I've come to the conclusion that the words "hospital" and "bedrest" belong nowhere near each other. Sure, I am confined to the bed all day, but I would definitely never describe my time here as restful. For one, a nurse comes in every hour to check on me, day or night (at first, they were also taking my vitals every hour, but that's now been knocked down to every 4 hours, thank goodness). Plus, I have to use the commode every 90 minutes or so, due to the massive amounts of water I am drinking and all the IV fluids they're pumping into me. Add to that 5am visits from the residents, midmorning visits from the doctor, daily ultrasounds, twice-weekly physical therapy, twice-weekly massages, twice-weekly weigh-ins, and daily visits from chaplains, volunteers, patient relations, room service, and housekeeping, and it's hard to squeeze in a nap, let alone a full night's sleep!
I guess all this activity is good for me, though—it makes the time go by a little faster and helps to keep my mind off of home (have I mentioned that I miss Ted terribly during the day?). And yesterday I actually got to make a new friend; at the doctor's suggestion, a nurse put me in a wheelchair and took me down the hall to meet a girl who is 22 weeks pregnant with triplets. She was admitted on Monday and, like me, is probably here for the duration. I am hopeful that we will get to visit each other again soon so that we can keep each other encouraged during the long weeks ahead. Even though 28 weeks is the short-term goal (for an 80% survival rate versus 50% at 24 weeks), we would both love to gestate our babies much longer than that—the less time they have to spend hooked up to all sorts of stuff in the NICU, the better!