It's a Hell of a Day at Sea, Sir.

March has not been kind to La Yen.

Not kind at all.

Let me start at the beginning.

So, I gots me the gestational diabetes. 90% of it is hereditary, and about 10% is because I am chunky. 100% of me feels incredibly guilty for having it. Things that do not help the guilt:

Nurse saying "We had two mothers deliver stillborn babies because they didn't try to take care of their gestational diabetes last year. Hopefully we won't have any this year..." and then looking at me meaningfully.

Nurse saying "You want your baby's lungs to develop, don't you?"

Doctor saying "You will probably have this afterward, you know. You just need to eat healthier. Be a good example for your daughter." (I would like to point out that I was eating incredibly healthy. And that I requested a super early screening because I knew my family's history put me at risk. I don't sit around eating Cheetos and drinking beer.)

Anyway, through monitoring my blood sugar, we have established that the ONLY way to get it to a passable level is for me to almost completely eschew carbs. So I was eating a lot of cheese, meat, and salad (without carrots, dressing, tomatoes, or anything good in it.)

I was pooping hammers, people.

And I had this tremendous gas pain in the middle of the night. I have never felt anything like it. It traveled down my arms, into my chest, everywhere. GasX did nothing, and Tums were useless. The pain got so bad that I would vomit. And I would ask for a priesthood blessing, and within an hour or two be able to go to sleep. This happened a few times, and I attributed it to a combination of being pregnant and radically changing my diet.

Last Monday I ate a SUPER satisfying breakfast of cheese and then went grocery shopping for some disgusting sugar-free snacks. About an hour into my errands I started sweating and shaking, and the pain came back hard-core. I had never had the pain during the day--it always woke me up in the middle of the night, just when Junior had stopped kicking and I was finally asleep. I made it home, through the door, and started vomiting in earnest. I texted W at work and told him to come home because Something Was Wrong. We thought maybe I was needing insulin, or something.

He hurried back, called a babysitter, and took me to the ER, where they immediately ran the Chest Pain Workup. By about hour four, with no relief, it had been established that I was not having a heart attack, but the blood work hadn't come back. And you know how they love the blood work. By about 6 pm that night they sent me for an ultrasound--where they didn't even let me look at Junior HOW RUDE!--and found some gall stones. The doctor told me I would probably just need to drink a lot of Mylanta. I was not thrilled with this, mostly because I figured it would be filled with carbs that would Kill the Baby and His Lungs. He called for a surgical consult, and they pressed on my belly and immediately admitted me.

At this point, eleven PM, I had not eaten anything since breakfast. Remember the cheese?

They gave me a shot of painkiller. I told them I had an empty stomach and would not do well with any meds that way. They told me if I felt nauseated they would give me some meds for that. Within twelve seconds I was booting. The intern told me it was the quickest he had ever seen anyone yak. I told him I had six months of practice. Then he shot me full of something AWESOME. I don't know what it was, but if they gave it to me every day I would be incredibly pleasant and joyful.

Up in the room, bare-assed and super cheery, I got an IV because I was not allowed to have any food or water, in case I needed surgery. I was also given a Moon River. I remember it fondly, thanks to the above-mentioned shot. I sent W home, told him to give the sitter $100 and he called my amazing sister who got on a plane.

The next morning, after they pricked my finger and told me that my blood sugar was normal (HEY! Fasting for 24 hours makes it normal!) and that I could neither eat nor drink. I ignored that and had a sip of water every few hours. Because I am sneaky that way. The surgeon came up, told me that the antibiotics had done nothing, and that I was immediately going to surgery for the removal of my gall bladder.

Apparently there is a very small window during which they will remove things from a pregnant woman. I was right in that window. So that was good, I guess.

(FYI surgeons, I know you need to cover all bases, but the last thing you want to tell a pregnant woman before you put her under is a reminder that the baby might die because of the surgery. Also, before you put the mask on her nose, make sure the oxygen is turned on so she doesn't have a freak-out on the tiny, tiny table.)

I texted W, he came while I was in surgery, I woke up and said "OWEEEEE" and found out that they had intubated me and flushed gall stones down my throat or something, and had four incisions, and a goopy bulb attached to my side. And I could eat Jello.

That Jello was the greatest thing I have ever eaten in my life.

Of course, it threw my carbs off the charts.

The surgeon came in, told me "You had the gall bladder of a fifty year old!" and said it was remarkable that I hadn't noticed it before.

A few days later they released me, but not before I was able to walk every hour and refill my own pebble ice.

FYI: You can go to Sonic and buy a bag of pebble ice, should you now have an addiction from the hospital.

That was my first two weeks of March.

It better go out like a freaking Lamb.

And THAT is why I didn't do anything snarky for Cjane's Birthday This Year.