Forced bedrest is better than none

I am having surgery on Monday.

It’s not a major invasive procedure, but will require me to stay in bed for an entire week straight. I am allowed to get up for restroom breaks, but that’s about it.

The doctor discovered my need for surgery in October and wanted to have it done earlier, but when I explained that having a husband in Iraq doesn’t exactly lend itself to a week of bed rest when there are three kids at home, he agreed to delay it until my husband returned.

He gave my husband exactly two weeks to get accustomed to home life before he scheduled the procedure.

I know that after the first day (or maybe two) of bed rest I will be chomping at the bit to get up. I know that I will probably be more bored that I can possibly stand after just 24 hours in bed and be eager to get up and about.

But, to be perfectly honest right now, this next week sounds like it might be a bit of heaven at this point.

This past year has been hectic and fast-paced, racing from one activity to another. I served on two boards, taught senior high Sunday School, designed and wrote newsletters for several nonprofit organizations, directed a production for Valley Performance Arts and just concluded directing a Madrigal Dinner Theatrical performance for our local church community. All this, and took my children to school and pre-school and gymnastic classes and swim lessons and slumber parties.

I’ll be honest, I could use any kind of a break someone wants to throw at me at this point.

Don’t misunderstand, I adore being busy. I love volunteering and I am a huge proponent of giving back to a community that has given so much to me. I enjoy showing my children by example that one person can make a difference and that even if daddy is gone for a year, we can still give something of ourselves to others, and get even more in return.

But, I could really use a break at this point — and the doctor-ordered bed rest might just be the ticket. My husband let me go unaccompanied to Anchorage for an afternoon last week to spend hours at my favorite bookstore without having to worry about my small progeny toppling stack of books onto the floor. I spent way more that I needed to on books I had been wanting to read all year and returned home with bags full of them.

I adore reading and usually end up reading at least one book every two days. In my B.C. days (before children), I was known to read one or two books a day. On weekends, I could go through a dozen novels. This made me real popular at parties.

But that has slowed significantly since my munchkins arrived, and I look eagerly forward to embracing my favorite authors again and laying in bed, a cat on either side of me, as I sip from a cup of tea lovingly prepared by my husband and drink in all the books I haven’t had time to read.

Of course, that’s why my fantasy world and my real world are in constant collision.

The reality of this will probably be a very grouchy me refusing to take a pain pill because I hate pain medication as I sit stiffly scowling in bed as the cats hide while the children bang and wail on the closed bedroom door, screeching my name over and over and yelling at me to come out as my husband frantically tears out the one hair he has left on his head trying to pacify and convince them that mommy is just sleeping over the cacophony of their shrill little voices.

But you know, I’ll take that too.

Even if my kids can’t see too much of me because of the state I’ll be in, I know that just hearing them on the other side of the door and their sloppy kisses before bed at night coupled with my husband’s exhausted sighs and murmurs of, “How did you do this for a year straight?” will be all I need to feel content and loved and appreciated.

Although a little bell beside my bed that I can ring whenever I need something and have my husband come running would be nice to have too.

Tiffany Horvath is the mother of two and the stepmother of one. Her husband, Drew, was deployed to Iraq. She writes every Sunday abut life at home for the wife of a deployed soldier.