(Not really...  but Johnny Cash was singing “Hurt” in my head a while ago, and that line seemed terribly subject-matter appropriate. If needles make you squeamish, though, you'll probably want to skip this entry. Catch ya on the flip side.)

I had an appointment Friday morning with Dr. L, the same OB who sent me straight to the hospital a couple weeks ago. This was a much happier visit, though, for reasons I totally understand: last time she didn't have the luxury of being so easy-going because she had a brand new patient – guess who – coming to her seven months pregnant,  who might at that very moment have been teetering on the brink of preeclampsia. Yeah, so this time we got a few minutes to talk, lay out some plans. Good stuff.

Thought I admit I had an underdeveloped appreciation for her proactive nature before, I was very glad for it on Friday. She took a look at my glucose logs and my food journal. She told me she was very proud of how well I’d been managing my food and watching my blood sugar levels...  and, although it wasn't due to any failure on my part, I was going to need insulin after all. This time she sent me directly from her office to the diabetes clinic to get me set up.

It sounds a little weird, I’m certain, to hear someone say she’s recently become  excited about going on insulin shots... and to be fair, maybe that isn’t the best way to put it. Perhaps it'll make more sense if I explain:

I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes almost two weeks ago, and since then have educated myself extensively on the potential hazards it can pose to my health, to my labor and delivery, and to my son if I don’t keep a tight rein on it. We’ve known since then that nutrition management might not be enough, and I told the dieticians that as soon as we knew it wasn’t, I wanted to be put on insulin so I didn’t waste a single day that I could be doing something to improve conditions for my son and his upcoming debut. I’ve said from the beginning that I’d do anything for my son’s health, and needles are certainly no exception.

Over at the clinic, I was apparently a delightful surprise to the diabetes counselor. When she, in very compassionate tones, asked me to share with her my feelings about having to go on insulin, I grinned from ear to ear and told her, “Great!” She blinked in disbelief and raised her eyebrows. "Really?"

 I told her I’d almost been anticipating it since my sugars weren’t going down, and I knew that the sooner I got started,  the better my chances of a safe delivery and a healthy son. She smiled and shook her head in apparent disbelief. “You’d think more people would be able to piece that together, wouldn't you?”

She walked me through the process of drawing the insulin from the bottles – something I saw my dad do all the time when I was younger, so it only took one run-through – and then she flashed me a hatin’-it-for-ya smile and said apologetically, “Now, the last thing is... before you leave I need to see that you can give yourself a shot.” I popped the cap off the syringe, lifted the hem of my shirt enough to bare my midriff, and stuck it right in. I looked up her and raised my eyebrows. “How’s that?” She looked stunned. Mr. Nygren looked...  away. (Never was a big fan of needles.)

Lest you think me some kind of masochist or martyr, I feel compelled to tell you: the needles are called "ultrafine" for a reason. I really, really, really can't feel them going in.  Tap your finger lightly on your belly. Feel that? That's exactly how it feels to get an insulin shot. See? No worries. If you want, I'll even do a practice stick on you so you can know firsthand what it's like!

Hey, wait, where are you going?