I Should Move Down to Chinatown

Unfortunately, this isn't a food post. Well, I guess it kinda is...

I had my routine, fortnightly scan at the hospital near Chinatown a couple of weeks ago. All was fine except that the fluid pocket around Baby A was difficult to find, which can be a sign of Twin to Twin Transfusion. They got me to come in again the following week to check on the boys and sure enough, all was fine.

'So, I'll see you in two weeks' time then.' I asked as the technician was wrapping up.
'Oh no. That was an additional screen. You still need to come back in again for your growth scan next week so we can measure the twins.'

Fine.

Later that same week, I take the routine glucose screening at my doctor's office in Chinatown. You fast for two hours and then neck a flat orange Fanta type of drink and then they test your sugar levels after an hour. Uck.

The following day, I get a voicemail saying that I've failed the screening and will need to take the full three-hour glucose test. And so began my dilemma. I had arranged to meet a friend for the 'best pancakes in the world' in Carroll Gardens on the Saturday, so two days before the full glucose test.

I succumbed and went to brunch anyway, vowing to have the omelette, which is also meant to be delicious. But pah! I wanted pancakes! I could see them through the restaurant window as we were waiting (salivating). Two fluffy pancakes on a plate with a delicious crust. I passed on the maple syrup in atonement.

Fast forward to Monday and I'm back in Chinatown at the doctor's office for the dreaded three-hour glucose test. They give you the same drink with twice as much glucose in it. Except this time, they take blood four times. And if you throw the drink up - which I thought I was going to as I still had a large mouthful left to drink before the allotted five minutes was up - you have to rinse and repeat. Cue massive sugar crash in the afternoon.

I failed. Again.

Another dreaded voicemail the following day, received whilst I was at the hospital down near Chinatown for my growth scan. My chubba bubbas are measuring 2 lbs and 2 lbs 5 ozs, respectively and are already naughty boys. They wouldn't stop moving around and hiding each other. Then right at the last minute, Baby B flipped right over and went from breech to head down. The technician was hovering the tranducer over Baby A's head when all of a sudden she said, 'Oh, wow. Now there are two heads!'

After laughing my head off at the boys, I was absolutely crestfallen with the gestational diabetes diagnosis. I felt like the worst mother already. What set me off was reading that it meant that the boys had a higher chance of being diabetic when they were older. They weren't even born and their own mother had doomed them to a life of injections and needle pricks.

Today, with a bit more sanity, I drag myself to the doctors again and was sent out immediately to a pharmacy to pick up diabetic paraphernalia. I feel that I'm going to leave New York with an expanded Chinese vocabulary of medical terms, as Chinatown only operates in Chinese. I never thought I'd have to learn how to use a glucose monitoring machine let alone in Chinese.

I was good last night and read up on what I should and shouldn't eat. It seems to have paid off as on day one as a diabetic, my numbers have been good. I didn't fail the tests horribly, so the doctor is letting me just modify my diet for now. No delicious white pasta or sushi rice or ho fun for me for a while. Not fun but not the end of the world that I had predicted yesterday as I cried down the phone to the Boy.

So long Chinatown, I don't want to see you for a good fortnight.