Muffin
1 vegetable                    V8 juice
2 protein                        Scrambled eggs
1 fat                               Margarine, plus "free" food of sugar free blackberry jam

AM Snack
1 milk                          Banana cream pie yogurt, light
1 fruit                          Strawberries (1 1/4 cup, measured when whole)
1 protein                      Babybel cheese

Lunch
2 starches                     1/2 pita and some hummus
2 vegetables                 Salad with tomato, lebanese pickles
2 protein                      Chicken shwarma
2 fat                             The olive oil pooling on top of the hummus,
                                   whatever garlic sauce is besides garlic
                                    (white and creamy, that's all I know)

PM Snack
1 milk                         1/2 cup sugar free ice cream, plus a little extra milk
1 fruit                          Small banana
1 protein                     2 Tbsp peanut butter
                                  (Blended together into a smoothie in my Rocket Blender!)

Dinner
2-3 starch                  Chow mein noodles (1/3 cup is a serving, I probably had 2 servings)
2 vegetables               Veggie mix including green beans, zucchini, carrots, and mushrooms
2 proteins                  Chicken (mushroom chicken)
                                and beef (black pepper beef)

Night Snack/Dessert
1 milk                       8 oz lowfat milk
1 starch                    Banana nut cheerios (1/2 cup)
1 protein                  1/4 cup of peanuts
                               (No, I didn't put them on the cheerios. I just ate them.)


As you can see, there is good variety here, but some combinations and things you can't have.  So, no berries on my cereal.   Hence, banana nut cheerios, because then I pretend I have a banana.

Another oddity is that you can't have milk in the morning.  So, I could have cereal in the morning, but no milk, and then I ask, WHY BOTHER?   You also may have noticed that hummus is a starch.  I hoped it'd count as a protein, but it doesn't.  Neither do refried beans--even though both are high-protein foods.  Go figure.  I bought a can of kidney beans and a can of garbanzos before I figured that out.  Sure, I like them, but I like them better when I think it's protein, less so when I realize it's that or a potato.

I've put some measurements up there, but generally the rule is, for carbs, which they are most concerned about, is aim for 15 carbs per serving.  You can actually subtract a few carbs if there is a lot of protein in the item.    For the yogurts, they actually didn't want me having the "diabetic friendly" yogurts I'd been eating from the time I got my "bad news" until I had my first appointment, because they wanted the carbs in the zone of the 12-20 carbs per serving range, and that itty bitty cup wasn't at that point.  I guess I could have two of them, if I wanted, but it's good to know you have more choices than that, because that kind only came in two flavors.  Fortunately, Yoplait Light falls right in there.  Just check the label on your favorite (or whatever is on sale). 

And for the record?  I totally got suckered into buying "Black Forest Cake" flavored Yoplait and darn it if it wasn't just dark cherry.  I even had my husband taste it, and there was not a hint of chocolate to be found. (There was a picture of cake on the label.  That's false advertising.  They're going to have to start putting a sticker on it, saying, "Does not contain cake," just like my fave salad dressing, Brianna's Vinaigrette, which has a sticker that says, "Does not contain actual strawberries."  Apparently it is supposed to go ON strawberries, but that big ol' berry is kinda confusing.) 

The other thing I was told was that I don't have to eat EVERYTHING in every meal or snack.  Specifically, I can skip the veggies at breakfast--and really, how often do you have a vegetable at BREAKFAST?  (V-8 is the way I sneak it in there, or, some diced bell pepper in my eggs.)   At any snack, I can opt out of the milk, fruit or starch, but not the protein.  Most of the time, I try to eat what I'm told in the portions I'm told, but sometimes, I'm just not hungry enough to chow down on one more item, especially if I know I am going to be eating dinner in 2 hours, or ready to go to bed soon.

But don't skip the evening snack entirely!  The concern is your blood sugar will dip too low when you sleep.  You test in the morning, your fasting rate, and if you skip your night-snack, you could have a problem.  

Still, I am eating MORE on this plan than I would have before.  For example, I already ate snacks during the day, but, taking the morning snack for example, I just would have had the Babybel, or just a yogurt, but not both, and not fruit in addition to whatever fruit might be in the yogurt.   That to me is nearly a meal.  What I am not having that I would have grabbed before is the Nutty Buddy bars, tasty as they might be as an afternoon snack, what with their waffle-like wafers laced in chocolate and smuggling peanut butter inside, or the regular cookies n cream ice cream, the kind you buy in the giant tub for $4.00, with chocolate syrup for my dessert.  (Hey, the tub is reusable, and is currently holding a bunch of pens and pencils!  It's totally environmental friendly!  That is my excuse for buying it and I'm sticking to it.)

Meanwhile, it's after lunch here, my blood sugar is good, and I get a snack once the dishwasher is done.  The rocket blender top is in there, and I wanna smoothie!

Irony Isn't Funny When it Involves Oreos

Two weeks ago, I downed a bottle of Kool-Aid's second cousin, "Glucola." Turns out, Glucola is not my friend, and I was asked to come back and try to reconcile. Days later, I was introduced to Glucola's condensed doppelganger, which was essentially an Orange Otter Pop, melted, but without any dilution.



Once again, I was told I was not playing nicely with the Glucola, and an appointment was set with me at the ironically named "Sweet Beginnings."

Personally, I think naming a center for gestational diabetes "Sweet Beginnings" is just plain rude.

I spent a good portion of the first third of my pregnancy “renting” my food. (I won’t elaborate.) Here I’d finally gotten to eat the way every future mom envisions herself during those nine (actually ten) months of pregnancy: no guilt dessert, pass the cookies BECAUSE I WANT THEM, and yes, I am having frozen yogurt for lunch, why do you ask? I was finally on track with my weight after actually shedding pounds during that less-than-amusing romp through a Roman Vomitorium. (My bad. I said I wouldn’t elaborate and there I totally did.) (And I don’t know how to spell Vomitorium, either.) Now, “Sweet Beginnings” was going to yank that bag of Hershey’s Miniatures right out of my hand, and I didn’t appreciate it. (And I have no clue how that entire bag got in my hand, honest.)


Still, I had a week to kill before my rendezvous with "Sweet Beginnings." I couldn't find a whole lot of specific information about what I should do, and all my doctor told me was a very vague instruction to avoid refined sugars (No entire carton of HoHos: check!) and drink a lot of water. There was also something about “walking,” too, but since the only way I know how to ambulate is to walk, I figured I had that part down.


So I turned to the only expert I knew: my sister, who likewise had this issue when she was pregnant with my niece. (As a side note, I’ve been told that gestational diabetes is largely genetic. Yet, our mother didn’t have it. I am wondering if Grandmom Keene has something she’s not telling us?)


My sister advised me that overall, the diet is much like “Phase 2.” That’s South Beach Speak for embracing whole wheat, eschewing cupcakes, and focusing on proteins and veggies. So that’s what I did while waiting to get my “sweet beginning” going. That’s what I did while staring at the pizza and cake at the office, and munching on my salad and cold chicken breast and trying to tell myself that salad and cake are totally the same thing and that I didn’t want cake anyway. I am such a liar.


Meanwhile, I try to completely ignore the other component to having GD: testing my blood. I was told they’d deal with that at the appointment, and give me the supplies and show me what to do. I figured if I got fixated enough on the food aspect, and sugar deprivation, I might not realize I had just been told I would have to draw my own blood four times a day for the next three months.


The day of my appointment arrives and I’m ready to go in and face the dietician/nutritionist/nurse/counselor/lady in a coat with interesting visual aids. She had a plastic potato, to show us what a potato looks like. Because I’d never seen a potato before. (Ok, ok, she was actually doing it to show the size of what they mean by a “baked potato,” as sometimes a potato can be the size of an oblong tennis ball, and other times, it’s the size of my dearly departed guinea pig, MooShoo.) My husband came with me, mostly in case I forgot anything, but also because, let’s be honest: It’s easier to have both of us listen to the restrictions and diet plan together rather than me have to regurgitate it to him later when I get home to explain to him why I can’t have fruit on my cereal (more on that later).


The dietician weighed me in and had me purchase a little book. $5 American. Yet she gave me the glucometer and automatic lancer stickum thingee for free. How generous! You’d think she could have planned it better by charging me for the medical devices and given me the spiral bound notebook for free, but I’m not complaining.

She then went through the book with me, explaining the generalities—which I knew—before getting into the specifics, which I didn’t, because they defy logic. In short, Milk is a group. It isn’t a Protein. Yogurt is in the Milk group. Cheese is not. Cheese is a Protein. Cheese is not in the Milk group. Yogurt is not in the protein group. Yet cheese is made of milk and yogurt is high in protein. You should be confused at this. Also, refried beans and hummus are not Proteins, even though I am positive they are.


She then proceeded to walk me through the chart of what I have to eat each day: 3 small meals, 3 large snacks. A large snack is still smaller than a small meal, but overall I am reminded of my Dr. Seuss Cat’s Quizzer, which asked, is a tall pygmy taller than a short giant? And I still don’t know the answer to that.


Overall, the foods I’m allowed are pretty expansive. There are very few things I can’t eat—cookies, cake, etc.—because they really can’t be done sugarless without defeating the purpose of having them in the first place. On the other hand, I can have as many sugarfree jellos as I want, and can count sugarfree ice cream in place of milk, if it’s sweetened with Splenda. Like the jello, some foods don’t even exist as far as they are concerned: garlic, mustard, vinegar, and others are “almost” free, only in that I can’t have too much at once, like sugar free jelly up to a ¼ cup of salsa. Non-stick cooking spray is also “free,” but I’ve never mainlined that into my mouth, either. (I only do that with ReddiWhip and Ez Cheez.)


Two snacks are the same, but the third is not. None of the meals are the same. Each is made up of a specific combination of veggies, proteins, milks (NOT a protein), starches, fruits, and fats. No meal or snack includes something from absolutely every category, and for the meals, you always get two proteins, and every single meal or snack has at least one protein. Some combinations, no matter how normal they seem, are never allowed: for example: I can’t have cereal and fruit. Oh, I can have cereal and milk, but then I must have a protein, no fruit. I can have fruit and milk, but no starch. So, goodbye, Special K Red Berries.


There is no way I could do this without a little grid telling me what to consume, and when.


I think she went over all of this first to make sure I was completely confused and not really focused on the fact that she would next be stabbing me with a small needle, because that’s what came next. Or rather, I had to stab myself.


I was given my gizmos: the glucometer, which looks like a mouse (for a computer, not the rodent), which is the brains of the operation; a film canister full of strips of paper that are slightly smaller than the “please sign here” stickies you put on legal papers for idiots who can’t be bothered to look for the signature line; an automatic lancet, filled with a tiny drum with six itty bitty needles, ammo in my Voodoo revolver; and a little carrying kit, sleek and black and with little straps to hold everything in, all zipped up tight.


She then showed me, in way-too-quick succession, how to replace the tiny drum when you run out of needles (use one per day, so one drum = six days), how to stick the test strips in the meter and check the code against the little microchip that comes with the strips in the film container to make sure the batch number is the same, or you’ll get a weird reading, and finally, how to jab the side of my finger with the Voodoo Revolver (lancet stick) at whatever depth you want to draw blood, touch it to the strip, and get a reading. I followed directions just fine and was ready to go.


That night, we went to the store, stocked up on things I knew I could have, and enjoyed a relatively normal dinner of a hamburger (no cheese, sadly, as the hamburger itself counted as my protein portion) on a skinny bun, which wasn’t bad, but it was kind of like a perforated pita. My mustard (mustard’s free!) kept squirting out the little holes in the bun. We then went for a little walk around our neighborhood, counting feral cats, and came back in time for me to test my blood on my own.


Or not.


I followed the directions, stuck my blood on the paper. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing. Tried a third time. Error code message. I go digging for the instruction book to figure out what’s wrong. It says “not enough blood.” There is clearly enough blood. But it’s not working. Ok, fine. I take the strip out, slather it on another stick, and plug the new stick in. Error code. “Blood was on test strip before insertion.” Well, yeah. I thought that might work. Nope.


I’m trying again and again, jabbing finger after finger, all the while getting more and more frustrated with my sore digits, fussing and cursing and crying, and getting nowhere. My husband watches, can’t figure out what I’m doing wrong either, and gets kicked out of the bathroom. I try again and again, seeing the error message of not enough blood, stabbing myself more and more and trying to smear the blood on the strip, but it just smears blood on my finger. The strip isn’t working. Try a new strip. Same problem.


After eight tries and eight sore fingers, I give up. I’ve also accidentally advanced the needle, so I’m down a needle, used up eight test strips, and all of my patience. I try to watch my favorite television show but am still too upset to even focus. I go to bed, but cannot sleep, knowing I am going to have to wake up again and get my fasting blood sugar rate in the morning, but can’t get it to work. I lay there the entire night.


I get up before my alarm and sit down with the instruction book, which the dietician never showed me. I read the specific instructions on what to do, which, again, she’d never shown me. She just had me do it, and it worked. Instantly, I find my error. At the clinic, I had touched my bloody fingertip to the very edge of the strip, coming at it from the side. At home, I was standing above it instead of sitting down, and came right down on top of the strip like I was giving my fingerprint or something. There is a coating on top of the strip, so it wouldn’t take the blood. So I easily test in the morning, but am still furious—the dietician never instructed me that if I came at it from above, the strip wouldn’t work. I talk to my husband and he says the same thing: she never said that. She just said touch it to the strip. Kind of a crucial aspect, wouldn’t you say?


Either way, I get my fasting rate. I go about my day, eating, testing, eating eating testing, observing some strange dietary guideline that isn’t Kosher but is still all about not mixing certain food groups (but allowing ham and shellfish) and doing my little walks around the neighborhood after dinner.


I’ve become a Voodoo doll, eating my Voodoo doll diet. If I’m a good doll, hopefully I will be able to give birth to a normal-sized healthy baby girl, and not a moose. Meanwhile, I can’t have cake at my shower, but I fully intend to enjoy some sugarfree ice cream, and then go poke myself, just for kicks.