I’ve spent the last week on bed rest/home rest/hospital rest. I’m fine, the baby is fine, but my normally awesome blood pressure decided to turn not awesome at my last checkup and when it does that in pregnant women, the bells and whistles go off and people start to get really concerned about you.
Which is great. I know I’m really lucky to have health insurance and a team of doctors who are on top of things. The baby is safe and that’s what counts.
But all the worry and the resting and the constant contact with my two new BFFs — Systolic and Diastolic — equals a right pain in the ass.
It is literally exhausting staying in bed all day. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. Your muscles and bones need to move to feel right. Sluggishness exponentiates upon itself. Things ache. Which is unfortunate because when your BP is high, it doesn’t feel like anything. It’s not like the flu where you feel like you’re sick. Your body is hiding its sick on the inside.
Then there’s this — you feel like you’re not doing enough around the house. It adds to the load Daniel is already carrying. As much as he says not to worry and as much as he does to make things right and good, I still hate feeling like I’m not contributing. I mean I get that I’m not supposed to be doing chores, but I can’t unload the dishwasher? I FEEL FINE, DAMMIT. Let me do something. (Cue the Doctor: “NO.”)
Yesterday I went into my checkup hoping they’d relax some of my restrictions, but then admitted me into the hospital for closer monitoring instead. That was an exercise in fear and patience. Also, I learned that no matter how hungry you are, never ever let yourself think that the hospital-grade tuna fish sandwich is a good option for lunch.
So I’m home now. I’ll be here making sure my BP is low and not doing very much of anything. Except playing Scramble. A lot.
On the bright side, this will all clear up once I give birth to the little guy and that’s only 27 days away.