Things
were going too smoothly. Apparently, in all my
heartburn-low-back-pain-can-hardly-put-on-my-shoes-and-I-will-never-sleep-again
glory, I was just a little too
comfortable. Smug, even. Enter, stage left: THE UNIVERSE.
On
Friday, ladies and gentleman[1],
there was blood. Of course, if we put on our remembering caps, we may recall
that this
pregnancy began with blood – like of the you’re-so-not-pregnant!
variety. The kind where you may or may not wind up hunched over the
kitchen table, ugly crying[2]
into your insert-bowl-of-fattening-comfort-food-here
while your partner tries to remain stoic in the face of GREAT UNCERTAINTY AND
TERROR. The kind that leaves you doubting even the canned implantation bleeding
speech of the fertility clinic nurse[3]
and the wisdom of the goons sages on Yahoo! Answers. Because, dammit, it just feels like your
period.
Of
course, we all now know that I have literally zero insight into my own body
because, bam: pregnant
with human baby.
And so
on Friday, when, at 30 weeks on the dot, there was blood, well, I was thrown.
But this time it was not so much for my panic – though there was that – but
more for C’s reaction. For C’s UTTER TERROR. For the wavering in his voice
and the you-are-going-to-the-doctor-right-now-and-I-am-cancelling-all-my-afternoon-appointments-immediately
defiantness. Of course, by then the bleeding had stopped and I had somehow
managed to white-knuckle my way through coast through five solid hours of work. But the doctor agreed – I
should come in. Just to, you know, make
sure.
The
short version of the story is that following my first speculum exam in FOREVER
AND EVER, AMEN[4], I was
pronounced completely fine. We even played a fun game where the nurse and C
squeezed the baby’s foot and we watched his heart rate soar[5]
and the nurse complimented me on the non-swollen appearance of my ankles[6].
Back
at home, both relieved, I wanted to know why C was so worried – what was the
thing he thought was happening. And then, just like that, out it came: BEDREST.
That’s it. That’s what rendered him panicked and shaky. Sure, there was also, earlylaborplacentapreviacatastrophecatastrophecatastrophe.
But really, it was just one thing, one thing that he knew, after 11 years of
being together, would really screw with me: BEDREST.
Because
here’s the thing, dear interwebs. If I’m not active, If I’m sitting too long,
if I don’t exercise, if can’t get outside, if I’m stuck in one place for more than seven minutes: I slowly begin to, how
do I say this? Lose my ever-loving shit[7].
And C, dear, sweet C, he knows that about me.
(Okay,
let’s face it. C knew that his life would be a WAKING NIGHTMARE if I were
suddenly confined to the couch for the next ten weeks. He was looking out for
his own wellbeing. And, you know, mine and the baby’s. Maybe.)
This
is me. On bedrest.
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Because this is what turns up when you Google Image search “going crazy on bedrest”. In stark contrast, Google Image searching “going crazy on bed rest” reveals a picture of Hulk Hogan with an orange boa. Because, OBVIOUSLY. I could not make this stuff up if I tried, you guys.
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[1] I’m assuming there’s only one of you,
tops.
[2] Thank you Huffington Post for this Kim-Kardashian-ugly-crying-montage
profound piece of hard-hitting journalism.
[3] Lesson learned: never, ever doubt her.
[4] Deep insight: I prefer to keep my pants on.
[5] It’s amazing what passes for “fun” by
week 30. I’m guessing my standards will only be lowered further for the next 18
years. Noted.
[6] I’m
blushing. Now if only I could still see
my ankles.
[7] See
also when Phil Dunphy
explains that Claire is “like a border collie” and needs to get out for a run
every day. Yes. That. (And no, this is not some kind of backdoor brag – more an
indication that I am probably in need of heavy sedation/years of therapy.)
