Pregnant and Bedridden: When Baby Growth and Healthy Kicks Bring Pain and Panic

            As I rapidly lost bone and muscle mass and deteriorated physically, the baby grew and developed in size and activity level. Activity punctuated by round-the-clock fist and feet punches and somersaults. One thing was for certain: My baby was an acrobat. And a feisty one.  

            Without any specific clock time of motion or sleep triggered by my wake-sleep patterns, the baby mimicked my lack of exertion with its own haphazard sleep and exercise schedule. The familiar thrashing and wrestling humorously contorted my abdomen.

           

            What wasn’t so funny was the possibly damaging side effects. And that realization rattled me with fear.

           

            I cherished those movement moments: when the baby sprang to life after a period of suspended slumber, but the jarring movements brought pain and panic. In just the right position, the baby came dangerously close to that thin span of amniotic sac, that critical membrane now exposed to empty space behind a paper-thin cervix barely capable of supporting the increasing pressure. Little fists made direct, hard and fast contact with the protective casing and my surrounding internal anatomy, sending pain shockwaves through my pelvis and lightning-like pulses through my sensory nerves.

           

            During those boxing matches, I’d gently push on and massage the baby in a desperate attempt to encourage relocation to a safer area higher in the uterus. Usually, though, I was met with a firm retort, as if a game had been initiated. Simultaneously, I verbally tried to coax the baby to stop, while praying that all of this healthy movement didn’t lead to an amniotic sac rupturing—signaling an instantaneous end to the pregnancy. I think I was verbally coaxing myself as much as I was the baby.

           

            In a last ditch attempt at salvation, I’d allow gravity to work in our favor by elevating my pelvis even higher, thereby forcing the baby to slide toward my ribcage and alleviate pressure on the cervix. Please, God, may a strong, active baby in utero equate to a fighting survivor-type on the outside of my womb.

           

            It seemed that if the baby weren’t sleeping or testing spatial limits, it was hiccupping. Violently. I could simultaneously feel the hiccup reverberation and glimpse my belly jiggling from the aftershock. Sometimes the attack seemed to go on forever, with no relief gained from gentle pushing and rubbing. The only recourse was to roll to my opposite side to coerce the baby into settling into a new position, where hiccupping effects wouldn’t be so intense.  

           

            The baby’s position in my pelvis took its toll. Without cervical support, the baby remained engaged far down into my pelvis. That position translated to excruciating pain, causing me to now spend most of my day changing positions. I’d carefully roll from my right side to my left, or lie on my back with my hips elevated underneath puffy pillow mounds. The egg crate padding—which alleviated much of the pressure on my skeletal system—gradually developed a cavity where my hips rested. After several weeks, those raw, numb hips peeled through my pajama seams. But, gratefully, I suffered minimally from back pain so familiar to pregnant women. I had stiffness, but no dull ache or pain I’d expected to suffer from such prolonged bed rest.

           

            Then I acquired an upper respiratory tract infection Chris obligingly spewed into my room thru coughing and sneezing. So, along with being confined to bed and being generally uncomfortable, bored and frightened, I was now confined to bed, generally uncomfortable, bored, frightened, and unable to breathe. Nothing like having to lie tilted upside down with a sinus blockage!

           

            Chris oscillated back and forth in my new rocking chair—the chair everyone else besides me was enjoying immensely—complaining about his chronic nasal infection and inability to sleep. While he grumbled aloud in self-pity, I dreamed of languishing in a warm shower, with the spray hydro-massaging my broken body, the stream rotor-rootering out my plugged sinus cavities. Instead, the only relief I managed to secure came from minimal squirts of decongestants and pure saline spray.

           

            One less-than-optimal day, in utter frustration, I pounded my pillows into submission and stacked them behind me in order to prop up my head and chest for a brief indulgence, (who would ever know that being able to prop yourself up in bed would be so glorious). That splurge didn’t last long. Fear drove me to snatch the pillows away and return them to my critical lower extremities. Back to fanny-up, head down.  

           When I called Dr. Landry to tell him about my new "problem," he told me that I was not allowed to cough, and “I don’t want you sneezing, either,” he added. “Too much pressure on the cervix.” Was he nuts!? Just exactly how was I going to thwart those symptoms?

           

            Thankfully, the sneezing was infrequent, and I was able to arrest most episodes by pinching my nostrils shut—and praying. Sneezes refusing to be contained left me terrified, holding my breath in anticipation of feeling leaking amniotic fluid dribbling down my leg. But the leaking fluid never came, and—mercifully—the infection departed after only four days, without ever christening me with the chest-raking cough Chris endured.

           
            My speedy recovery was really a miracle. Poor Chris, though, continued to make frequent visits to the doctor for increasingly stronger, ineffective medication. His immune system was battered; it seemed impossible for him to continue his schedule. I added his health to my worry list, hoping all four of us survived this tribulation in one—solid—peace.  

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NEXT WEEK: The good, the bad, and the ugly…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

Pregnant and Bedridden: Being a Human Incubator

            Thank the Lord for Edison, Alexander Graham Bell and the miracle of the telephone—my connection with the outside world, to help me succeed in my human incubator role.

           

            While my husband was unraveling in front of my eyes, I did manage to glean support from phone calls bearing happy, encouraging voices. (Remember, this was WAY before laptop computers and text messaging on slick, ultra-lightweight cell phones!) Uplifting cards also arrived in the mail and were added to my growing mail stack lying beside me.

           

            Eventually, though, I even had to forgo the phone calls because simple, animated dialogue resulted in contraction episodes. Contractions that became harder to control even with the prescribed Terbutalin. My “Vitamin T” as Dr. Landry liked to call it.

           

            One friend I was able to maintain consistent contact with, though, was a Neonatal Intensive Care Nurse and Unit manager—the woman from my church who had the infant daughter I couldn’t bring myself to hold so many months before. At every stage—and every week I joyously ticked off my calendar—I called her for a detailed update on fetal development for that particular week of gestation, and about what to expect should I deliver at that particular time.

           

            She was always a great encourager, particularly when I confided to her that I really didn’t know how much longer I could lie in bed like this and that I seriously doubted my resolve and ability to keep my “promise.”

           

            “I don’t know how you’re doing it,” she’d say. “But you need to think of the baby; every day means a bigger, stronger baby, with a better chance of survival. You’ve got to hang in there. You’re doing a great job!”

           

            With words of affirmation being one of my love languages, sometimes that’s all I needed to hear from someone: “You’re doing a great job!” I’d received so few affirming words from the most important people in my life. And if there was ever a time I needed them, it was then.

           

            Always honest and impartial, she never withheld any adverse medical information about preemie infants. As much as I occasionally wanted to don a pair of rose-colored glasses, her tell-it-like-it-is, clinical approach suited me better than others compelled to be high-spirited, super-positive cheerleaders. “Everything’s going to be just fine,” they’d chirp. “It won’t be very long before you’re going to have a beautiful, healthy infant in your arms, and you will forget all about this!”

           

            How did they know everything would turn out happily-ever-after? Did they have a private line to God? Because He wasn’t giving me any super assurances all would be well. And I knew all-too-well that sometimes things just don’t turn out the way you want or expect. I had physical and psychological wounds to prove that.

           

            Happy chirping didn’t make me feel more secure, or happy. Ironically, I felt more spiritually lifted by my friend, Sandy, who years earlier was bed-ridden while carrying her daughter. She had pretty much been to hell and back in that event, and we thrived on repeatedly shared horror stories. (I know what you’re thinking, but you had to be there. And isn’t that one of the reasons people attend “group?” So they can commiserate together?)

           

            Anyway, this woman really knew deep down in her gut what I was going through. She had been there, and survived! Rather than find her stories depressing, I found solace in them; a kindred spirit who understood the fathoms of my suffering and commiserated. She didn’t try to water down the reality, or risk. She didn’t try to distract me from the suffering. Here was someone else who had taken a dangerous chance and emerged victorious. We even laughed about the embarrassing dilemmas we faced, the all-dignity-gone vulnerability we encountered on a daily basis. She understood me, and my heart. Oh, what a witness she was to me! Oh, did the Apostle Paul ever know what he was talking about when he said that we can laugh with others and cry with them; that when we have suffered, we can commiserate better with others in the midst of their afflictions.

           

            Even Dr. Landry, like an encouarging father, told me I was sacrificing a very small measure of my life; that I needed to regard myself as a human incubator.

           

            So, I continued to gather my calendar every morning, count the days, divide them into weeks, then count the remaining time, only to repeat the process again that afternoon, and the next day. That precarious moment, when I was solidly entrenched in it, certainly didn’t seem to me to be such a small interval of my life.

           

            And it caused me to repeatedly ask myself the question: What does “having faith” really mean?

           

            My friends loved me and wanted to protect me, but I reminded myself—often—that my faith and hope must remain in God’s will, and in His will alone.

           

            No matter what the outcome would be.

            Even if I failed to be a good human incubator.

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NEXT WEEK: Being pregnant and bedridden and dealing with the physical pain of a growing, developing baby…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

(If you are currently pregnant and bedridden and have no one to talk to, please feel free to email me, to unload, to wail, to talk via cyberspace! I would be happy to laugh and cry with you, and throw in the encouragement you need from someone who has walked your path! My email is: andreaarthurowan@gmail.com

High-Risk Pregnancy: When Stress Threatens the Marriage, and the Pregnancy’s Outcome

            Another day of living bedridden in a high-risk pregnant passed, and I checked it off my little hand-made, bedside calendar. Then I'd count the days I survived and the days I still had to go. 

            It was my own personal ritual.

           

            Day after day, I leaned into the Lord through prayer to gain strength.

           

            Yet, even with the strength I garnered from prayer, there remained plenty of weak moments when I felt like waving the white flag of surrender and giving up. Then my inward-seeking self would roar back. “None of this is worth it!” I’d confirm vehemently to the silent room and emotionless ceiling. “After all, I have a life to lead. My husband and son rely on me, and I’m not very reliable lying in bed. Who’s looking after my family and household?”

           

            And what if, after all of this sacrifice, we still lost the battle? That ugly possibility always hovered around the perimeter of my conscience as I forced myself to view the situation realistically.

           

            One afternoon, though, in the depths of doubt, a “voice” spoke to me in such clarity from my heart that my conscience snapped to attention: Fight for me, Mom, the “voice” entreated. Fight for me!

           

            How could I not? It was all I needed to “hear” to buttress my resolve to go on. What I was doing was right and necessary, even if it were physically painful. The fight would endure until a succinct end signaled victory or defeat. And I would go down swinging.

           

            But as my resolve strengthened, Chris’s withered away. At twenty-eight weeks, he slumped into the rocking chair in my bedroom after a rough workday and caustically announced, “I don’t know how much more I can take. I’ve experienced just about enough! I’m tired, sick and frustrated. The demands from everyone are unrealistic, and I have realized my limit!” His voice was sharp, accusatory, dripping with disgust and anger.

           

            Then he launched a final blow. “If it all ended today, I would be happy. I could live with myself for the rest of my life and not feel the least bit of remorse.”

           

            I was crushed into silence. What had happened to the man who so lovingly washed my hair once a week and tenderly helped me change my clothes when they wouldn’t last another day? I desperately needed his encouragement; I needed him to continue to be selfless with his love and support. He was doing everything humanly possible to take care of my physical needs, but his emotional conviction waned dangerously. It actually seemed to have packed its bags and vacated. I thought—hoped—it was a single night of him unloading his frustrations. But it wasn’t. With increasing frequency and intensity, he complained vehemently about the demands everyone was placing on him—from work, to Parker, to me. It threatened to become a nightly ritual, and instead of happily awaiting his return home, I started dreading his appearance every afternoon. 

           

            What did he expect me to do? How did he expect me to provide him with any emotional support? I knew and appreciated how hard he was working, but there was absolutely nothing I could do to lighten his increasing load, much of which was brought on by his own design since he also continued his relentless pursuit of self-employment while working full time.

           

            Yet guilt racked me. The gravity of my situation had become a frightening, monolithic burden—to me and everyone else. Keeping me focused on my goal continually strained my tolerance boundaries and sanity. My heart ached for him and his burden, but I was incapable of shouldering his afflictions, too. He needed to find someone else he could unload on.

           

            I started resenting his daily castigations against his company, his “situation,” and the demands of both. It was difficult for me to not regard his attitude as selfish and coarse. He needed someone else upon whom he could pour his fears, doubt and anger. He needed someone else to strip away the hard, emotionally protective veneer he’d constructed around his heart and mind. Without me, he no longer wished to attend church regularly, so support wasn’t coming from that arena. And the men he knew didn’t call to ask how he was doing.

           

            The situation ballooned out of control, so he took what seems to be the familiar male approach: he lashed out against it, or tried to reduce it to a state of insignificance. Chris was a man in limbo who wore his negative emotions on his sleeve, on his face, and in his cornflower blue eyes. There were times when I even dreaded turning my head to look into those more frequently flashing, angry eyes. Eyes that had formerly been so expressively tender and loving. At the worst times, those precious eyes, and the man I love so deeply, seemed to find everything about me—and the situation I had put the whole family in—irritating and disgusting.

           

            By the thirtieth week, I was terrified of my husband.

           

            If this was the enemy’s way of trying to undermine our union, erode our foundation and assure my failure, it was working. The chunks were rapidly falling from the edifice.

           

            As the loneliness deepened and separation from the outside world threatened to drive me insane, sorrow now penetrated my soul. I felt acutely alone, even when my family was in the house—especially when my visibly miserable, overburdened husband was present. Yet, it all made me even more determined not to disintegrate emotionally or physically, or to walk out of that room defeated. I would not be forever cursed with what ifs overtaking my conscience like a slow-growing parasitic fungus, every waking moment for the rest of my life. Not after all of the love, suffering and perseverance already accomplished.

           

            How could I throw God’s mercy and grace in His face and tell Him that He could have it back, that I was finished with it? How could I tell Him He was expecting too much from me—from all of us—and that I had changed my mind; that I no longer desired to sustain the precious life I was carrying? The life He had given me?

           

            Alone, yet not alone.

           

            If I thought I’d hit the end before that point, I was dead wrong. I needed to crawl under the shadow of the cleft and hide.

           

            At least there I knew I’d be sustained.

           

            And protected.

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NEXT WEEK: Little sparks of encouragement…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea