Pregnant and Bedridden: The Power of Moonlight, Baby Names, and Getting Stuck Between a Rock and a Hard Place

           

            What do you think of when you see the moon and moonlight?

           

            Romance? Power? Peace?

            Adventure and possibilities on an exciting, distant frontier?

           

            In my nearly three months of confinement, I hadn’t seen much of the moon. 

            Actually, I hadn’t seen it at all.

           

            So I was startled, several days after my defiant, terror-driven walk from bed into the kitchen and the candlelight revelation (which I told about in my last post), when I was awakened in the middle of night by a radiant light streaming into my room through the tiny slats in the door blinds. Hesitantly, I shifted my frame to discover the source.

           

            It was the moon, earth’s natural satellite. And I saw it in a way I’d never seen it before.

           

            I don’t think I’d ever seen it shine so brightly as it appeared to be shining that night, so blinding and intimidating in its brilliance. Although it hurt my squinting eyes to look upon it, I was unable to avert my gaze. It was spellbinding, almost shouting power and promise in its intensity. It seemed to be drawing me in, calling to me. Humbling me. In one moment I wanted to both hide from it and be enveloped by it. The light seemed to be simultaneously fearsome and protective, flooding my room with reflective beams of hope. A message sent directly from heaven just for me. A triumphant light in the darkness to remind me of God’s perfect order and attention to His creative detail.

           

            A strong punctuation mark on my candle light experience just days earlier.

           

            I was certainly beginning to appreciate the majesty and power of light and its symbolism. I happily returned to contended, uninterrupted sleep, bathed in its healing, sentinel light.

           

            Thoughts of victory punctuated my dreams.

oOo

                       

            Since I hadn’t climbed into a shower on Valentine’s Day, Chris thought my birthday—February 25—might be a great day for the postponed gratification. That was just three days after the moonlight bathing. I could wait until then. It would be close to the thirty-four week mark, possibly safe enough to venture into a standing position for a short time. Until then, I busied myself with opening storage boxes of baby clothes, washing them, and narrowing the list of baby names. (Actually, I didn’t wash them. To be exact, I gave orders to Chris to retrieve the clothing box, set it on my bed, sift through the contents as I carefully scrutinized, and then follow my instructions for washing said selected clothing. I kept him pretty busy in the laundry room for an afternoon.)

           

            And it got my nesting instinct revved into high gear.

           

            As far as baby names went, we settled on “Cory” for a boy and “Madison” for a girl.

           

            I’d selected Cory for a boy during my pregnancy with Victoria, and I still liked the name. One day, however, while mulling over names, I felt a strong leading to name a baby boy “Joshua.”

           

            But why would Joshua be so strong in my mind? I wondered. Joshua was never on my name list. I must be talking to myself. Then a fleeting thought sifted through my mind that God might be giving me that name.

           

            No way, I retorted mentally. No way would the Holy Spirit be speaking to me personally about something like my baby’s name. How egotistical to think that God would be speaking to me about something as simple as that. Doesn’t He concern himself with weightier matters?

           

            I quickly set the name Joshua aside. Cory it was.

           

            If only I’d just looked up the name “Joshua” and learned what it meant. At the least, it would have spoken volumes to my heart about the future. It would have made me ooze hope and promise.

           

            What does “Joshua” mean?

           

            “Jehovah saves.”

           

            Maybe God had been trying to give me a peek into the future. And, by my casual dismissal, I missed out on a fear-thwarting opportunity.

oOo

           

            My prayers started changing, though—from asking God to see us through the bedridden phase to seeing us through a safe delivery. I even took a mental risk and envisioned myself in the rocking chair, cradling a new baby to my breast. I deliberately brought the image to mind several times a day. At the very least, it sent happy hormones frolicking through my body.

           

            Then I worked out a small activity schedule to keep myself busy and focused. And a friend from church delivered books I voraciously devoured. Christian radio kept me spiritually alert for two hours a day. Two hours of post-lunch soap operas threatened to deaden the effects, though. Chris and Parker became classic movie experts—flopping on the bed next to me or on the floor, or maintaining a rhythmical rocking in the rocking chair—as they devoured them. Another friend kept a supply stacked on my entertainment center.

           

            And, as always, I continued to count the days, hours and minutes…

oOo

           

            But then I was faced with a dilemma. A serious dilemma.

           

            The Monday before my birthday, Parker stayed home for the President’s Day holiday. He rose at four-thirty in the morning complaining of a severe stomachache before reluctantly returning to bed for more sleep. Re-awakening at eight o’clock, he continued fussing about his stomach and punctuated his plight by rolling around on the ground in my bedroom, clutching his midsection and crying out, “My tummy hurts too much to stand.” Even the tears ran. The one, potentially saving grace was that he simultaneously complained of hunger.

           

            I called Chris and Parker’s pediatrician. As a group, we decided to feed him. Then wait. So I sent him to the kitchen to raid the refrigerator and cupboards. Finally, after some food and time, Parker triumphantly announced that his stomachache had vanished and he happily retreated to the Lego Land of his bedroom.

           

            It all sounds so comical now. But there was nothing comical about it then. I felt so helpless lying in bed with my four-year-old writhing in pain before me. No one else in the house. Just a bedridden mother and her four-year-old child.

           

            I thanked God profusely that I didn’t have to take him to the hospital; that I wasn’t forced to compromise the health of one child—not yet seen—for one I knew, and could touch, and loved intensely.

           

            In an emergency, there would have been no question. Parker would have come first. I would have gotten out of that bed, gotten dressed, put him in his car seat, cranked open the heavy garage door, (No, we didn’t have an automatic garage door opener), and driven him to the doctor. I would have counted the cost—and pushed my “luck.”

           

            Mercifully, God made certain I didn't have to.

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NEXT WEEK: My birthday arrives, and I plead for my baby’s life…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/latente/5734211357/">Lisandro M. Enrique</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>

            

Pregnant and Bedridden: A Valentine’s Day Pass, Panic Attacks and a Fear-Evaporating Candle

           

            Ah, Valentine’s Day! The day when sweethearts remember one another with special dinners, roses, chocolates and maybe a jewelry bauble or two. (I could get really cynical about how it usually ends up being a day for wallet-busting dinners, second-rate chocolates, and over-priced roses, but I won’t. It’s capitalism in action. Actually, I don’t think one day of showing your love to your sweetie cuts it, but that’s for another blog…)

           

            Anyway, it had finally arrived. Valentine’s Day. February 14. The day I’d penciled in and looked for to so eagerly. Ached for, actually. The day I’d give myself a gift. The day I’d arise from my mattress confines, heat the shower water to near boiling temps and luxuriate in the billowing steam and caressing waterfall.

           

            But it didn’t quite happen that way.

           

            Valentine’s Day arrived, along with cards and flowers from my two significant others, Chris and my four-year-old son, Parker.

           

            And I made a decision.

           

            No shower.

           

            I waved away the opportunity for it. My cramped, stringy, weakened muscles would just have to continue to … well … stay weakened, cramped and stringy. A brief, selfish act wasn’t worth the risk and its potential consequences.

           

            I could postpone Valentine’s Day.

           

            Miraculously, we’d made it to thirty-two weeks and added more steroid injections to the program. And a home monitoring system connected through my phone line to record and evaluate contractions had been installed. The injections always managed to leave me painfully bloated (actually made me feel as though I would explode) and invariable caused the baby to run races and perform somersaults and fist punches within in my uterus. My derriere became a pincushion and my baby a star wrestler. Little holes finally wore through my pajama seams, and the divot in the egg crate resisted rebounding to life when I left it momentarily to use the bathroom.

           

            My hips grew increasingly numb from the constant pressure, and the baby often pressed high into my ribcage, especially following those critical injections. Sciatic nerve pain sprang to life as the hip numbness worsened. Vigorous back rubs and hot water bottles offered some relief, and as I more frequently flipped form my left side to my right, then back again, my water bottle and support pillows followed suit. It was my exercise for the day, and I was beginning to get a lot of it.

           

            But the big physical activity continued to be toe pointing, while the highlight of the day was the telephone contact with my health service to discuss the results of my hour-long contraction monitoring. With every contraction came a compulsory logbook entry. With unwanted continual, consistent uterine activity came the precise time keeping of contraction intervals, extra water ingestion, and a Terbutaline “vitamin” tablet to get everything under control.

           

            Motivational and instrumental tapes continued to lull me to sleep. I even thought the baby might appreciate a little music, so one evening I applied the headphones to my swollen belly to impart some entertainment to the womb. That was, until Chris reminded me that the fluid in the uterus might conduct the sound waves in such a way as to be detrimental to the baby’s hearing. In my debilitated state, I’d forgotten most, if not all, of my therapeutic ultrasound training and practice. Horrified, I plucked the headphones from my tummy and prayed that I hadn’t permanently damaged my unborn baby’s sensitive ears!

           

            By February 22, the thirty-third week, Dr. Landry seemed driven to present me with a baby to take home, minus any hospital stay. That sounded awfully nice, but I doubted that my broken body retained enough energy supply to care for a newborn infant. A couple of days in the hospital for both of us sounded like a reasonable alternative to me. 

           

           

           

            And what about those panic attacks?

           

            Mercifully, they ceased to be a threat, until one night when Chris had to momentarily shut off the power to the house and take away our one working flashlight from me in order to see what he was doing with the circuit breaker.

           

            There I lay in abject darkness, unable to even see my hand in front of my face.

           

            Slowly, the familiar, smothering, chest-clamping fear crept across my body then coursed its way through my nerves like a rapidly ascending elevator. I called for Chris but received no response. He and Parker were in the garage, where he told me they’d be. For some reason, when the panic began my memory took a hike.

           

            Several minutes seemed like an hour, and, as I lay there panicking, my brain fed into it, only making the situation worse. I couldn’t breathe. I felt faint. My heart slammed repeatedly against my chest cavity. Sweat beads erupted, not just on my face but all over my body. I choked. My urgent calls to Chris continued, each one progressively louder and more frantic than the last one.

           

            And then I did it.

           

            In irrational desperation, I climbed out of bed. Carefully. I was still coherent enough to remember my movements had to be done carefully. I lifted my hand in front of me and followed my searching fingers through our large entryway, up three dining room steps and into the kitchen to locate a candle, a match, and a plate.

           

            But a stationary parade of stars displaying themselves throughout our kitchen’s slanted ceiling windows diverted my attention, and I gazed—enraptured—at their illuminating brilliance in the pristine winter sky.

           

            I stood transfixed, eyes glued to the heavens. No wonder the Bible says there are too many to count, especially when these only represent the ones I can see without the aide of a telescope. Finally pulling myself away from the mesmerizing, twinkling light vision, I located the articles I’d gone in search of, lit the candle, and re-navigated the course just taken.

           

            On this trip, however, I held a tiny beacon.

           

            Using one hand to support my precious uterine contents, I returned slowly and carefully to the bedroom, placed the candle on the bathroom counter, lay down on the bed and started at the flickering glow.

           

            Kind of like fastening your eyes on the light of Jesus, I thought. If only I would learn to follow His light with such single-minded intensity.

           

            As I stared, I relaxed. The longer I stared, the more I thought about Christ and his life-producing light. The more I thought about Christ, the more his supernatural peace replaced the paralyzing fear encasing my body. The more I thought about Him, the greater His presence penetrated the depths of my soul.

           

            It was then that I really understood my relationship with Him. And His relationship with me.

           

            With Him, I would never be alone.

           

            Within minutes, the room lights sprang to life and Chris and Parker bounded happily into the house. “You left me completely in the dark,” I pointed out, a strained edge to my voice. But why did I even tell him that? It doesn’t really matter now?

           

            “Sorry.” Chris simply said, with raised eyebrows, a perplexed look and a shrug.

           

            He doesn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. No one can, really, unless they’ve personally experience the choking fear of irrational thoughts and brain-induced survival chemicals ripping through your body.

           

            It was my final attack. No announcement. No tapering off. In just one night, the hedge of protection went up and the gauntlet was swept away. Fear evaporated as a blanket of peace enveloped me like a protective shroud.

           

            Except for the continued contractions, uterus-monitoring calls, increased boredom, and general third trimester discomfort, the remainder of my nights seemed relatively uneventful.

           

            Beautifully, mercifully… uneventful.

           

            I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful for anything in my life.

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NEXT WEEK: Radiant lights, the nesting instinct sets in, my prayer focuses changes, and getting stuck between a rock and a hard place…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

Pregnant and Bedridden: When the Light Starts Shining at the End of the Tunnel

           

            I guess you could say things started picking up.

            A dim, hazy light started shining at the end of the tunnel. 

           

            As contractions increased in intensity and frequency, nausea and indigestion settled in for a final attack. Lying somewhat tilted upside down has a way of cramming your digestive track into your chest and screwing up the normal processes.

           

            To give the baby the best chance of survival, if he or she were born prematurely, I knew I—we—had to make it another week. That would put us squarely into the thirty-two week mark. The minimum time Dr. Landry hoped to achieve when we’d first started this journey three months before.

           

            Yet thirty-two weeks loomed like a hazy guidepost marker on the horizon. As it neared, though, I felt a powerful, calming assurance that God would see us through the amount of time absolutely necessary to have a healthy baby, without needlessly prolonging the suffering; to allow me to experience what I could withstand physically and emotionally. And no more.

           

            Once before I had passed through the roaring waters with Him. Now, every day, my resolve and faith were being ramped up into a conviction that I could walk through them again without being drowned. Should I be made to tread through fire, I wouldn’t be burned or consumed by the flame and reduced to an ash heap of carbon. I sensed that the end was quickly approaching, our reward soon realized.

           

            Knowing God was with us did not, however, preclude us from making necessary preparations for anything, including the possibility of the stitches suddenly rupturing while I was home alone. That catastrophe would certainly require an emergency transport to our small hospital—without an available neonatal intensive care unit. That thought alone was enough to ignite panic in me about being able to get in touch with someone—anyone—in enough time to deliver the baby at the Escondido hospital where I could be assured of adequate neonatal support. A friend from church gave me her beeper number for contact at any time during the day and promised she’d drop everything and make herself available to me. We now marched forward. Well, figuratively we marched. One day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time.

           

            Tick, tick, tick…

           

            Church members continued to provide physical nourishment for Chris and Parker as well as spiritual nourishment for me through their prayers. To avoid unnecessary stimulation, I no longer entertained visitors or took phone calls. Parker returned to daylong preschool stints after being allowed a brief respite from them. At five in the evening, a friend deposited him at home. He even started showing enthusiasm for the baby’s arrival, strongly reiterating his wishes for the baby to “come now!” Oh, I know just how you feel! I chuckled to myself.  

           

            Along with his enthusiasm, however, came the fatigue and stress of spending entire days at school and becoming accustomed to another, “new” schedule. He frequently arrived home exhausted, hungry, visibly frustrated and emotionally volatile. Angry. He often collapsed into a heap of tears on my bedroom floor.

           

            One night he carefully crawled into bed with me after dinner, gingerly inched across the mattress, encased me in his little arms and said in a beseeching tone, “I want our family back the way it was,” (Meaning: dinner together followed by playtime and singing), “then you can go and lie down in bed.” In almost the same breath he spoke of, “the next time you are pregnant…”

           

            After constraining my amusement by taking a deep breath and biting my lip, I informed him that this would be the last time. With a downcast expression, he pronounced with simple, blunt and determined four-year-old conviction, “No it’s not! We have to have three more!”

           

            I blinked and stared at him wordlessly. How could I possibly respond to that? Only if we adopt, my precious Son, I thought.

           

            We silently languished in the comfort of one another’s arms. I reveled in his tender, loving touches. He sighed and allowed his little body to relax in the secure grasp of my remaining strength.

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NEXT WEEK: The thirty-two week marker, the steroid injections ramp me up, and my final panic attack. Surviving the final, difficult days…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea