Life's simple pleasures.
When you’re pregnant and
bedridden—flat on your back, with nothing to do and nowhere to go—simple
pleasures are few and far between. When they do come, they become so much more
than simple.
The final Sunday of January, 1997,
promised to be a good, light-hearted day, as Chris and Parker propped their big
yellow San Diego Chargers bolt on the entertainment center and initiated a tiny,
robust cheering section in a corner of my room. Even though our beloved
Chargers had a rough Super Bowl appearance, the game excitement elevated my
spirits. Immensely. So immensely, in
fact, that I was actually concerned about exciting myself right into premature
labor, since I can view a football game with as much intensity and emotion as
any die-hard Green Bay Packers’ fan. (Well, maybe not quite that much intensity, but you get the picture.)
The Chargers’ performance waned—as
did our rural television reception—and I was saved the emotional and physical
agitation of a good, head-to-head clash. Instead, I was relishing the delicate
warmth of sunlight spilling through the open door, and the cool January breeze
drifting tenderly across the room, its alighting fingertips awakening my
famished skin. I think I lay slumbering comfortably before the final clock
minutes fizzled out.
With the door open, I could finally
view the rolling landscape beyond our home that proudly displayed glistening
green lushness recently acquired from the winter showers. Oh, how I longed to
stand outside with my face turned toward the sun, with its warmth infusing and
recharging my stiff, brittle body. How I ached to run through the glorious
panorama, hair flying, liberated and unconstrained.
But I wasn’t physically liberated or unconstrained. Not yet, anyway. The
romp through the harkening vista would have to wait. For now my imagination had
to suffice.
oOo
The following day found the
intermittent periods of pelvic pain and weekday loneliness return. And it
continued. Often, having exhausted all of my daily activities, I’d lie in bed
feeling lost and alone, staring catatonically at the silent radio or a blank
television screen. Eventually, though, I started sleeping better through the
night, and the anticipation and fear of darkness-driven panic dissipated. I
thanked God profusely for even the tiniest bit of relief from the nightly
horror.
Then came a another godsend of
blessings. My friend, Nancy, initiated foot massages during her noontime cleaning
and feeding visits. Besides helping me relax, I can’t tell you what kind of
effect simply being touched had on me emotionally, physically and spiritually.
Forget the fact that one of my major love languages is touch. Just having
someone’s hands contact my body in a gentle, loving way was medication to my
soul and a barbiturate to my strangled nerves. Such joy!
The skin on my legs and feet had
developed a malnourished, reptilian appearance, and my feet had long since gone
numb and tingly from the lack of stimulation. My legs no longer resembled the
carefully trained, shapely limbs of an athletic woman, but protruded like
skinny sticks encased in excess flesh. Dr. Landry had prescribed lying
prostrate toe pointing to avoid blood clots. Absolutely NO leg lifts. Just toe
pointing. The only time I lifted my legs was to scour them with my electric
razor—a practice that became increasingly difficult as my pregnancy advanced
and the razor’s blades dulled. Even the vibration on my thighs started
irritating my uterus. So, to alleviate unnecessary irritation, leg shaving had
to be conducted in little blocks of time on small patches of leg. My lower
appendages started feeling more like partially used sandpaper sheets than silky
smooth gams.
One weekend morning I allowed myself
a risky, resplendent luxury, though, when I allowed Chris to fill the bathtub
with warm water and place a chair next to the tub so I could briefly languish
with my feet and ankles soaking in the warm, soothing liquid. My atrophied legs
shook as I carefully—manually—lifted, then lowered one foot at a time into the
placid water. Five short minutes was all I allowed myself to splurge. Five minutes.
It seemed more like a glorious hour.
After the soak, Chris gently
scrubbed my toes and calves with a sponge, returned me to bed, then carefully
dried and lotioned my flaking limbs. (Yes, I was in desperate need of an
industrial strength exfoliation!) For a brief thirty minutes, I felt as though
I’d been airborne to heaven. “When I hit that thirty-six week mark, I’m going
to treat myself to a shower,” I proclaimed to Chris with confidence.
“Whenever you think you want to try
it, I’ll help you,” he responded with a smile.
His heart and attitude appeared to be
softening. Maybe that’s because he’d gotten a really good look at my withering legs
for the first time in three months!
At that moment I was deeply grateful
for the simple feet and toes stimulation.
And the heavenly pleasure of my
husband’s warm and gentle touch.
_______________________________________
NEXT WEEK: Perched at the top of the roller
coaster, awaiting the drop…
_______________________________________
Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
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