Bed Rest Part 1

Or, livin' on a prayer (and an FFN test)
 

I don't want to drag this story out unnecessarily, a la "Breaking Dawn" Parts 1 and 2 (Twihards will appreciate that reference...yeah, I'm a dork). But I decided to divide the bed rest portion into two posts, partly because if I didn't it would be one giant "War and Peace"-length post and partly because my time on bed rest really did seem like two different chapters.

I went on bed rest near the end of May, almost one year ago to the day, which is hard to believe! After the experience I described in the previous post regarding that one terrifying night when John was gone, I decided I needed people to spend the night with me on the nights when John was away and people to come over during the day to help with things like meals and cleaning and taking care of our dog, Bauer. (Anyone who knows Bauer knows he is quite the handful!)

Forever in debt

I'm going to take a break from the story here to share one of the many lessons I learned during this whole experience. Being strong, being tough, is really important to me. One of my biggest frustrations during all my health crises has been that my mind has set standards for myself that my body has simply been unable to achieve. For someone who's a big believer in mind over matter, that's a hard pill to swallow. And I know the fact that I'm doing this blog might lead you to believe otherwise, but typically I'm a very private person when it comes to sharing my problems, mainly because I'm embarrassed by my weakness, and I have a difficult time trusting people in general.

But at that point I had no choice. If I was going to follow the doctor's orders, and really listen to what my body was telling me instead of trying to ignore it and push forward like I usually do, then I would be putting my baby in jeopardy. And that was too high a price to pay for my maintaining my pride. I don't have any family in town, so I was forced to reach out and ask for help from friends, co-workers, and acquaintances. The response I received was overwhelming, and incredibly humbling.

Caleb and I will always owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the people who stepped up and helped out. You all know who you are. The friends who, despite having busy lives of their own, came over and stayed the night with me, brought meals, cleaned the house, and stopped by just to keep me company. The people who sent encouraging voice mails, texts and emails. The countless others who continually lifted us up in prayer.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. In my case it also took a village to gestate one. God used this experience to shatter my illusion of self-sufficiency, and to show me the incredible power in sharing my problems with others and asking them for help. The risk involved in making myself vulnerable was worth the grace I received in return.

At 24 weeks, shortly before I went on bed rest.

Now back to the story. The first half of my bed rest, while in some ways scarier than the second half because the stakes were higher, was also less eventful, so I had a fairly predictable routine. I would sleep in my bed, then get up in the morning and move to the living room couch to spend the day there. I could get up to take a shower, go to the bathroom, eat dinner, and occasionally grab something from the fridge, but that was basically it. I could read books for a bit, but since I had to lay on my sides instead of on my back, it got pretty tiring holding up a book on my side. And I couldn't watch the TV because it was downstairs. So the iPhone became my lifeline (and no, Apple didn't pay me to say that). I surfed the internet, read comforting Bible verses, played Sudoku, and sometimes texted or talked to people.

I know to some this doesn't sound too bad, and in comparison to a lot of other things a person can endure, like cancer or paralysis or starvation, it isn't. But please don't ever say to someone on bed rest, "Enjoy your vacation!" as I heard several times. Bed rest isn't rest. It's prison. And it takes a heavy physical, mental, and emotional toll.

For instance, after the first few weeks, my legs started hurting pretty badly, so I had to go get an ultrasound to make sure I wasn't developing a blood clot, which can happen when you're immobile for long periods. Thankfully I didn't have a clot, but I instead found out the pain was likely the result of my muscles atrophying. Awesome.

The contractions were also starting to shorten my cervix further, so the doctor put me on an anti-contraction medicine called Procardia. I didn't want to be on any drugs during the pregnancy (heck, I wasn't even drinking caffeine), but I had to choose which was worse, being on a drug that so far had shown minimal to no side effects on babies, or risk having a baby born prematurely. So I chose the drug. It made me lightheaded and dizzy and caused my heart to race. And of course, I also developed the rare side effect of excessive gum inflammation. But fortunately a family friend of ours is a periodontist and gave me a mouth wash to help keep my gums from getting too swollen. So in short, Procardia sucked. But it was a necessary evil in my eyes.

First (of many) ER trips

I was supposed to have a baby shower in my hometown in June, but I obviously wasn't able to make it there, so my mom and sister still threw me the shower and Skyped me in. It wasn't the same as being there, but it was still fun. Later that day, though, I started developing symptoms of a urinary tract infection. Since it was a Saturday, I called the doctor on call, and he said I should probably come in to L&D so they could run a test since UTI's can worsen preterm labor. I waited for a while because I really didn't want to go to the ER if I didn't need to, but the symptoms got worse so around 11 p.m. John and I went in. It was the first of many ER visits I would make.

The test turned out negative, which was good (I discovered after Caleb was born why I had so many problems with my bladder during the pregnancy, but that's another story). The doctor on call wasn't my doctor, so I had to get him up to speed on my case. After he heard everything, he asked if I would be open to having a cervical ultrasound done while I was there. See, apparently there are two schools of thought on predicting preterm labor. One is to rely on the FFN test. The other is to look at cervical length. This doctor had studied underneath one of the doctors who pioneered the use of cervical length as a preterm labor predictor, and he said that while the FFN is a good indicator of the short term likelihood of preterm labor, cervical length is a better long term indicator. 

The ultrasound confirmed that my cervix was shortening. The doctor said that at the length it was at that point, statistics showed that it was extremely unlikely I would make it to full term, and I would probably deliver before 35 weeks. At least that was better than my current 27 weeks, though still not the news I wanted to hear. But then the doctor told me something that I would take to heart for the rest of my pregnancy. He took my hand and said that I was doing everything I could to take care of my baby, and the rest was beyond my control, so I should just take one day at a time and be thankful for every day that I was still pregnant.

John, my parents, and others had already told me that same thing, but for some reason that advice really sank in at that moment. It's a good thing it did, because you see, the bed had become my mental battlefield, and every minute I laid on it, I faced a choice--savor the blessing of the moment or succumb to overwhelming fear. I had plenty of legitimate reasons to be afraid, as I knew full well what would happen to Caleb if he was born that early. If he lived (which despite the fact that he was past the point of viability was in no way a guarantee), he could live with devastating physical and mental disabilities--cerebral palsy, chronic lung problems, brain impairment, and developmental delays, to name just a few. But rather than focusing on the fear, I fought to focus on the positive. Some days I was more successful at this than others. But every morning, I woke up just thanking God that I was still pregnant, still had another day with my baby safe inside my belly.

Me and Caleb on the couch at 29 weeks

I knew the doctor was right when he said the situation was ultimately out of my control, but it was still very hard for me to accept. I wouldn't call myself a controlling person, but I like to have control--not over others, but over myself, if that makes sense (must go hand-in-hand with those aforementioned trust issues). During my various health crises, I had experienced several crises of faith as well. But after each period of doubt and anger and soul searching, I had come back to three bedrock beliefs that I knew to be true. I believed in God. I believed He was a good God. And I believed He held me in His hand. And so I would come to a point of acceptance that God was ultimately in control of each situation, and placed my trust in Him to work all things out for good in the end.

But with this situation God was taking it a giant step further. Because this time, He wasn't just asking me to trust Him with my fate, He was asking me to trust Him with my child's. And that was another matter entirely. So with that I began a struggle that I now realize will likely continue until the day I die. The struggle to release Caleb from my clenched fist, place him in God's hands, and trust that He loves my son even more than I do and will take better care of him than I ever could. So, yeah, not really a lesson I've learned, but a lesson I'm learning.

Fridays and FFN Days

Every Friday, John and I would celebrate reaching another week in the pregnancy by him getting us takeout from my favorite restaurants. Along with a nice meal, each Friday brought a little bit more relief, even though I knew we were nowhere out of the woods yet.

Aside from Fridays, the other days that I lived for were the doctor appointments, every two weeks, when I went in for another FFN test. I would go home afterward and anxiously await the call from my doctor telling me whether it was positive or negative. And each time, he would call and say, "Well, congratulations, you've bought yourself at least another two weeks!"

People have asked me how I was able to emotionally handle those weeks on bed rest, particularly the early ones when the stakes were the highest. And honestly, I think it was a combination of the FFN's and God's protection. The FFN's gave me some measure of short-term assurance, and God somehow gave me enough peace to keep me from completely freaking out about the situation, which was important because I needed to maintain a calm environment for Caleb.

But then wouldn't you know, after six weeks on bed rest, things took a giant turn for the worse and the safety net provided by the FFN was removed in a way nobody, not even my doctor, expected. So that's where I will pick up next time. Thirty-one weeks pregnant, when we entered the most difficult and most unbelievable period yet in that roller coaster of a pregnancy.

In the mean time, here are a couple songs I played on repeat. (John told me to emphasize the word "repeat" when I talk about these songs at the end of every post, as I played them all so many times they started driving him insane). The first, "Everything is Yours," by Audrey Assad, really spoke to my need to trust in God's sovereignty. The second, "Faithful," by Steven Curtis Chapman, encouraged me to trust in the Lord's faithfulness, whatever the outcome. Chapman penned the song, and in fact that entire album, after the tragic death of his daughter, so his lyrics carried even more weight and authenticity for me.