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
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