We thought we were out of the woods. After several early miscarriages, I was finally pregnant with a healthy baby girl who had passed her amnio with flying colors. I’d stopped fearing the worst and was enjoying my second trimester, especially eating for two and flaunting my bump.
Then, during the 22-week ultrasound, I heard the technician say “Uh oh.” The baby was still fine, thank God, but my cervix wasn’t. It had shortened and funneled (I pictured the tornado from The Wizard of Oz) and could not be relied upon to keep my baby safe in the womb until her due date. I was at high risk for preterm labor.
It wasn’t good news, but I didn’t realize how serious my condition was until a doctor strapped me to a monitor to check for contractions. When I offered him a peek at our new ultrasound picture, he glanced away, muttering, “I probably shouldn’t look at that just yet.” I could tell he thought my baby might not make it, and I dissolved into tears.
The only hope for my baby was strict bed rest. I quit my job and settled into the couch on the first floor of our townhouse apartment. I was allowed to get up only to use the bathroom or grab a drink, and was told to avoid the stairs. Sex was forbidden. I couldn’t even do kegels.
Bed rest might sound like a nice holiday, but when you’re healthy and energetic, laying still 24/7 doesn’t feel right. I was antsy and tense, unable to concentrate on television and magazines because I was so scared. I spent most of my time with my iPad propped on my belly, googling “incompetent cervix” and studying viability rates for premature babies. I knew I had to do whatever it took to save my daughter.