A Blood Test and a Hangry Morning

Yesterday morning my blood sugars finally gave me the all clear to go to the clinic and have that blood test I’d been wanting to do last week. My endocrinologist usually requests a blood test inbetween appointments to test my kidney functions, urine, hba1c and a bunch of other stuff that I wouldn’t have a clue about. I really wanted to get it done now, considering I am off on holidays next week and I’m sure my Blood Sugar Levels will be less than favourable.

The biggest struggle is having to go on fasted bloods. That means, not being able to eat anything for at least 10 hours prior. Not being able to go hypo for a whole 10 hours. Thinking extremely carefully about what I’m going to have for dinner. Thinking carefully about the insulin dose I give at dinner. Making sure that my long acting insulin dose won’t send me low during the night either. All to ensure that none of those marshmallows on the side of my bed will need to enter my mouth for a whole 10 whole hours.

Getting up without breakfast is hard. Starting the car without a coffee is harder. And sitting down to wait in that clinic with nothing to take my mind off of my hunger is a million times harder. When I’m hangry (hungry-angry), any and every little thing irritates me. Like the fact that the clinic opens at 7, but the doctors won’t arrive until closer to 7.30. Like that child screaming in the waiting room. Like that man sitting next to me, coughing. And that woman loudly flicking the pages of that 5 year old magazine. And that there are already 4 people ahead of me in line at 6.30 – how early do you get up??

The doctors have arrived and they start calling numbers. I’m looking at my watch in disbelief. It’s quarter to eight and yet it feels like a whole day has passed. Every minute that passes by on my watch feels like an ordeal. ‘How long does it take to do a blood test? Are they telling the doctor their whole life story in there or something?’ I can’t scroll through Facebook for the millionth time this morning. By this point I start to get shaky. I’m fidgety. My stomach is growling loudly (how embarassing!). The hanger has well and truly set in. I feel claustrophobic. I want nothing more than to slam open those doors and bolt for the nearest vending machine. ‘Number 5…Number 5…’ 

Number 5! I jump from my seat and bolt towards the doctor calling my number. I sit in that chair as quickly as I can. I try to sit as still as I can manage. Clearly noticing my fidgeting, the doctor asks if I’m scared of needles. I laugh, trying to explain that I’m just starving.

In a few minutes the ordeal is over. I burst open those clinic doors, breathing in gulps of that fresh morning air, and bursting out sighs of relief. Thankfully I’m just around the corner, and the thought of breakfast makes the ride home much more bearable.

There. Bloodwork done and dusted for another six months.