Hospital Bedrest for Twin Pregnancy

This article is not for the faint of heart, but it does have a happy ending.  

How I Ended Up on Hospital Bedrest

I was exactly 24 weeks pregnant on the day I was rushed to the hospital for monitoring.  My cervix was starting to dilate and we feared early labor. I asked whether I could go home to pack a bag, and my doctor slowly said, “No. You are going to the hospital immediately.” A few weeks prior we had learned that one of our twins had a heart defect, but we would not know the severity until he was born. Delivery at 24 weeks would be perilous for any infant, but especially one with cardiac problems.  

This was supposed to be my second day of work at a new job. I was lucky to have a boss and colleagues who understood the gravity of my predicament. That compassion (and our solid health insurance) were among the few blessings I could identify at the time. I kept repeating (out loud and in my head) that bedrest is a protective measure and it is quite common among twin pregnancies.

Once I was admitted to the hospital, the medical team moved quickly. They immediately hooked me up to a drip and administered steroids to promote the twins’ lung development.  As the steroids seeped into my system, I felt warm and dizzy. A NICU pediatrician stopped by to review my chart. He sat next to me and calmly explained what might come next. 

We discussed infant mortality and what life-saving measures look like for infants born at 24 weeks. Apart from Baby A's heart condition, both twins were at risk for significant disabilities if I delivered that day.  Survival for either twin was not guaranteed. 

To summarize, (1) I was physically uncomfortable in every way possible; (2) imagining catastrophes over which I had no control; and (3) this very kind doctor was whispering grim forecasts in my ear. I understood at that moment that hospital bedrest was going to be a very special ordeal.

Little Beeping Everywhere

What did I do with my new terrible knowledge about premature delivery? Nothing. My job was to sit and bake.  

The orderly wheeled me to the ladies-in-waiting wing, also known as the chicken coop, where high-risk moms resided until delivery. The nurses’ station featured an enormous flat screen showing the heart rate monitor numbers for every mom and child on the floor. Each room delivered its own musical beep-beep song depending on the individualized equipment. A true symphony of maternal anxiety, the perfect score to accompany our pregnancy limbo.

I was wheeled to my room and the nurses brought out the wires. They strapped two sets of heart monitors to my belly, while continuing my IV drip. My maternal fetal specialist stopped by with an entourage of nurses and medical residents. My husband arrived with my pajamas and toiletries from home. It was quite lively for a few hours: visits from the labor and delivery team, pediatric cardiologists, NICU doctors, and various hospital administration all stopped by with cheerful introductions and endless paperwork. So far, not so terrible.

The Emotions Hit Hard

After 6pm, the hospital settled down. My overnight nurse introduced herself and asked whether I needed anything. Why yes, I needed something. I needed the always-hopeful hugs from my two-year old son at home. I needed my food from my kitchen. I needed my husband to hold my hand upon demand.  

We were at a world-class hospital with an excellent medical team. I was absolutely doing the right thing for myself and the twins, but being in the hospital felt wrong and horrible. My prayers of hope and gratitude were incompatible with my emerging rage and panic.  

Why rage? Because unfairness always makes me exceptionally hysterical and pissed off. I am sensitive to it, that is just who I am. This situation was not my fault. I had done everything by the book during my pregnancy. My twins were blameless. It felt unfair and illogical to have an unborn child with a heart defect, to be experiencing early labor, with a hospital bedrest sentence as a result. My rational brain could not rein in the internal monster itching to throw a chair through the hospital window. 

Panic is much easier to explain. It is the body’s rebellion against uncertainty. We all experience panic, know what it looks and feels like. Regardless, it is very hard to control the physical manifestations when panic strikes: nausea, paralysis, a lumpy throat, tears, and shock. And I was beginning to panic about the panic, because I knew I would not survive my hospital stay if I permanently remained in this agitated state.

Getting past the rage and panic was far more difficult because I also felt exceptionally lonely. I am a city girl who thrives on movement, people, and events. I am always down for a spontaneous coffee, drink, or meal with friends. Thus the isolation of bedrest was terrifying. In my head, I was now an unwanted zoo animal in a cage with no visitors except for my handlers. I knew I was receiving excellent, necessary care and that I was doing my job as a mom. That fact did not ease my inner turbulence.

The Daily Routine

I tried to settle into my new hospital life by imaging what I could do with all this time. My employer allowed me to work part-time remotely, which largely meant I sat in on team phone calls. But I could not concentrate on anything that required deep thinking, which meant I was doing very little substantive work. After a lifetime of reading all the time (for both work and pleasure) my brain decided that it too wanted some bedrest. I could not summon the attention to read a news article on most days.  

How did I pass the time? I watched every winter Olympic event on TV, including a profile on snowboarder Shawn White, who was born with the same heart defect as my Baby A.  Did I cry for two hours – or six – after watching that? Who knows. Time loses its definition when on hospital bedrest. 

Sleep was elusive and inconsistent. My only job was to rest and I was not doing a good job. The twins were growing and my rib cage felt compressed. The fetal monitors went haywire every time I moved. My legs were hooked up to a compression machine that growled like an HVAC unit. The heartburn? Constant. I kept reminding myself: you are so, so lucky to have these minor problems. Be positive. Find gratitude. But where, exactly, is the line between peaceful gratitude and wrenching guilt? Wherever it is, the twins and I were dancing back and forth between those two states when we were supposed to be sleeping. My doctors eventually allowed me an occasional Benadryl (yes, it’s pregnancy safe) at night to help me sleep.

Nonetheless, hospital bedrest is not restful. Medical rounds commence at 6am. A small mob of people briefly knocked on my door, waited one fifth of one second, threw it open, and turned on those oh-so calming fluorescent lights. My committee of doctors, nurses, and med students reviewed my stats and situation. They departed. Knock knock! It’s time for breakfast. The hospital was renovating its cafeteria, so ghastly meals came from an outside institutional caterer. Bedrest meant I wasn’t burning calories and revving up an appetite in the usual manner. Luckily, the twins continued to grow at a decent clip despite my waning desire to eat.

After breakfast, the parade resumed. My daytime nurse checked in. The janitor arrived to sweep and dust. The social worker dropped by to say hello. The orderly brought fresh linens. Our pediatric cardiologist popped in. My morning medications arrived. A new resident walked in with a clipboard. Another blood draw. My husband delivered me a chocolate croissant on his way to work. I drifted in and out of sleep between all these visitors. When it is time for lunch, and the cycle resets and restarts.   

A Few Things Helped

It took me more than a week to develop my own survival system. Comfy, presentable pajamas and lounge wear provided more dignity than the Official Sad Hospital Gown. I resumed my skin and hair routine (sans makeup) to just feel more like myself. To be clear, no one cared what my hair looked like at the hospital. It settled my nerves, however, to look in the mirror and vaguely recognize the woman staring back.

Netflix was my steadfast companion. I watched every episode of the original Gossip Girl. I could not read a novel, but could watch a drama featuring oversexed teenagers in magnificent designer clothes. At the end of every episode, I happily noted another 47 minutes of successful pregnancy.

Phone calls also helped. Long conversations, the kind people rarely have anymore, re-entered my life. I shamelessly played the pregnancy card and sent email updates requesting calls. I reconnected with old friends. Upon reflection, phone calls (and not video calls) soothed me because I was more confident and relaxed talking with people who could not see me locked up and trussed in the hospital.   

Feeling more like myself led to social visits. I will never forget how many cherished friends and family trudged through the February snow to visit me. I resisted guests at first because updating well-meaning people felt like too much work. I had zero desire to endure quasi-therapy sessions with my besties. Eventually, though, visits from people became bearable and they certainly helped pass the time. When removed from civilization, a small taste of company and laughter feels brighter and more delicious.  

In-person attention from friends and family was also a boost because, surprise surprise, they were genuinely rooting for my success. My sister brought me blankets and candy.  My husband brought a meal from a favorite restaurant for Valentine’s Day. My girlfriends showered me with gossip and more candy. I gradually moved past the discomfort of explaining my pregnancy journey repeatedly. The people who loved me were hopeful when I could not be. That hope mattered deeply to me.

I Fight My Way Out and Eventually Return

After several weeks, my cervix started to behave. I was aching to go home and be with my toddler son and sleep in my own bed. My OB-GYN relented because I live less than two miles from the hospital, and she plainly saw the mental toll I had suffered. I had to resist leaping out of my bed when she gave me the news. I went on to spend my last few weeks at home.  

It was a 10-minute cab ride back to the hospital when my water eventually broke. Baby A, despite the heart defect, decided he was ready at 32 weeks. Baby B eventually debuted after an additional round of pushing. Baby B came home one week later, while Baby A stayed three months in the NICU to have surgery and recover. All three of my boys are now older and thriving. None have any recollection of my hospital stay.

Hospital Bedrest Takeaways

Time is your best friend. It is also your enemy. You want your pregnancy to go the distance, but the tediousness and anxiety are formidable. Hospital bedrest did not give me clarity or peace. It did not make me wiser, calmer, or more patient. It did not arrive with lessons neatly packaged for later reflection. What it gave me was time. Slow, uncomfortable, fragile time along with an understanding that sometimes the bravest thing you can do in pregnancy is endure without answers. Each day I stayed pregnant felt like a small, private victory. 

If you remember one practical thing from this article, let it be this: distraction is your greatest tool. Distraction frees you from counting minutes. Whether it’s television, games, knitting, learning a new language, online shopping, or just watching a zoo cam, distraction is not avoidance. It is survival. Figure out what will transport you to a less stressful state because it is good for you and good for your wombmates.

If you are reading this from a hospital bed, do not be afraid. Bedrest does not mean disaster. It bears repeating that bedrest is a protective measure and quite common among twin pregnancies. Speak up, ask questions, and request what you need from your caretakers. You are doing something incredibly hard, even if it looks like nothing at all.