Pregnant and Bedridden: When It Rains, It Pours

           
           When it rains, it pours.

           

            I usually like rain. Actually, that’s not true.

           

            I LOVE rain! Sheets and sheets of it. The clap of thunder; the scorch of lightning splitting the sky, electrifying the atmosphere and sending a monstrous light zipper through the darkness. The sound of power and the reverberating echo that bouncing from cloud to earth then back to cloud.

           

            But I don’t like rain when it’s symbolic for acid-like, relentless, heartbreaking, character-testing events. Hailstones battering you, stinging water streaks burning your skin. Nowhere to run for shelter; no escape. Completely exposed to the elements.

           

            When that happens, I want to peel back the sky, climb the highway to heaven and perch myself on top of the clouds instead of being trapped beneath them, where I’m pummeled by their unrelenting fury and abuse.

           

            When it rains, it pours. 

            My heart and body were being chucked a deluge.

  

           

            
            Dr. Landry’s cervical stitch pulling set off a retaliatory chain reaction in my body.

            
            Later that afternoon, following my appointment with him, my digestive system reacted violently, and the baby plummeted farther into my pelvis. Physical torment emanated from all directions. The pain’s severity left me shaky, barely able to make the three-feet walk to the bathroom and the return trip to the sofa sleeper. I couldn’t disengage myself from the stooped-over posture my body now seemed permanently locked into. I wasn’t even able to dress myself. When Chris arrived home that evening, he had to dress me.

           

            How would I survive forty-nine more days of this? My plummeting heart shed the stopped up tears I wouldn’t allow my eyes to unleash. I couldn’t afford to go that far.

           

            Seven more weeks? Impossible.

           

            And the following day didn’t bring relief. In fact, it arrived bearing another yeast infection. Dr. Landry had prescribed one, heavy-duty pill for the last one, and I needed to put in a call to him for another tablet. Red-hot pokers burned me internally. Thankfully, a round of cold washcloths took the edge off some of the inflammation.

           

            My mouth felt as though it had become a cotton ball storage facility and nausea threatened again. From head to toe I felt twisted, wrung out, pummeled and spent. Bored, sick, emotionally and physically tattered.      

           

           

            And I wasn’t the only one suffering. Another illness now consumed our family’s energies.

           

            My precious Shetland sheepdog, Beau, had been hospitalized on intravenous therapy due to kidney and liver inflammation and dehydration. Since his recent teeth-cleaning and neutering—a surgery I let our vet talk me into in spite of my deep reservations about having it performed on an eleven-year old dog with a weakened liver—he seemed to be in a persistent state of discomfort. My once vital, active dog was rapidly deteriorating before my eyes. I knew he wouldn’t survive much longer, but I begged God to sustain him until I was back on my feet. Losing him while I was bedridden was a thought I couldn’t confront. Not then. I needed to hold and caress him once more.

           

            His death would devastate the entire family.

           

            I desperately needed his continual presence in my room, or in the bathroom next to me where he seemed to gain some modicum of comfort lying on the cool tile floor. I hung onto his unbroken loyalty and the consistency he’d given me unconditionally, faithfully for eleven-and-a-half-years. My heart already ached with the grief of his passing. I knew it was inevitable and would be soon in coming.

           

            So, even while mentally battling intermittent contractions and pain, I spent most of the remainder of that day arranging for Parker to be taken to the doctor (he had also gotten sick) and for Beau’s special food to be delivered. I orchestrated it all from my worn out bed.

           

            And then Chris arrived home, exhausted, sick and spewing complaints. His attitude flicked me past my breaking point, and the early evening dissolved into a heated argument.

           

            And I finally allowed myself a brief release of tears. Actually, there was no allowing about it. I don’t think I could have contained them even if I’d wanted to and screwed up a heroic effort to keep them damned up.

           

            But they only lasted a minute before I mentally slapped myself back into focus. No cracks are going to erode my veneer! I wouldn’t let his attitude affect me. I couldn’t let it affect me.

           

            Defiantly, I stood, walked five steps to the bedroom door and closed it, To shut something out, whatever that “something” was. I needed to be alone. (As if I wasn’t alone enough.) Chris clomped off to the drugstore for more medicine and liquid food for me.

           

            After he returned, and before dragging himself upstairs to go to bed, he softly knocked on my door, entered at my invitation, and walked toward my bedside. With a gentle voice, he apologized, and, once again, we were restored.

           

            Just like that.

           

            We couldn’t afford not to be.

           

            If there was one thing this journey was doing, it was maturing us. With all of the swirling turmoil, we had to keep our lifelines to one another in good condition, our focus firmly centered on our purpose. Nothing, especially our pride, could be a permitted obstacle.

           

            The stakes were too high—for all four of us.

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NEXT WEEK: Pleasant diversions and faith growing…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

Pregnant and Bedridden: Riding the Tide and Going for Broke

Copyright 2012 Andrea Arthur Owan 

           
           On January 25, I had an early morning appointment with Dr. Landry. Although I looked forward to washing, dressing in real clothes, and venturing outside into the sweet spring air, apprehension about walking out of the house—down the front steps and then climbing into our van—rattled me. I wasn’t thrilled about what I’d have to do when we arrived there, either: Walk across the parking lot, ride the elevator, go through the undressing routine, get examined and then reverse the process to get home. It all seemed way too risky.

           

            As much as I hated the confinement of my bed, it had become a safe, familiar haven. My established routine seemed successful. My brain and body were comfortable with it. Breaking it might upset the emotional or physical tightrope I walked. Chance taking had vacated my vocabulary.

           

            But I went through the routine, spent the two-way ride stretched out in the back seat of our van, and was delighted—and relieved—to hear Dr. Landry pronounce that the baby was growing and gaining weight. He seemed genuinely pleased with the progress. The measurements indicated I was, once again, carrying a long, skinny baby. When every ounce of weight gain or development centimeter means a better chance of survival, every change—no matter how miniscule—brings hope. The kind of hope that sweeps your sentiments to the crest of an emotional wave you ride, until the wave levels out and you wait for the next swell to carry you along, hopefully in the direction you want to go.

           

            Like an ocean.

           

            Sometimes the ocean remains flat for interminably long periods of time; nothing visible in the horizon to anticipate. It’s what beach and ocean people refer to as, “Calm.”

           

            At other times, the water upsurge occurs so rapidly and continuously that you can’t decide which breaker to take.

           

            And often the water simply rises gently and effortlessly, in tranquil, methodical, undulating repetition, quietly coming ashore without a climactic billow. No foam. No spray. No side effects. Easy.

           

            But occasionally the relentless, repetitive pounding of the surf overcomes your physical ability to withstand the curl, and you lose your sense of direction. You end up thrashing around in a swirl of cold, unforgiving turbulence and sand.

           

            When you’re standing on the shore, waiting apprehensively—or excitedly—for the big one, you forget that all waves coming in usually get you going in the same direction. They usually bring you into shore. Eventually.  But your choice of which wave to ride, or lack of choice, can be critical to your survival. The choice may get you to your destination in one piece, or broken.

           

            Successful wave riding is often like life. Sometimes you don’t have a choice. You just need to take what’s given to you on any particular day and ride with it. Take what is given you and realize that there’s a purpose in the endless flatness of it; the gentle repetitiveness of it; the strength and size of it; or the unpredictable confusion and tumultuousness of it.

           

            The thing to remember is that God demonstrates His power and glory in all of it. And if we learn to lean into that power and glory, and not fight it, we will be swept along on His grace.

           

            We need to earnestly seek Him in the mundane as well as in the pain and confusion. He’s always ready to carry or guide us to safety and the security of His shore, although His destination may be entirely different than ours.

           

            I also learned as gymnast that if I trusted my spotter and didn’t hold back—if I went for broke—I could soar! It was when I flinched, or “choked,” that I usually failed miserably. Or experienced serious physical injury. There was never an in-between.

           

            There couldn’t be.

           

            Once you committed, you couldn’t—shouldn’t—turn back. The potential for serious damage was too high and the results too costly.

           

            I had committed to this pregnancy even before becoming pregnant. Bailing out would have been emotionally, physically and spiritually catastrophic. God, not I, was going to decide when this ride would end. I would just have to sit on the crest, waiting and watching.

           

            I was riding on a high crest of elation throughout most of the day after that visit with Dr. Landry, until the afternoon when tiny blood spots appeared.

           

            My heart rate spiked. My thoughts stumbled and stuttered. This must be it! Call Dr. Landry. He told me to call him if there was any bleeding. I quickly dialed his office and waited anxiously for the return call, staring at the phone as if glaring at it would make it ring.  

           

            “How much blood is there?” he asked, rather too calmly when the call came.

           

            “Just a couple of spots.”

           

            “Any more since you called me?”

           

            “No, there doesn’t seem to be.”

           

            “Any contractions?”

           

            “No.”

           

            “I’m not surprised.” Gee, I’m so relieved he’s unconcerned. “I was tugging on your stitches pretty hard this morning,” he continued. What was he doing that for? Can’t he leave those things along? “I wanted to see how well they were holding.”

           

            “So…it’s nothing I should be concerned with?” Who am I kidding! I’ll be a nervous wreck no matter what he tells me.

           

            “Not unless the bleeding increases and you begin to have contractions with the bleeding. It would have to be more significant bleeding than what you’re describing to me. A lot more. And continuous.”

           

            “Okay, Dr. Landry. Thanks for calling. I’ll hang in there. Seeing the blood made me pretty nervous.” There’s that familiar, creeping feeling of over-reactive, embarrassment.

           

            “No problem. Everything looks good. Remember, it’s an insignificant portion of your life right now, with so much riding on what you are doing.” Ah, the pep talk again. “You have to remember that you are an incubator for your baby. The baby is in the best place it can be for development; you are doing the best thing you can do.”

           

            “I know. No what ifs, no doubts, no chances. This is our final attempt.”

           

            Just please don’t pull on my stitches again, I thought while hanging up the phone. You scared me to death! Next time you might just send me into labor.

           

            I felt so full of life and energy that morning, it was hard to imagine anything going wrong. Able to stand erect and momentarily stretch, I had enjoyed a fairly comfortable day. Maybe this was the day! The day I’d be treated to a miracle: My cervix would miraculously narrow, and I’d be able to get out of bed! Dr. Landry always held out hope I might be able to return to walking around, though he wouldn’t commit to any time frame.

           

            He had, however, retracted his promise of automatically cutting my stitches at thirty-six weeks and letting whatever happened, happen. Now he was telling me he’d take me as far as I could go; the further we made it, the longer he’d attempt to take the pregnancy.

           

            So much for my goal of thirty-six weeks so eagerly penciled in on my makeshift calendar. No longer could I make plans or count on anything. But if all of my days from that point on would be as good as today, I was ready to meet the challenge of an additional four weeks—one entire month beyond our original goal.

           

            It didn’t happen the way I hoped, though.

           

            Within hours, another tumultuous, frightening tide crashed with vengeance upon my frail, receding shore.

           

            Actually, it was more like a blind-siding rip current or a rogue wave.

           

            And I was anything but prepared for it.

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NEXT WEEK: A bad day gets worse, impending death of a faithful companion, and the uplifting love of a four-year-old…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

            

Pregnant and Bedridden: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Copyright 2013 Parker Prescott Owan

           

            If you’ve been with me for the last couple of months, you’re probably thinking to yourself, Gee, Andrea. This pregnant and bedridden story is getting kind of boring! Same thing, day after day.

           

            Well, you’re right. Same thing. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month. It was good, bad and ugly, sometimes all at the same time. 

           

            Awaken. Look at the ceiling. Check off a day on my calendar—with grateful glee—and count how many days I’d been able to make it. Drink some orange juice Chris dutifully delivered to my bedside. Turn on the television. Watch the O.J. Simpson trial. (Yes, that was my major form of “entertainment”.) Have a can of Ensure. Yuck! Listen to the radio. Read until I could no longer hold my arms up in the air or at such awkward angles. Return to the television. Get excited when I hear the front door open and Parker’s little feet scurry across the entryway tile. Parker’s lit-up face when he blasts into my room to check on me. The big event of mail perusing. Having a can of liquid chalk—oops, I mean Ensure—for dinner, along with canned spinach and sauerkraut juice. Talk to Chris while he eats dinner in my room. Watching a Bible study on tape a friend has given me. Listen to motivational or relaxation tapes. (I’d been given a plethora of them.) Saying goodnight to Parker and Chris and staring at the ceiling as the darkness envelopes the world outside, and then my room. Watching television until the last show signs off. Counting the victorious days in my calendar again before I turn out the lights. Battling my nightly demons, and awaiting the creeping of the sun’s rays across the hills and their piercing through my bedroom windows. (My heart always sped up excitedly for that event.)

           

            Day after day after day…

           

            But I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that not every day evolved into a monolithic struggle.  Some mornings I felt good and took the doctor-approved opportunity to gingerly stand and stretch, (okay, lift my hands over my head), carefully change clothes, wash my face, and brush my teeth at the bathroom sink. I had made it far enough for Dr. Landry to allow me to do that, and this redeeming, six-minute ritual emerged as the highlight of my day.

           

            And every three days I’d carefully shuffle into the bathroom—supporting my increasing girth with my hand—and kneel down next to the bathtub so Chris could wash my hair. (I can’t begin to describe what his gentle, loving hands did for my head, or my spirit!) Dr. Landry suggested sitting in a tub of about two inches of water to bathe, but the idea of climbing into and out of the bathtub—scrunching over to sit down, then stand up—scared the daylights out of me. Even my nurse practitioner friend screwed up her nose at that idea and gave her opinion: No. Chris and I managed to perfect this technique. Then I’d pad back to bed for a sponge bath.

           

            And I did allow myself to dream. Maybe for Valentine’s Day I’ll treat myself to a short shower. Yes! Valentine’s Day might be something to look forward to. Another date I eagerly penciled in on my calendar. February 14: Take first shower in 11 weeks!

           

            Occasionally, I’d get brave and attempt a return to normal, solid food, only to pay the price that evening or the next day. Chris and Parker, however, continued to enjoy home-cooked Methodist meals. There’s nothing like a Methodist potluck, and we had one almost nightly in our home. My husband gained the weight I was losing, and Parker consistently inquired about who would be “coming over tonight to bring dinner.” It was a wonderful display of witnessing and love for my four-year-old: to see how the body of Christ can mobilize to support and love one another; to see love in action. Prayer and nurturing with skin on it!

           

            The dreaded panic attacks continued unabated, though, then worsened as the pregnancy advanced. At times, night’s darkness engulfed me like a suffocating wall of water, the dread of its confinement descending upon my spirit hours before the actual attack.

           

            And a question always jogged around my mind during these episodes: How do chronic sufferers of panic attacks survive the agonies of them? The empathy basket I’d filled earlier with paraplegics and POWs now included chronic panic attack sufferers. I couldn’t understand them at all before this; now I understood them all too well.

           

            And "them" was now me.

           

            One night stands out like a pulsing light in my mind. For no apparent reason, I abruptly awakened a spasmodic coughing fit which was followed by a vice-like uterine contraction. I clutched my chest to remind myself to breathe. One side of my brain screamed a command: Get up! It’s over! You’re done. Hang it up. The other side calmly, firmly said, Relax, stay put. Keep breathing…that’s right…rhythmic, deliberate breaths. And don’t move. My brain argued back and forth several seconds.

           

           Then I screamed. Chris bolted down the stairs looking disoriented and concerned. I had to feel his touch, experience his comforting presence. I knew he was exhausted, sick and sleep-deprived. But I was suffocating!

           

            He peered at me through glazed eyes then asked, “What can I do?”

           

            Propped on one elbow—primed for the anticipated flight—I gaped at him helplessly. “I don’t…know…I don’t know what I need!” I choked.

           

            Yes I do know. I need it to all go away! No. Maybe I just need to know I’m not alone in the house. That I’m not really alone in this darkness.

           

            I hoped Chris knew what I needed, or would at least have a sudden revelation about it. But he didn’t even know about my fear and panic attacks because I hadn’t told him about them. His solution was to pour me some cough syrup, watch me take it, before I reluctantly sent him back to bed. Then, back to God I went, begging for the superhuman strength—desire— to continue this race. Just give me peace to get through this night. Just one night, Lord! Is that too much to ask? Can’t I have just one night?

           

            My prayers dissolved into pleading sobs.

           

            Then it happened. Instantly. As though I’d been touched by a gentle hand, that reached into my soul and body and released a dam allowing all of the fear, the stress, the anguish to escape. And as it all exited, relief and otherworldly calm filled up the space left behind, and a wrapping of indescribable love and peace encased me. As my body inhaled deeply and then exhaled the tension, I gratefully submitted to peaceful, protected sleep.

           

            But I wasn’t going to take any more chances. After that night, as a means of defensive protection, the television remained on, with the volume up, so I could see human faces and hear human voices, or mechanical noise. Vibrating lines jittering across the screen was good enough. Often, I left the overhead fan light on the dim setting to escape the feeling of behind buried alive in the blackness. Only at the first light of dawn was I able to relax.

           

            Dawn. My favorite time of day was the break of dawn. When the sky slowly opened to unveil the brilliant oranges and reds emerging from the foothills beyond our home. Solar hues, joyously gathering to announced the faithfulness of God and His glory; to give hope to a new day. A hope I lived through each night for. A hope I searched for—sometimes frantically in the morning. Just to see the dawn crack open the black sky was like a barbiturate to my mind, morphine shot directly into my veins, and I strained to see between the immovable blind slats covering the French door in my room. The door to the world outside.

           

            Before the hues of twilight announced another blessing, though, there was the “morning star.” Venus. The planet that appeared first in the procession to declare the forthcoming spectacle; emerging like a blazing, dignified courtier trumpeting and reflecting the arrival of its brilliant King, who personally orchestrated and painted the ensemble of colors announcing his arrival. The sheer whiteness of its solar reflection projected a sparkling blaze of promise in the sky, and I reveled in its quiet magnificence, expectancy and promise. The night, bowing in obedient retreat, abdicating to the sun's authority and strength. The company of colors spreading slowly, like a gentle, healing hand moving carefully, lovingly over the earth, with an unheard voice that said, “Take heart! I have not forgotten you. I am here.”

           

            From my sequestered location, I was unable to witness the encore of colors in the evening recessional, however. Chris would rush in and exclaim wildly, with descriptive gestures, “You should seeeee the sunset!” Or he’d announce how beautiful the ground cover flowers looked, having exploded into glorious color during our early spring after months of energy-gathering rest.

           

            On one occasion, when I had the rare opportunity to leave the house for an appointment with Dr. Landry, I was privileged to view the spectacle myself.

           

            Three thousand square feet of blooming rosea ice plant spread like a magnificent, hot pink carpet across our hill. I gazed. I gawked. I sucked in the sweet, moist spring air.

           

            I wept.

           

            Spring! There’s nothing like spring in Southern California, I thought. Such a perfect time of year for a baby to join nature’s celebration of new and rejuvenated life! If only the flowers will stay this vivid until my baby’s born.

           

            I was beginning to allow myself the indulgence of thinking—believing—I would make it.

           

            And so would my baby.

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NEXT WEEK: Riding waves and going for broke…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea