But, for six straight days, my placenta hasn’t been problematic. 

For six straight days, my super-active son, 26 weeks in utero, has elbowed and kicked and rolled and somersaulted, reassuring me with each movement. 

So, even though bed rest may or may not be beneficial, based on research, I will follow my doctors’ orders to the T because bed rest I can control.  And, if I stay on bed rest, I won’t be able to blame myself if my son is born pre-term.  If I stay on bed rest, it will be in God’s hands alone, if worse-case scenario occurs. 

Actually, being a life-long, guilt-ridden Catholic, I’ll forever be racked with what-ifs if anything bad happens to my son, but, if I stay on bed rest, I’ll be able to rationally fight the feelings of self-blame. 

Therefore, here I am, a high-energy, go-go-go woman, reclining on the couch, laptop on my thighs, bulging belly hanging over the keyboard, with the phone, my calendar, my To-Do list and anything else I know I’ll need stacked on the coffee table next to me. 

My friends are driving my son, nearly 5, to and from preschool and also soccer, the only one of his extracurricular activities I didn’t have to cancel:  Because he is taking the soccer class with three friends, he’ll always have a ride. 

My friend and fellow room parent Carmen conducted the final interviews with my son’s classmates and shot the last pictures I need for the book I’m writing and designing as a class fundraiser for the preschool.  With content and pictures in hand, I can do the rest on my laptop.

When my son is home, he’s my helper, running to grab the scissors, then walking slowly back with them pointed to the floor; retrieving the newspapers from our front sidewalk; or bringing me a Zone® bar when I’m hungry for a snack.  Because I have to be sitting or reclining, we’re spending our free time together playing games like Sorry! and dominoes, plus watching Scooby Doo and Star Wars: The Clone Wars episodes, snuggled up in bed or on the couch.    

My husband, feeling helpless from his office, calls to check on me.  Instead of “Are you bleeding?”, he asks, “How are you feeling?”  I tell him I feel fine, then answer the question he’s afraid to ask:  “And, still no bleeding.”  Then I give him the tally of non-bleeding days, because I know the accumulation makes him feel better too.

Tomorrow, I’ll be 27 weeks pregnant.  My due date is April 23, but 37 weeks is considered full-term, so I know I’ll be released from any restrictions by April 2.  Until then, I will do whatever it takes to keep my little guy where he belongs. 

And, thanks to wonderful friends, my sweet husband and my son, I can do whatever it takes—easily.  However, while the logistics are covered, the mental aspect of bed rest is another issue…

As directed by the doctor on call, my husband drove me immediately to labor-and-delivery.  After the bleeding was deemed non-emergency—meaning not necessitating my son’s way-too-early birth—I was checked into a “permanent room” in the women’s hospital, where I continued to bleed for 1 ½ days. 

Late Sunday morning, Dr. O, one of the members of my high-risk pregnancy team, released me because it had been more than 48 hours since my last bleeding episode.  I am now on bed rest at home, unless my placenta previa kick starts another bleed, upon which I will have to be hospitalized again.

I am thrilled to be home, able to spend my days with my nearly 5-year-old son and my nights with my husband, after he returns from work.  But, I’m not as relaxed as I expected to be.   And, it’s because every time I go the bathroom, which is ridiculously often due to debilitating urinary frequency, I’m afraid I’ll find blood.  And, every time I’ve slept since returning home—one afternoon nap and two nights—I’ve had nightmares that I’m bleeding again.

I was terrified every time I urinated at the hospital too, but I didn’t have nightmares.  Maybe it’s because I felt my baby and I were medically safe in that environment—as safe as we could be, considering I have no control over whether my placenta bleeds or not.

Here at home, I can’t page the nurse.  I can’t have a team of medical professionals assisting me and my baby within minutes.  Well, actually I can, if I call 911, because the local police and fire departments are within three minutes of our house.  Plus, I’m within just 15 minutes of the hospital, and it’s unlikely anything too serious would occur before I made it there.

It’s impossible for me to explain the horror of being pregnant, not pregnant enough to safely deliver, and seeing all that blood.  I don’t think I’ll recover from that initial trauma until long after my baby boy is born, hopefully at full-term. 

I know the daytime fears and the nightmares are normal reactions, and I hope that, as each non-bleeding day passes, I will be freed from some of this anxiety.  Until then, I need to remember that Dr. O said it’s rare for placental bleeding to result in pre-term delivery.  And, even if I bleed again, I can get help within minutes. 

Now I need to give my son a refresher course on dialing 911.

Prior to having children, I satisfied my maternal instincts by collecting pets.  In 1993 and 1994, I adopted two cats, Oliver and Samantha, and in 1995 I adopted a third cat, Tim, plus a black Lab puppy named Joey.  In 2003, I was down to two cats, Samantha and Tim, so I took in my friend’s Siamese, Winston, who wasn’t adapting well to her newborn.  And, because I worked from a home office from 2000 on, I was with my pets almost 24/7, so I was very attached.

My worst nightmare last night was about Samantha, an amazing 5-pound runt who fetched like a dog.  I had to put her to sleep in 2005, shortly after we moved into our house, and I’ve never gotten over it. 

My nightmare started with my son and me going away for a week for my grandmother’s funeral.  (We did just attend her wake and funeral in New York, for two days, in November.)  In my dream, Samantha was alive and well, and I had to leave her in my car, the red Toyota Celica I had from 1990-1996, at the airport for the duration of the trip.  I put her in there with a litter box, ample food and water—enough to last the week.

However, when our flight landed late at night, it was impossible to retrieve the car (and Samantha), so I decided that I would get it (and her) from the airport parking lot in the morning.

About three weeks later, I woke up in the middle of the night, realizing for the first time that I hadn’t seen Samantha around the house for a while. 

Then, in my “pregnancy brain” fog, I realized that I had completely blanked—about her at all, about her alone in my car, about her in my car for an entire month with only enough food and water for seven days.

I knew she was dead. 

I was horrified I had killed her with my hormone-fueled forgetfulness.

I rushed to the airport, afraid to look in the car.  My former fiancé, whom I was dating for the first three years I had Samantha, was somehow on the scene, and he was the one who investigated the situation because I couldn’t bring myself to.

Samantha wasn’t dead, but very weak.  I was relieved, but reeling from the damage I was capable of doing because my brain wasn’t functioning properly.

Dream over. 

I will ask my psychiatrist’s opinion of this nightmare during my appointment on Monday, but my conclusion is that it is related to fear that I may hurt my 4-year-old son—for whom I’m the primary caretaker, as I was with Samantha—because I can’t think straight. 

I hate that I’m not sharp anymore.  I hate that none of my strategies to combat “pregnancy brain” seem to be working.  I’m not comforted when my pregnancy books and my friends tell me that this is normal.

This is not normal for me.

I can’t control my high-risk pregnancy, so I desperately want to be able to control my “pregnancy brain.” 

I can’t, so I’m having nightmares…

“Brain Dead” Example 1

Sunday, my husband and I took our 4-year-old son to the Chicago Botanical Gardens’ Hallowfest.  I registered for the event online last week, then received a confirmation letter that would serve as our proof-of-purchase when we arrived. 

Knowing that my short-term memory is shot, I put the confirmation letter in my wallet, ensuring that I’d have it to gain admittance.  However, on the drive to the Botanical Gardens, my husband asked me what activities were taking place, and, when I opened my wallet to read from the confirmation letter, it was missing.  I looked again and again, incredulous, knowing that I had placed the letter in my wallet just that morning.  I then dumped my entire purse onto the car floor.  But the letter was gone.

I had no memory of removing it.  But I realized that I must have taken it out to read again, perhaps confirming the event’s 3 p.m. start time.

We drove back home to get the letter.  And, it was right on the dining-room table, right where my purse had been before I’d picked it up to leave for Hallowfest.

But, even after finding it, I have no memory of removing it from my wallet—and that scares me.

“Brain Dead” Example 2

Yesterday morning, my son and I went grocery shopping.  Because I’m having such difficulty with my memory, I created a detailed grocery list.  But, two aisles in, I could no longer ignore my overactive bladder, so I placed my grocery list and pen in my purse, then pushed the cart, complete with my son inside it, into the restroom.  After crossing the store back to aisle 3, I realized that, while my pen was at the top of my purse, exactly where I’d placed it, my list was nowhere.  Once again, I looked through my entire purse, thinking maybe it had slipped down inside, but it had vanished.  So, I had to do my grocery shopping from memory and, with my hormone-affected, sleep-deprived brain, didn’t purchase several needed items. 

“Brain Dead” Example 3

This morning was the worst example of how much I’ve degenerated.  I didn’t sleep well again last night, so I didn’t wake up until 8 a.m.  While my son and I were eating breakfast, I looked at the microwave clock and panicked because it was 8:35 a.m., I hadn’t yet showered, my son was still in his pajamas, and we needed to leave at 9 a.m. for his gymnastics class.

We rushed around, leaving 10 minutes late, only to walk in to our local recreation center and see my friend whose son is in the class before my son’s. 

She looked at us, surprised, and asked, “Are you just here really early?”

I looked at my watch. 

9:20.

And, only then did it register.  My son’s class is at 10:15.

We have the same schedule every week.  It’s written in my calendar, but I know the schedule so well that I have it committed to memory.  Or at least I used to have it committed to memory.

Now, I have no memory. 

I have gone from sharp to ditsy, flighty, disorganized.  And, even my attempts to overcome my problem are backfiring. 

This must be what it feels like when Alzheimer’s first hits—memory loss and confusion, followed by periods of full cognition in which you recognize how your brain is failing you.  Thankfully, pregnancy isn’t a lifelong condition, so my “pregnancy brain” will recover. 

Until then, my psychiatrist, whom I regaled with these stories today, said I have to get more sleep—lots more sleep.

P.S. My son and I just finished doing a dinosaur puzzle, and he announced, “I’m smarter than you.  I am.  Because you have ‘the pregnancy brain.’”