Weeks 3 to 5
She was right. Dealing with this is not unlike going through the five stages of grief. Right now, I'm caught between denial and bargaining. I phone my doctor with inane questions. "So if I got a ride to my yoga class and someone carried me and placed me on my mat, I could do the class, right?"
Suddenly he takes a vacation, presumably to get away from me. I haven't yet mentioned how unbelievably angry I am -- at my doctor, for prescribing this; at my husband, for not quitting his job to stay at home with his weepy wife; and at myself, for being such a miserable baby container.
Full-on despair has hit. In the past few days, I've wound up in the hospital with irritable uterus. That means that when the baby kicks, my uterus overreacts and contracts. It doesn't help that my kid's mission in life is to squeeze my bladder every five minutes. However, I'm tempted to fake an episode just to get out of the house again. My friends and colleagues could not be more wonderful -- visiting, bringing books, etc. But when they leave, it's painful to think that they get to go back to normal lives while I rot away here.
I'm tempted to do therapy over the phone, but a therapist isn't going to be able to help me with the fear that I'll miscarry every time I go to the bathroom. I did contact a bed rest support organization, but the volunteer they assigned to me never called. But my friends phone all the time from their offices. I suspect they're procrastinating at work, but I need the company.
I've read that some women on bed rest have trouble walking once they're mobile again. Yikes. I get the okay from my doctor to do some floor exercises, so I ask a personal trainer friend to design a workout for me. She's also a student of Buddhism. "Remember that this is for a higher purpose," she says. "It's your job to learn from it."
That's all well and good, but I really don't give a crap about the sound of one hand clapping right now; I'm far more interested in the sound of my water breaking so I can get out of this nicely decorated prison. I cry every day, though. Is it hormones or the reality that I'm stranded for another 13 weeks?