This story actually begins before I got pregnant. Nathan and
I struggled to conceive, not as much as some do, but enough to earn the label “infertility”
and require medications and metal instruments to begin our entry into
parenthood. I had assumed I would be the wonder-woman who ran ultras with a
baby-bump, but as the months passed, I started skipping runs in the second half
of the month, just in case science was wrong and that would help. Running became a consolation prize: If I’m not
pregnant by December, I’ll do this race, undertrained though I was.
Then our miracle happened. We were pregnant! Even more miraculous
was our first ultrasound showing two lives latched on to me, with two beating
hearts. Whereas my What to Expect
book encouraged continuing running for a singleton pregnancy, it recommended
discussing any exercise with my OB first for twins. I stopped running
altogether, not wanting to take any chances.
It didn’t matter. At our next visit, the ultrasound showed
one happy active fetus. The other had stopped growing a week earlier (exactly
when my nausea and fatigue had subsided some) and no longer had a heartbeat. As
devastating as this was, I couldn’t find a reason to blame myself; we had been
exceptionally careful. When I got home from work that day, I went back to my
old consolation and went for a run.
I ran over the next few months as I could. Pregnancy
affected things in ways I never imagined: a 7 mile trail run gave me piriformis
spasms more painful than anything I had experienced. I couldn’t believe 7 miles
could cause something so severe when after 100 miles I could at least get up
and walk to the bathroom. Later on, demanding rotations coupled with viral
infections meant I did little more than work and sleep. I developed a mild
anemia from pregnancy, but it was enough to give me the running in water sensation
that giving blood had created in the past. Once I recovered from viruses, had a
couple weeks of iron supplementation in my bloodstream, and transitioned to
lighter rotations, I was ready to get some more miles in.
I have a wonderful friend who was willing to come run with
me, even though I warned I would be very slow and have to stop to pee every 10
minutes. I was nearly 32 weeks, and running felt GOOD. Well, it felt pretty
terrible in my middle section, but arms and legs and breathing were all working
well. We were only 5 minutes down the trail when I tripped.
The impact on my abdomen was enough to make me think I had
instantly killed my baby. My friend stayed calm and helped me get safely home,
and Nathan drove me to the hospital when my OB said I should be admitted for
monitoring. After 16 hours of monitors picking up our son’s heartbeat, kicks,
and hiccups, coupled with 2 ultrasounds showing a healthy boy, I was finally
reassured.
At first, fear of falling again kept me from running. And it
was getting pretty uncomfortable. But once the initial shock wore off, I knew
the real reason I wasn’t running anymore. I didn’t want anyone to judge me for
being careless after what happened. At the same time, I had heard so many
stories of women running marathons or putting in training runs that traveled up
mountains at 8 months of pregnancy, and I felt inferior for spending my hours
off on the couch.
Yesterday I went for a walk for the first time in a month.
It didn’t feel natural to be dressed in my running clothes and not running. I
hated that people were passing me, people I could outrun even now at 36 weeks. I
chanced it. I ran a stretch here, a minute there, watching the pavement closely.
I didn’t fall. And I’m hoping that you aren’t shaking your head at me now for
taking the risk.
I imagine that this won’t end when he arrives. There will be
years of balancing my needs against his and battling guilt. I’m going to make
use of two weapons to start out facing this guilt: an incredibly supportive
husband and a running stroller from a thoughtful aunt. It’s time to (slowly)
get back to running.
