It’s not about the running.

Oh who am I kidding of course it is!

I use to love running.  I mean, I really, really loved running.  It wasn’t about being fast (no, quite the opposite in fact!), I just truly loved getting out there and for a brief while – just kind of escaping things.  I did run with friends and groups but mostly, I preferred running on my own.  Once I got into my rhythm, I kind of moved into another world where I’d have the BEST conversations with myself: I won all my arguments, slammed the evil jerk at work and solved most, if not all, world issues!  I was brilliant, I was in control and all problems were solved.  It was definitely like entering another dimension – not in a Star-Trek-massive-black-hole-time-warp kind of way, it was more like hey –check-out-me-Wonder-Woman-on-top-of-the-world kind of way.  It was great!  I loved running.

And I ran anytime, anywhere.  I made it a habit to have a run – even if it was a small one – in any city I travelled to.  And winter was my favourite time to run.  Fully incognito in my balaclava, shielded from the cold in my head-to-toe reflector gear, I was “WINTER WONDER WOMAN” who could conquer the sinister storm and trample the snow with each pounding step.  And after a run on Christmas Day, I could handle anything – just bring on that houseful of in-laws!

Then I had kids and my running ended.  Forever.   

It wasn’t that I couldn’t find the time, it wasn’t that I didn’t have THE coolest baby jogger, it was childbirth.  The labor, the drugs, the pushing, the drugs part 2, the pushing part 2, then the forceps….. .  That’s the last marathon this body will run.  I didn’t have a running injury, I had a childbirth injury.  Now, it’s too uncomfortable, too painful to run.  It didn’t happen over night.  I still ran a little bit after my first baby, but after the second delivery that was it.

It was hard at first.   I’d watch my fellow moms gather across the street and head out on what used to be our weekly run.  I remember the camaraderie, the short-lived escape from diapers, the wonderful mommy insights.  I’d come home sweaty and spent to screaming kids, a cranky husband and a mess and somehow, it was all OK.  I’d had my fix, I’d done something for me, I could handle this!

I still haven’t found anything to replace the running, my little escape from the world.  I’ve tried meditating (what? NOT to talk to myself for how long?), swimming (kept getting caught in the buoy line), even walking (well, it just doesn’t cut it).  Nothing seems to give me the same sense of being in my own world where the trees, the grass, the people just slip dream-like past me.

And just when I think, “Hey I’m over it”, I will hear in the distance the rhythmic tap, tap, tap of a runner’s steps.  A twinge in my stomach and something stirs inside me.  The tap, tap, tap gets a little louder.  (It’s surprising how light runners sound considering the 100 lb+ weight being carried with every step.)  And for a brief moment, I’ll feel the urge to step up my stride, to kick into gear, to shift into that “place” where I once left the earth just a little bit, where I used to escape this crazy world just a little bit and where I felt like something like Wonder Women just a little bit.

.

I remember coming home from the hospital clutching four pieces of paper the nurses had given me: one a picture of the perfect breastfeeding latch (like that ever happened!), another on how to count the baby’s pees and poos, a list of emergency phone numbers and a reminder to sign up for baby massage class (BABY massage? Where’s MY massage?). But not one piece of paper about ME. I rifled through my hospital bag after we got home desperately looking for something, ANYTHING, to explain just what was going on “down there”. But nothing. Not even a microscopic legal disclaimer saying: Psst, due to the use of forceps you may have sustained an injury to your pelvic floor. Nothing.  Zilch.  Nada.

At the six week follow-up with my gynecologist, I was looking for the BIG EXPLANATION but all I got was “You’re fine. Everything will heal in time.” In time? Like what kind of time? Seconds? Days? Months? This millennium? When? No answers came from the clammed-up doctor. In hindsight, I wish I had taken some forceps to his prostate!

Not even the moms wanted to talk about stuff “down there”. In my mother’s group it was all about the babies. I do remember one day we were having coffee and someone opened up about a broken tail bone and someone else complained about painful sex. It felt like we were having an illegal conversation, as if at any moment we would be arrested by the Motherhood-Is-Pure-Bliss-And-Don’t-You-Dare-Think-Otherwise Police. Someone finally said, “We should write the X-rated version of Motherhood!” We all had a good laugh and that was it. The moment was gone. Vanished. Back to talking about our babies!

But, but, but…..I still don’t feel right “down there”? Googling at 3am between breastfeeds was frustrating to say the least. I didn’t even know WHAT words to search: down there, postpartum, body after baby? And all that ever seemed to pop up was ANOTHER photo of some movie star’s perfect body out jogging two seconds after delivering triplets!

Then one night, in the haze of exhaustion, squirming from sore boobs, I discovered the words PELVIC FLOOR. What the hell’s that? New linoleum? Fancy tiles?  And so began my journey.  Over the years, I’ve uncovered a ton of important stuff about moms and childbirth – stuff that for some reason, no one wants to talk about. It’s like the whole world took a secret oath: Don’t mention ‘pelvic floor’ to moms.  Frankly, I think it would be easier to find Bin Laden then to find a doctor or physiotherapist to talk about my pelvic floor!

And so my journey continues as I try to take the “Omigod, don’t go there!” out of talking about a mom’s pelvic floor. And I’m determined that when (and if) my girls have babies, they’ll come home from the hospital with a piece of paper ABOUT THEM, about how to look after themselves “down there”.  And if all that piece of paper says is “www.afterbabybody.com”, well at least that’s a start in the right direction.