The Glucose Test

Well I went in for my glucose test today. This one of those things things they give to pregnant women to torture them. It begins and ends with a blood-sucking needle and involves sitting in the waiting room for an hour and a half (I was not allowed to leave), having skipped breakfast, and forbidden to ingest anything except a rather disgusting orange drink designed to test the limits of my sugar-tolerance. As she was sucking my blood, the nurse said "The things you have to go through to have your baby eh?" I didn't know what to say to that. After all, this bizarre custom was invented by the vampirous medical profession, and I'm sure my baby would eventually be born, happy and healthy, without a 50 ml bottle of medicinal orange Crush.

While I was in the waiting room, I was reading an issue of Chatelaine (my choice was that or Canadian Living) and I noticed that one of the features was written by my Ryerson writing prof, David Hayes. I immediately flipped to the article like the groupie I am. The story was about some women who were horribly tortured by their foster mother as children and, having sent the old woman to jail, were now going after the authorities who knew about the abuse but refused to do anything. It was kind of heavy reading for so early in the morning and left me searching the front of the magazine for a fluffier piece. I'm now remembering that David might actually be reading this blog entry, he used to be a fan, and I heard it through the grapevine that he's still recommending my blog to his class (perhaps as an example of how NOT to make money with ones writing). In that case, nice job on the article David, well-written and emotion-provoking.

Afterwards my husband and I went to the school near our house to vote against the Conservatives. I'm hoping Stéfane Dion will squeak by with a win.