Bedrest – the Stuggle to Hold on to Tiny Life

My bedrest experience began in Jan 2015. I was 19 weeks pregnant with my 3rd child and was attending a follow up check at St Thomas’ Hospital in London, having had a stitch placed at 9 weeks in my cervix to prevent it opening early. An internal scan to check the stitch was doing it’s job yielded the worst possible news, my cervix had changed, I was 2cm dilated. 

I was distraught, the reason I had needed the stitch in the first place was because just 8 months earlier I had given birth to my second daughter at just 22 weeks and 6 days. With her my waters had broken at just 18 weeks, as a result of my cervix opening early. My daughter, Maya, lived for just 20 minutes. In my mind history was about to repeat itself, it seemed so unfair.

The team decided to place a further stitch, which they were able to do later that day and I stayed in hospital for a week. This was to be my first taste of hospital bedrest, the early days were a mix of sheer terror and boredom, forbidden to do anything except go to the toilet and have a quick sit down shower. Thankfully I got talking to fellow patients, some of whom were in a similar situation, there were bursts of conversation, the topics varied greatly, although a common theme was what to choose from the menu! Mealtimes helped break up the day, as did the ward rounds.


At 20 weeks I was discharged home. The feeling was that if anything would occur labour wise, little could be done to help the baby as she was under 24 weeks, so the plan was that if I made it to 24 weeks I would be re-admitted, and that way if baby did arrive she could be helped immediately.

Leaving hospital was difficult, although I desperately wanted to go home, I craved the reassurance of knowing staff were available if anything happened. At home my mind ran riot. Everyday was a challenge not to think the worst was going to happen, every trip to the toilet became a session of paranoid pad checking. Equally difficult was the challenge of staying on bedrest whilst everybody was running around doing the jobs I was meant to be doing; tending to my 6 year old, the school run, housework, cooking. Occasionally I would try to help my stressed husband, who was working full time by getting our daughter breakfast, or washing up, only to spend the rest of the day fretting that I had overdone it, panicking that those new twinges meant I caused further damage. Not knowing what was happening inside was torture.


At 24 weeks I returned to St Thomas’, although I was elated we had come this far I was also despondent about the situation ahead. St Thomas’ isn’t our local hospital, it is over 90 mins away from our home by train. For reasons I won’t include here I was unable to get the care I needed locally, so had sought a second opinion and that had taken me to St Thomas’ and their preterm surveillance clinic. It was the best place to be, but it meant only being able to see my husband and our 6 year old daughter Anjali on Saturdays. It broke my heart being separated. 

Whilst I was in hospital in London my husband continued to work fulltime. Anjali went to school then had to go into afterschool club. We had to hire a cleaner once a week and my friends between them helped cook meals and plug the gaps.

Whilst life continued in a different way at home I was left pondering the fate of our baby, who was growing bigger by the day. Each week on a Wednesday morning I was taken downstairs to the prem clinic, each scan revealed that slowly my cervix was dilating, the pain I had become accustomed to over the last few weeks was in fact the stitches slicing into my cervix as they struggled against the growing weight of the baby. The only thing slowing the whole process down was bedrest. From 25 weeks onwards my reality was that I would be having a premature baby, not if but when. I struggled to come to terms with this and found myself with the hours to kill becoming increasingly angry with the whole situation.

Prior to bedrest, prior to difficult pregnancies I had often joked how lovely it would be to be able to lay in bed and do nothing! As many of us with busy lives have, but the reality was nothing like the dream. Physically you ache all over after time, it’s difficult to get comfortable, I had to have daily injections to reduce risk of blood clots, then there was the surgical stockings…

Days were spent trying to keep grips on a sense of routine, trying to fend off boredom. The urge to sleep was enormous, but that meant being awake all night, and things always seem worse at night. The staff were lovely, chatting with them as they whisked about their day helped immensely. I would find myself asking them all kinds of questions, desperate for any light hearted conversation that could distract me from the thoughts of preterm labour. At times the atmosphere on the ward was incredibly tense, woman would come in early labour waiting for a bed on delivery, others would come for induction, some like me were waiting, praying for nothing to happen. During my time I became extremely close to several other patients who I remain in touch with today. We shared our fears, laughed together, listened quietly whilst we took it in turns to cry. Sadly one lady delivered her baby sleeping, we were all devastated, that little angel holds a place in my heart forever, as does her mother.

Time moved on, and at 28 weeks I was transferred back to my local hospital. I was delighted to be back nearer home, and had hoped that there may be a possibility that I could be discharged, however that hope was quickly dashed as I was nearly 6 cm dilated. Seeing my daughter and husband every day was the best thing ever, however here I had been placed alone in a side room and now the prospect of staying in hospital until delivery seemed even harder. The frustration of the past few weeks bubbled up and I became increasingly tearful. Although I didn’t want to deliver a premature baby the thought of another 8 or so weeks on bedrest in hospital seemed unbearable.

Wednesday 25th March I was exactly 29 weeks pregnant, it was the 1st anniversary of when my waters had broken with my second child Maya, and exactly 11 months since her birth. I felt increasingly agitated as the day progressed, not helped by the fact that the Consultant on duty was the same one present at Maya’s birth, nor that I found myself lying in the room directly below where she had been born. It felt like the universe was having a laugh at my expense and the sense of unease continued to rise. I was convinced that if my waters broke today, my baby would die. Isolated in a side room it was a real battle. The day passed without incident however, and that night, exhausted I fell into a deep sleep.

Thursday 26th March, at 5.20 I woke up feeling something was wrong. Upon moving to call the buzzer I immediately felt a warm gush, my waters had broken. Panicked I rang the buzzer and staff were in the room almost immediately. I had been on bedrest for 10 weeks, and now it would be coming to end, I wasn’t ready! Suddenly the prospect of further bedrest was what I wanted more than anything, as the reality that my baby could soon be delivered dawned.

I was taken to delivery and from there things moved pretty fast. After weeks of inactivity I was surrounded by medical staff. A scan showed the baby was transverse, there was real concern of cord prolapse and so the decision was made to deliver by c section. Neonatal staff came and briefly introduced themselves, theatre staff, so many questions. Then baby decided she’d had enough, her heart rate showed she wasn’t happy so the questions stopped and we were on our way to theatre, and at 9.53, Priya was born weighing 2lb 15 oz.


After 10 weeks of bedrest I was free to move about again, but it came at a cost. Priya was now for the time being confined to an incubator, her tiny body hidden in a tangle of wires and the guilt was incredible. I felt like I had achieved nothing. Being on bedrest is a real feat of physical and mental endurance, when you start it you have no idea when it will end, you hope to keep pregnant for as long as possible, complaining about it’s discomfort is immediately followed by a sense of guilt, at times it is simply impossible. That said, many of us do it, we enter it without thought, sacrifice our bodies and minds in our desperate bid to protect our unborn babies, we are mothers before our babies are born.


Now when I reflect upon that period, I can do so with a sense of pride too. I faced losing Priya at 19 weeks, I never dreamt I could hold on for as long as I did. There are days when I simply can’t believe I did it, not only me but my family too. The whole experience turned our lives upside down, our routines had become transient, subject to change at any moment, yet somehow we muddled through.

As my bedrest journey came to an end, Priya’s neonatal journey was just beginning, it would last 67 days and was a real rollercoaster that saw her fight for life at just 8 days old due to NEC and a perforated bowel. She came through and today is 26 months old. 


Her story continues, and as it does the value of those 10 weeks of bedrest becomes more and more evident. For those on bedrest now, I would simply say this – nothing lasts forever, bedrest will come to an end, just take each day as it comes, and keep on cooking!

Catherine Jayaram

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