Last week, the doctor put me on bed rest.  I called my second-opinion friend. She has a nursing degree and I don’t believe anything a doctor tells me until I clear it with her.

“What does bed rest mean?” I asked her. “We have tickets to a show tonight, I’ll just be sitting there.”

She said no. Get in bed. Get someone to watch Adelaide. Get up only to go to the bathroom. Recumbence.

With that, I took to my back.

Luckily, Levi was able to work from home last week—and did he ever work. In addition to his professional responsibilities, he cooked every meal,* played with Adelaide,** kept the apartment clean. He answered my every call: a drink, a sandwich, some chapstick, a different book.

In hindsight, it was a lovely week. I got to lie in bed and read all day—something I’d fantasized about in the not-too distant past. I played card games with a two-year old: “you have cards in your hand? I have cards in my hand!!!” I watched BBC films and read magazines and learned how to spell Eyjafjallajokull volcano. Levi and I taught Adelaide how to pass notes between us. “Dear Levi, I love you. Please get Adelaide a drink.” “Dear Rebecca, you’re great in bed rest.”

I ate really well.  Friends brought meals and when Levi makes a sandwich he sautés mushrooms and toasts the bread.  I had long phone conversations with friends, finally got around to organizing our digital photos, and for once, made good on my resolves to actually re-listen to conference talks.

It may have clocked in as one of the best weeks ever, were it not for the floating anxieties about something being wrong with the baby, Levi having to go back to work, bed rest lasting longer than a week, etc. It was sort of like losing a job: just yesterday you would have given anything for all this free time, but until you know for you sure you’re going to get hired again, it makes for a depressing round of vacation days.

After a week, I went back to the doctor. Thankfully, the baby looked and sounded healthy and I was cleared to go back to my normal life.***

I was grateful—really grateful—that everything checked out okay, but as I walked to the lobby where Levi was waiting, something started to trouble me.

“What’s the word?” he asked.

“He said I should be good to go,” I said. But thoughts of the dirty dishes at home and the laundry that needed to be folded got the best of me.

“Good to go,” I feigned a weak smile, “in just a couple more days.”

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*Except those friends brought. Such wonderful friends.

**Except when friends took her. Such wonderful friends.

***He included the caveat that I “take it easy.” (Is there a better doctor order? It’s like being told that you shouldn’t feel guilty for the way you already live life. “That means no exercise,” he said. I let my shoulders fall so he would think this would actually affect me.

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