My Time in Bed

Bed rest is real pain. Literally.

I can't tell you how many people have off-handedly commented, "Gee, I wish someone would tell me to go on bed rest".

No, no you really don't. What you want is to be able to lie down and take a nap or read a book without guilt. And then get up when you are done. That isn't bed rest.

Bed rest is having to ask someone else for every conceivable thing you might want or need. It is never eating Cheetos because you are too embarrassed to ask your mother-in-law to bring you some. Bed rest is learning how to eat lying down, and perpetually having crumbs in your bra and food on your face. It is drinking coffee through a bendy straw. Bed rest is losing so much muscle tone that you have perpetually pulled groin muscles from the simple action of getting out of bed to use the bathroom. It is missing phone call after phone call because you are facing one direction on the bed and the phones are behind you and it takes too much straining to turn around in time to answer them. Bed rest is enduring the humiliation of tutoring high school students while lying on a couch. It is horrible heartburn and throwing up in your mouth in the middle of the night (actually, that might just be pregnancy). Bed rest is the depression that comes from not moving your body, from not going outside for weeks and weeks. It is far too much time to think and worry. Bed rest is numb arms and shoulder pain as you type an email. It is having to stop knitting because you dropped the knitting needle and no one is around to pick it up. Bed rest is spilling kefir all over the feather pillows. It is spilling water all over the computer. Lately, bed rest is back pain and hip pain and leg pain and neck pain and headaches and vertigo. And a stuffy nose.

And those are just some of the things that bed rest is.

Last night, I was feeling miserably sorry for myself, trying to sleep and alternating between shooting pains down my legs, and rotten room spins whenever I rolled over. I fell asleep writing this blog post in my head.

And then I dreamed.

I dreamed that I went to the hospital because I was bleeding, and when I got there, they told me I was tearing through my cerclage, and that Dr. K had ordered me to stay in the hospital with my bed in Trendelenburg position. The bed was practically vertical, with my head close to the floor. I was terrifically upset. When I asked to go to the bathroom, the nurse insisted on accompanying me and checking me in while I was using the toilet. And when I got into the bathroom, the room started swaying like we were on a boat on a rough sea.

And when I woke up, bed rest didn't seem so bad after all.

A Love Letter to my Husband

I just want to let you know,

that I know how hard you are working

now that you are doing both of our jobs.

That I know how frustrating it is
to go to three different markets

to collect all the things we love to eat

and come home, only to realize

you have forgotten the one thing

we actually needed in the first place

and that your work is not yet done

And I know how frustrating it is
to make the meals I used to make

with me shouting in the recipes

from my position of repose on the couch

And I know how frustrating it is

that I say, "What?"

to almost everything you say

because my head is perpetually pressed

into pillows
And that I can no longer answer the question,
"Hey hon, where is the ...."
About anything.

And I know that, even after 6 years,
my Croatian grammar still sucks.

And you are right: the fax really doesn't have to be sent

right this very minute.

But most of all

I can only imagine how frustrating it must be

To care as much as you do

To be as scared as you must be

To want to make everything all better
And keep us all safe and sound

And to be utterly powerless to do so.

Except you do
you do so, every day
I may be carrying our children
But you are carrying everything else.
And I want you to know that I know it
And I appreciate it
And I love you.

Lesson in Intimacy #346

Allowing your husband to trim your toenails
when you can no longer see your feet.

THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Huge thank you to our dear friend and blog subscriber who, upon reading my post "Learmimg.To.Adapt", promptly loaned us an old computer of his!!

AHHH, the bliss of a spacebar !!!

Precious Moment

I have a precious moment with Bruno's computer, which has all its keys in working order, so I need to spit out a post that has been rattling around in my head for days, but which I just didn't have the will to copy/paste all the n, b, spaces and question marks into:

Teamwork

Yesterday, mid-morning, as I'm lying on my left side and talking on the phone and Mama Ratka is in the kitchen, working on lunch, dinner, or tomorrow morning's breakfast, the doorbell rings. I hear her open the door, and then hear her walking down the hall toward me.

She arrives at the bedroom and tells me in Croatian that there is a man at the door. We continue in Croatian, and I ask who he is and what he wants, and she tells me he is the guy working on the side of our house (there is a guy working on the side of our house?!) and she doesn't know what he wants because she can't understand him.

OK, what to do now. I know the wrong answer to that question is for me to get up out of bed and see what he wants, although that would certainly be the simplest. I think for a moment, and then ask my friend on the phone whether she would mind if Mama Ratka handed the phone to the man at the door, and my friend could find out what he wants and then tell me. I manage to relay this concept to Mama Ratka in Croatian, and she heads off for the front door with the phone.

As she's walking away, I realize it would have been simpler to hang up with my friend, have Mama Ratka bring the landline to the guy at the door and then call him myself from my cell. But at this point a plan is in motion, so I sink down into the pillows and wait.

I hear talking at the front door, and then I hear the front door close. But no Mama Ratka returning the phone to me so my friend can relay the message. Instead, I hear the phone ring, and hear my friend talking into the answering machine. Hmmm.

A few minutes later, Mama Ratka reappears at the bedroom. She is holding the phone, which now smells like oranges, and a towel. It seems she didn't think the man at the door looked very clean and decided to clean the phone before returning it to me, hanging up on my friend in the process.

I use my cell to call the answering machine, and discover that the man is pouring cement near where my car is parked and would like me to move it so he doesn't get any cement on the car. OK, I would really like that too! Now, how to make this happen: Mama Ratka doesn't drive. I ask in Croatian if she would feel comfortable just backing the car out of the driveway. Nope. OK. I utilize all that is left of my Croatian vocabulary to tell her that my car keys are in the glass bowl on the small table in the front hallway (thank goodness I finished the Croatian lesson on prepositions before Mama Ratka arrived). And then I ask if she will go ask the man to move the car for me, and then return the keys to her.

She tells me she doesn't think she can communicate this in English. I ask her for paper and pen, and write a note to the guy, explaining the whole ridiculous situation, all the while wondering if he has already poured the cement and left for lunch by now. But Mama Ratka finds the keys, delivers the note, and the car gets moved and the keys get returned. And when she returns to the bedroom to report all this, the two of us burst into giggles and shake hands congratulating ourselves for our teamwork.

Mama Ratka is clearly the legs of this operation. And I guess that makes me the gal with the words.

Learmimg.to.Adapt

Two.Nights.ago,.we.spilled.water.oN.my.computer.
ANd.though.we.feared.for.its.life,
aNd.though.I.had.to.speNd.a.day.oN.rest.with.No.iNterNet.access,
it.did.revive.

Well,.all.except.for.the.space.key,.the."N".key.aNd.the."b".key.

However,.I'm.adaptiNg.
For.example,.usiNg.a.period.iNstead.of.a.space.
Or.fiNdiNg.aN."N".aNd.copy.pastiNg.it.iN.
It's.a.capital."N",.however.that.doesN't.really.matter.
Just.gives.certaiN.thiNgs.a.uNique.emphasis.

Or.usiNg."however".iN.place.of.that.simpler.coNjuNctioN,
that.uses.the.other.missiNg.key.
You.kNow,.the.oNe.my.love's.Name.starts.with.

Oh,.aNd.the.questioN.mark.doesN't.work.either.
Which.could.result.iN.good.thiNgs;
perhaps.I'll.questioN.less.aNd.trust.more.

I.had.thought.of.simply.usiNg.a.letter.replacemeNt.for
the.missiNg.keys:
Dut,.that.might.mot.de.the.easiest.thimg.to.umderstamd.
Or,.it.might.de.easier,.if.you.have.dyslexia,
or.doudle.visiom.

I.had.thought.I.could.get.away.with.simply.
Not.usiNg.words.with.those.two.letters.
You'd.fiNd.it.shockiNg,.however,
how.ofteN.you.Need.to.use.those.particular.oNes.
ANd.geruNds.are.out.eNtirely.

Some.day.I.am.sure.thiNgs.will.returN.to.Normal.

MeaNwhile,.I.am.learmimg.to.adapt.

Go Team Bed Rest!!

Got a surprise e-mail from Dr. R yesterday saying that he would like me to come in for a check to see how everything was progressing. We, of course, showed up first thing today, after a fairly sleepless night full of worries about what new statistic or measurement we would encounter to send us into new spasms of concern.

But, after a slow car ride down El Camino with me strapped into the fully reclined front seat, marveling at the blossoming treetops I could see through the windshield from my position of repose, I am DELIGHTED to report the following news:

I am no longer funneled all the way down to the stitch, but rather I have re-gained 4mm of cervix above the stitch!! And I still have 26mm of cervix below the stitch. Go team bed rest!!

He said cervix feels firm and doesn't feel like there is pressure on it. The girls are measuring on track: Baby A is measuring 25 weeks and Baby B is measuring 25 weeks and 6 days. He also had me on the contraction monitor for thirty minutes and since I had no contractions, he did not re-prescribe the indocin or the anti-biotics this week. And he suggested that I see him again in two weeks, at 27.5 weeks.

Who would have thought that 4mm of anything could bring on such feelings of joy and relief.

We know we are not out of the woods, and that we still have weeks and weeks to go. Case in point: I asked Dr. R whether it was, in fact, pure myth that they were going to let me sit back up at 28 weeks, and he admitted that I was pretty much gonna being lying down until these gals get here.

But that is just fine with me! How much easier bed rest is to take with the knowledge in hand that it is working, that we are lightening Cedric's load. How lovely to hear the numbers move in the right direction.

Go Team Bed Rest!!

Very Few Facts, Week 25

Nearly two weeks of bed rest accomplished, and so far we've kept the civilian casualties to a minimum; my Mom took a pretty direct hit on a particularly moody day last week, but seems to be recovering well. Those of you who know her, please feel free to give her a call or shoot her an e-mail to aid in her convalescence.

And to be honest, I'm a bit moody today, but I'm starting to learn the ups and downs of the wicked P17 shots: it seems the day before a shot and the day after a shot, I'm at my most vulnerable. I suppose that makes sense as the hormone waxes and wanes in my system. I really am becoming my own solar system over here, especially as my mass increases to the point where it threatens to have its own gravitational pull.

Mama Ratka arrived last Thursday, and what a beautiful blessing that has been. I must admit that in my very American way, I was terribly resistant to having anyone living with us for more than a few days, nevermind for a whole month. But the surprises in this journey never cease, and, as it turns out, having a new energy in the house has really helped the days move by more quickly. Speaking in Croatian nearly all the time keeps me from getting too worried or too heady: I simply don't have the words for it. And then there are the ten years that dropped off Bruno's face and posture moments after his Mama stepped into our home. His brow has smoothed and his eyes have brightened and it is so beautiful to see.

And so, on we amble, minute by minute. I have been graced with a swarm of new students who don't seem to mind being tutored by a large whale reclining on a yellow couch, and my days are filled with preparing lessons in everything from logarithms and graphing rational functions to the rise of the Ottoman Empire. And every hour or so, Mama Ratka appears at the bedroom door to ask what I need.

I haven't been seen by a doctor for nearly two weeks now, and won't be seen by one for another week yet. Sometimes this worries and upsets me as I wonder what is happening in there. But then the girls double team me, one of them kicking my ribs while the other kicks my bladder, and I am left to assume that everyone is, well, alive and kicking.

And as for Cedric the Cervix: don't know what is happening with him, but again, there is nothing to do but lean back into the pillows and believe. Believe that the doctors know what they are doing, believe that the stitch is doing its job, believe that the bed rest is making a difference: making things different.

I hope this isn't premature (to turn a phrase), but I think I'm starting to believe.

New

And here we are.

24 weeks and 4 days. The gestational day I gave birth to Pedro and Archer at 4:43 and 4:46am, July 30th, 2008.

So, we've already passed the threshold and are into uncharted territory. I am further along than I have ever been before.

I was awake at 4am this morning, and watched the minutes tick by approaching our landmark. As the clock arrived at 4:43, I closed my eyes and thanked the boys for being part of our lives and for looking out for their little sisters. My intention was to pray/meditate until 4:46. I woke up at 4:52. Ah well.

And so here we are. In the new. To be honest, I'm scared. This is going to take a while to sink in. I still fear that every contraction will break my water, that every twinge must be my cerclage tearing through my incredibly stubborn cervix. I wish Cedric would just get the message, hold firm, and relax into the support we've given him.

I guess the same could be said about me.

I'll get there. I am getting there already. But you, dear reader, are once again invited to get the party started and celebrate this bold new day.

Samson

What a difference small things make. Hair. for example.

Curly hair does not fare well on bed rest. The shorter layer threatens to dreadlock within a half of day of constant contact with pillows, while the longer layer straightens to a fuzzy, itchy, irritating mess. The two together resemble a mushroom cloud sitting atop my head. And although I spend most of my time lying in bed, as a pregnant woman I also pee quite frequently, which puts me in a room with a mirror at least once an hour.

Which does not for a good mood make.

Instead, glimpses of one's rag tag self are utter demoralizing. It is hard not to fall apart when the image in the glass shows you clearly falling apart. It is hard not to feel something is wrong when you look like someone who is ill.

Today, on a whim, I rooted around in my bedside table drawer and came up with a barrette, a plain Goody barrette probably abandoned there during a previous decade. I grabbed the renegade former source of all my power, twisted it up and attached it firmly to the top of my head.

I felt instant relief as I laid my head down again: no more itchy neck reminding me how I was no longer capable of keeping myself groomed. I figured I probably looked like a cross between Pebbles Flintstone and Tweedledum, but that had to be better than the post-apocalyptic look I'd been sporting for a week now. But when I made my next pass through the bathroom, I was shocked to see that I actually looked more like a character from Wuthering Heights, albeit coming back from a having spent a night on the moors. Not a perfect look, but certainly a huge step up.

I can't help but notice that the rest of the day was a much happier day for me. And I've decided that instead of chalking it up to vanity, I'm going to look at it in a more biblical light.

Elevator Up

And this morning, I feel hopeful.

Everyone is kicking away inside, and so far today I'm not in labor, whereas at 24 weeks and 2 days last time I was convulsing with pain, not knowing what was going on, with Dr. Gloom and Doom unreachable in surgery. Pedro's water broke later that day.

So this is definitely better than that.

And I've got the PlayGround plays to read and help select over the next two days, so that gives purpose, direction and distraction: all excellent survival tools.

And Mama Ratka arrives tomorrow, which is going to ease all kinds of burdens and tensions.

I thought somehow, though, that passing all these landmarks, these landmines, would also ease some burdens and tensions. And the truth is, I don't think I'm ready to lay down those weights. I feel a great pressure to stop grieving the loss of my sons before the arrival of my daughters, and I just don't think it is going to happen, and I'm not even sure I want it to happen. I'm not ready. I miss my boys profoundly, especially as I'm walking the time frame in which we lost them. I'm not ready for it to be all OK. I don't know if I will ever be, but I am really not ready now.

I have always been a woman capable of vast emotional volume. I will simply have to figure out how to hold both: to feel excitement and optimism over these new lives while allowing the terrible past to remain terrible, allowing the loss to remain real.

Everyone on board? Elevator up...

Apricots?!

Up at 4am because I had a hugely horrible, horribly huge emotional day today, spent a large chunk of it crying, and haven't felt the babies move since. They didn't move after the post-dinner half a chocolate brownie, and they didn't move for the middle of the night snack Bruno left, even though, in deference to the rotten day, Bruno left me a special comfort food treat of my beloved organic Cheetos. I crunched down the salty mollifying goodness, put my hands on my belly and concentrated: nothing.

As I picked up my book and settled in to try to read my way past my terror that my emotions had killed my children, my hand absent-mindedly returned to Bruno's snack pack and this time pulled out the dried apricots he'd placed there to provide follate and vitamin A to mother and childs. Voila! Little bits of popcorn bursting in my belly. Not a whack-a-mole game, but movement to be sure.

I'm so sorry, angels! Mommy promises to find a more even keel for the rest of our sailing together. Please hang in there with me!

And, apricots? Really? Whose children are these?

Five Days In

Five days of bed rest accomplished, twenty seven left to go. Yeah, yeah: I know they aren't really going to let me up when I hit 28 weeks, but they said they would and I need an attainable goal to focus on, so I'm counting down my 27 days and working under the 'ignorance is bliss' theory

And what a five days they were:

Day 1 was Thursday, and Bruno and I were sweet to each other. Bruno returned to his nesting ways, creating safe resting places for me in the bedroom and the living room, pinning tiny pink onesies up on the bedroom walls as a sort of vision board for me. We ordered in Chinese food and watched many many episodes of Lost and thought: we can do this again.

Day 2 was Friday, and it hit home that we were having to do this again. Old terrors began to resurface and memories mixed with realities. I had way too much time to concentrate on the sensations of my body, and every time I closed my eyes I re-remembered Pedro's water breaking. I think that moment was the single worst moment of my life, the moment we knew it was over and we had lost.

Day 2 also included the primal scream dinner incident. Bruno had been slaving away in the kitchen, making a fabulous meal, the 9th or 10th one in a row (first breakfast, second breakfast...) that he prepped, cooked, served and cleaned up entirely on his own. I meanwhile had been lying in the bedroom having two contractions in a row, and was now terrorized that there would be more (there weren't any more: just a good old fashioned Braxton Hicks scare). Bruno had the meal all ready to go and called me to make the slow trek from the bed to the living room couch.

This would probably be a good time to mention that Bruno has a pet peeve about serving the meals he makes hot off the stove. No dilly dallying: get to the table and no messing around. Only right now, I'm a big mess. Getting my increasingly stiff body onto the couch, arranging the pillows properly to achieve the just-short-of-lying-flat angle that makes all the difference in bed rest eating: these things take time. And expediency wasn't helped when we discovered that the romantic, breakfast-in-bed tray no longer fit over my belly. As steam started to pour out of Bruno's ears, and the tray, loaded with Bruno's beautiful dinner, teetered dangerously over Mt. Lisa, Bruno yanked one of the pillows from behind my head to use to shim the tray.

And that's when it happened. Filled with nerves and despair, frustrated to the breaking point, and certain this alteration in the delicate pillow eco-system would trigger another contraction, I opened my mouth and screamed. Primal screamed. Worry-the-neighbors screamed. And when I was finished, I broke into sobs and hiccupped, "I... was comfortable!"

Bruno went white. I'm gonna have to guess "with rage", but he didn't speak for a long time after that so I may never know. When we finally did start talking again, I 'fessed up to the contractions, and rage turned to fear, and everything changed. My wretchedly out of control behavior was forgiven and forgotten and all thoughts turned to what my body was doing for the rest of the evening. Which turned out to be nothing: apparently the scream shamed all of us into behaving.

My arms are now out of blood, so I'm going to have to tell the story of Day 3 and the "search for the perfect chaise lounge" fiasco another time. But one thing is becoming clear: bed rest is excellent practice for both partners in the kind of letting go that I imagine parenthood demands.

And Then

And then I settled down and slept some more and let the night time terror hormones pass.

And then the sun rose and Bruno and I had breakfast in bed together, albeit a different sort of breakfast in bed, but breakfast in bed none-the-less.

And then I spoke with each of my doctors again, and they each reassured me that we are doing really really well and all these aggressive measures are just to leave no stone unturned in protecting our daughters through these important next 4 weeks.

And then I read. And spoke with friends. And nibbled. And showered for 5 minutes (ahhh).

And by then, everything was feeling a whole lot better.

More Than the Facts, Week 23

Today's Dr appointment showed that my incompetent cervix has done its incompetent thing (very competently, I might add) and has opened all the way to that stitch. So, now we are putting all our faith in the handiwork of the good Dr K. The good news is, the cerclage is placed very high up, leaving me 2.6 of cervix below it, and the Dr. said the cervix feels firm and strong and the cerclage is doing its job beautifully.

However, they now have asked me to do lying-down-all-the-time bed rest. And they've put me on medicine called indocin for a few days that makes me feel like the side of drunk right before you throw up in the street. I know it seems out of character, but I do actually have experience with that side of drunk, only once, after a terrible NYC improv show: long story. And I'm still on weekly p17 shots, which add a lovely dose of emotional instability to the mix. And preventative anti-biotics three times a day, which mean I had to write out a schedule to figure out when, between the meds, the pre-natal vitamin, the iron supplement, magnesium and zinc I can get these girls their calcium. My milk drinking and kale consumption is on a strict schedule. My life is so off.

It is 3 in the morning and I am awake, somewhere between scared and bored. Time has screeched to a halt and where I was counting in days, I'm now back to counting in minutes. Bruno has rearranged the living room to let me lie on the couch there for parts of the days and nights. His way of dealing with all this is to build: build a new living room, build a new bed side table arrangement, build a contraption of bowls and jelly jars and towels and ice so I can have my milk in the middle of the night without getting up. And it even fits into the milk schedule. I love my husband very much.

I am scared for what happens next. I think this stitch will hold, that the stitch and the lying down all the time will stop my cervix from opening further, that we'll just take a long slow slog to the girls' safe arrival. But I can't stop being scared for what it all could mean if the stitch doesn't hold, if we end up on the shit end of the statistics yet again.

OK, I think I have to go back to the minutes. What happens in the next few minutes is I put the computer away, make a mental note to ask Bruno to include a toothbrush in the middle of the night milk plan, and get some more sleep for my gals. That's all that happens next. And we'll go from there.

I Miss the Olympics

I miss the Olympics. I really do. They were a good friend to a gal on bed rest. Hours of entertainment each day, all of it with high energy commentary keeping it high stakes and making it personal.

I suppose it is possible, however, that I overdosed on a them a bit, because the other night, as I was turning my behemoth body over in bed, it occurred to me that rolling over while carrying a twin pregnancy really ought to be an Olympic Sport, and a voice in my head started running commentary on the event:

"Watch Morse's technique on this maneuver: this is by no means easy, folks. The way she carefully elevates her hips first, keeping her knees together to avoid irritating her round ligaments. And she's working at a disadvantage this season due to that unexpectedly early bed rest order. Her training has been severely compromised, her strength and control are not what they were when she participated in this event in the 2008 summer games, and yet here she is, participating today like the true Olympian that she is."

"Now, contestants are judged not only on their grace and speed in this event, but also on the amount of weight they are able to carry while completing their rolls. This is where Morse really separates herself from all the other competitors in the field. Most of the women you see out here today will carry an extra 20, 25 pounds at most at this point, but Morse has outdone them all, carrying an extra 35 pounds already, with 13 weeks left to go. Truly an extraordinary achievement."

"Alright, Morse has completed the initial roll over, and now she's just got to get that Body Pillow in place. Her coaches have been working with her all season to find the perfect Body Pillow, and to be honest, I'm not sure they've found just the right fit for her yet. I know earlier in the season she was working with a wedge, and while that worked for supporting her belly, her knees were left still touching, and the judges can take major deductions for that. Now they've got her working with a full Body Pillow, but I'm not sure Morse has had enough time with it to really have mastered maneuvering it properly."

"She's got to reach behind her to find the pillow; twisting would endanger the babies and that causes a major points deduction, so she's got to find this thing blind. There! Now she's got the pillow and, OOOAAAH! Oh, that's a shame: Morse has the pillow but she's gotten it tangled up in the duvet. It looked like she even pulled the covers off her husband for a second, and that could be grounds for disqualification, folks. We won't know until they check the instant replay."

"OK, she's got the pillow untangled, but you can tell that duvet business rattled her . This isn't the performance she is capable of giving at these Olympic Games, and I think she knows it. She's not going to stop now, though. She's got the pillow around to her front, she's tucked it between her knees, and, in her signature move, she hugs the pillow to her chest, gives one final lift of her hips and tucks a little of it under her belly. A fine, fine way to end her roll over this evening."

"Not a medal winning performance to be sure, but I think Morse can walk away from this event with her head held high. The grace and style with which she moves, despite her mistakes, despite all the weight she's carrying...well, that's really what the Olympics are all about, isn't it?"

"And now, let's return to Chuck in the living room, where the 'Twin Moms' Attempt to Resist Calling the Doctor for the Third Time This Week' event is already in progress...."