Bedrest Is Bunk
One quiet Sunday afternoon, shortly before the birth of my second child, I decided it was time to make my great escape. I was in the middle of my third— and longest—hospital stay. For weeks, I’d seen only the inside of my room, a beige cell with a view of the parking lot through a small window. I’d become desperate to escape, even if it was only to the hospital’s sterile corridors.
I peeked out of my lockless door, checked for wandering nurses, and shuffled into the elevator. I could barely remember the last time I’d walked that much. I made it all the way to the cafeteria, where I ran into a pregnant woman I knew. I didn’t recognize her at first; at that point I’d been on bed rest for weeks. We ordered veggie sushi (no raw fish for us!) and discussed how dimly lit the cafeteria was for such a nice hospital. She told me how lucky I was that I didn’t have to work anymore—commuting to and from work was killing her back. She had to wear flats.
I snuck back into my room and buried myself in my hospital bed, pulling the thin blanket and starched sheets over my head. I stayed like that for a long time. I wasn’t moving but my body ached. I was always in bed but never tired. I was receiving long-term disability benefits but wasn’t ill.
"Mama’s in the hospital because the baby is coming,” I told my 3-year-old when she came to visit. “Just like in your books.”
“Sometimes people go to hospitals because they’re very, very sick,” she replied, wrinkling her little brow as she sat in the bed with me, eating orange Jell-O from a plastic cup.
But I wasn’t
