Thursday the 31st
The downside:
Sometimes, even if you didn’t utter the words “hey, at least it can’t get any worse,” and by doing so jinx yourself, well, shit gets jinxed anyway. And a suckfest rains down on your ass quicker than you can say, “Oh dear god, I hope it doesn’t get any worse…doh!”
The upside:
I totally forgot that I bought a four pack of the most delicious lemon cupcakes two days ago. Now, having remembered, I have in front of me four delicious lemon cupcakes. And a tall, cold milk. And dint of will.
A totally legitimate reason to watch this.
I consider this sentence of bed rest a cosmic plot, or more…nature’s intervention. A way to ensure I will have learned valuable lessons by the time this baby comes, like, to be more consistently patient, to stop concerning myself with things like household cleanliness and organization, to surrender to uncertainty and chaos, let go. Because, according to the universe, I’m waaaaaaaaay to uptight about those things. Evidently it’s good for babies to live in a house filled with mountains of dog hair, and sticky black, soot-like exhaust-dust covering everything, without a single stick of nursery furniture or diapering/cleansing supplies. They like ‘winging it’ in vile filth, naked …if I’m deciphering this heavenly message correctly.
The big irony in where I’ve been? I’ve been…nowhere. As in, haven’t left the apartment. In weeks. My world has been reduced to the 60x80 inch rectangle of our bed, with the exception of gleefully anticipated excursions to the toilet. And man am I lucky to have those bathroom privileges. There’s no way to explain their importance really, but let me assure you they’re a Big Deal. It means being able to walk all the way through the next room a few, limited times a day, and while doing so enjoy a momentary change of scene and the thrill of being vertical at the same time. Sooooo much more than simple bladder relief. Big Hairy Deal.
I was put on bed rest after being hospitalized three weeks ago. When someone asks about my hospital stay or why I’m confined to bed (or where the hell I’ve ‘gone,’ ha!), I never know what to answer. The perfect, quick information/explanation hasn’t presented itself yet. “We nearly lost the baby,” though the absolute truth, always sounds so dramatic. However a clinical approach where I give gory detail about the color and texture of what comes out of my vagina, or the length and diameter of my “sissy cervix”*, or the results of my latest FFN test is a little too much info for most. Like my dad, for example. So I’ve been sticking to something along the lines of, “I started to go into labor, and they stopped it, but now I have to lie still to keep it from happening again.”
However two weeks to the day after that first hospital visit I went into labor once more, that time with supra-mega pain and ultra-terror added free of charge. I spent another few days in the maternity ward (the MOST bizarre, trust me. A floor of women screaming their brains out, doing everything they can to expel the baby from their womb, and me, crying my eyes out, clenching my bits closed, praying he stays put.). Since I was already on the bed rest and neonatal specialists hate redundancy, pills and more strict limitations were the terms of my release, in addition to being sequestered of course. (Even though I am quick to point out how all that bed rest did fuck-all to stop me from going into labor the second time.)
But better safe, etc. And I do have my potty privileges. I cannot stress enough how monstrously cool that is.
*dubbed correctly and thus by my friend Mr. Xavier.