Birthing Beautiful Ideas

I will be neither the first nor the last person to draw comparisons between birth and marathons.

And I will certainly not be the first nor last blogger to address this analogy.

Rixa Freeze at Stand and Deliver, for instance, offers a beautiful and inspiring metaphorical story documenting the physical, mental, and emotional preparation that the story’s character “Ann” undertakes before running a marathon.  It’s the sort of a preparation that leaves her proclaiming, ”I can do it. I am strong. I am ready” as she stretches before the race. 

Just the sorts of affirmations that any birthing woman should be able to say to herself before welcoming her child into the world.

And then the blogger at Raising My Boychick gives a compelling account of both the misogynistic implications of comparing birth to athletics and the potentially empowering implications this comparison could have if the needs and autonomy of birthing women were respected just as much as the needs and autonomy of certain athletes.

Just the sort of respect that birthing women deserve.

But despite the fact that both bloggers (and many others) have pursued the birth/marathon analogy with remarkable depth, critique, and insight, I would like to add my perspective–a doula’s perspective–to the multitude of analyses and musings on this issue.

Because after witnessing my husband complete his first marathon last week, and after watching hundreds of other people sometimes triumphantly, other times agonizingly, and always inspirationally cross the finish line, my “doula’s attention” was drawn immediately to birth–and not necessarily toward how the physical, mental, and emotional work of a marathon is comparable to labor (although I’m sure in many ways it is) but instead toward what good labor support can offer to birthing women.

In the hours after the race, Tim told me how at all the major mile markers–the half-marathon mark, the 18 mile mark, the 26 mile mark (before the last .2 miles) and so on–there were volunteers whose primary job was to cheer on the runners.  And this was even in addition to the loved ones and general public who were there to see their friends and family run.

They’d remind the runners of how far they’d already come.  They’d remind the runners of how far (or how little) they had to go.  They’d share feelings of pride and excitement and awe with, for the most part, complete strangers running past them.  People they neither knew nor would likely see again.

Of course, I’m sure some runners may have “tuned” out the cheers, either with iPods or with their own internalized focus and awareness–that is, the internal tools they used to accomplish their goal.  (Must like hypnobirthing, I might add!)

But I’m also pretty sure their encouragement carried some runners right through those last strenuous miles.

Tim experienced this particularly in those last few tenths of a mile, where the volunteers were strategically placed to exclaim, “The finish line is just right past that hill up there!  Just run over that hill, and you’ll be there!  You can do it!  We’re so proud of you!  Just keep going!”

It’s what I’ve said to a woman in the throes of transition.  Or at least it’s remarkably close to what I’ve said.  (Without the shouting, of course!)

The pride and awe and encouragement is what doulas and other labor support people all over the world offer to women as they give birth.

And as my eyes welled with tears–as I felt the deepest awe and respect not only for my husband and the runners there that day but also for every woman who has welcomed a child into the world, no matter how she has done it–I said:

“Every woman deserves that sort of support during labor.  I want every birthing woman to experience the sort of encouragement and awe and celebration that you and the other runners received today.”

Really.

We deserve it.

You deserve it.

Whether it’s from a partner or a midwife or a nurse or a friend or family member or, yes, a doula, all birthing woman deserve the encouragement and awe and excitement and celebration that I witnessed at that marathon.

Tim–my amazingly dedicated and disciplined husband–finished his first marathon yesterday.

Yes, the pooper-in-the-woods, the loser-of-the-toenail.   The man whose wife has had the audacity to mention his running-related nipple-chafing on her blog.

He ran 26.2 miles along with 4,000 other dedicated and disciplined athletes yesterday.

 And I couldn’t be prouder of him.

Some day I’ll write about how emotional it was for me simply to observe the runners.  And (surprise, surprise) about how the doula-in-me drew a multitude of comparisons between marathon training and running and childbirth preparation and labor.  And even about how Tim may have inspired me to train for next year’s local marathon.

But that will all have to wait for another day.

Because for right now, I’d like to use this space just to marvel at Tim’s incredible accomplishment.

Honey, I think I even see you in a new light now.

After ten years of friendship, five years of marriage, and four years of parenthood, you can still do something that makes me feel totally, utterly, and completely in awe of you.  And I think that makes me a pretty lucky gal.

Some readers may recall that Tim is training for a marathon.  Well, you’ll mostly recall that he recently pooped behind a port-a-potty before one of his 18-mile morning jaunts.  (His excuse was that it was dark and he couldn’t find a toilet and thought he was pooping behind a  trashcan.  He either needs a better lens prescription, or he needs a remedial class in trash-can identification.)

The rain has since washed away the poo–and Tim knows this, because he went back to check–and this seemed to clear the slate for another half-gross, half-hysterical experience to befall my favorite runner. 

More specifically, it befell my favorite runner’s right pinky toe.

A few months ago, when Tim was first researching marathon training, he informed me that many marathon runners find that they lose one or more of their toenails during their training.

I don’t know why, but I imagined this tiny pink toenail just falling off one day–just, *bloop*, falling off in the shower or something–and regenerating a few weeks later.  Like a starfish arm.

Well, Tim did turn out to be one of those runners whose toenail fell off.  And the good news is that Tim’s pinky toenail is going to grow back.  Probably.

The bad news is that it has been anything but pink.  And it certainly did not just *bloop* fall off in the shower or something.

It all  began with a sore toe and a slight change in color.  First a few shades shy of chartreuse, and then a shimmery magenta, and then a hunter green, and then eggplant.  It was like one of those coal gardens I grew with my grandma when I was a kid.

And then Tim’s toe began hurting so badly that he could no longer run with shoes on and chose to run barefoot for half-an-hour in the grass just beyond the high school track. 

That, my friends, is dedication.

But I drew the line when Tim came home from work one day wearing thick brown socks and sandals. 

I could say that I drew the line here because Tim’s toe was now causing him so much pain that he could not bear to even fit it into a regular shoe.  But my concern was more along the lines of 25% pity and worry and 75% unforgivable shallowness.

“No.  No, no, no, no, no.  Socks and sandals will not do on a man who shares my bed with me at night,” I proclaimed.  “You need to show that beast to a doctor.  Now.”

And that doctor was my dad, who determined that Tim had developed a blood blister underneath his toenail.  And my dad could fix it, right at home, with a little tool that he could bring home from the ER.

“Blood blister under the nail, blood blister under the nail, I know I’ve heard that somewhere before,” I thought to myself.  “Where was it…where was it?”

And then it came to me.

“SWEET MOTHER OF GOD, I SAW IT ON THAT ONE EPISODE OF DEADLIEST CATCH WHERE THAT ONE GUY DROPPED SOMETHING HEAVY ON HIS THUMBNAIL AND IT TURNED BLACK AND HE HAD TO STICK A NEEDLE RIGHT THROUGH THE CENTER OF HIS NAIL AND OH MY GOD THE BLOOD THE BLOOD THE BLOOD!!!!!”

And this is why I didn’t follow either of my parents into the medical professions.

Tim was brave.  With my father (an ER doc) and my mother (a nurse) assisting, Tim’s toenail was summarily punctured (not with a needle from mom’s sewing kit but with some special nail-puncturing, red-glowy needle from the ER) and drained of its scarlet and then barn red and then burnt orange blood.  (Really, the colors have been spectular).

And now we’re just waiting for the nail to completely fall off and regenerate.

Just like a starfish arm.

(If good old-fashioned poop humor offends you, then cast thine eyes away from this post, dear reader, for there is poop humor to be had herein.)

“Someone I know” is training for a marathon in October.

I know.  It’s amazing.  And inspiring. 

In fact, I find marathons to be such magnificent feats of athleticism and dedication that my eyes once welled up with tears upon witnessing a horde of marathoners running through the streets of Chicago.  It’s just that moving to me.

So, because of my respect for said athleticism and dedication, and because I love this “someone I know,” I wholeheartedly support this person’s efforts to train for his upcoming marathon. 

I mean, he’s up at four in the morning every Saturday just so that he can go and run more miles than I’ve probably logged in my entire life.  How can I not be amazed and supportive of that?

Anyway, when “someone I know” came home today (from running eighteen miles, I might add), he asked if I could have his permission to tell me a disgusting yet funny story.

“‘Someone I know,’ I’m eating breakfast right now, and I’d really like to keep it in my stomach.  You’ve already told me about how your nipples were chafing today because you didn’t put cream on them before your run.  Can’t your next over-share wait until after I finish my toast?”

(By the way, that part about nipple-chafing is not only totally, disgustingly true but also totally, disgustingly common for long-distance runners.  Reason #93 that I’ll never follow in “someone I know’s” admittedly admirable footsteps.)

But then “someone I know” (or “SIK”) got this little glimmer in his eyes, and I knew he was going to go ahead and tell the story anyway.

“See, I got lost on the way to the new trail I was running on today, and by the time I finally found my way there, I really had to poop.  I mean, reeeeeaaaallllly had to poop.”

“SIK, please don’t tell me you crapped in your pants and then ran eighteen miles.”

“No, no, not in my pants.  But I knew that I wasn’t going to make it to the nearest gas station before it came to that.  But see, I also couldn’t find a port-a-let…”

“No, SIK, no…”

“So I grabbed some scrap paper out of the back of the car…”

“No, no, no…”

“And found some trash cans in the woods and squatted behind them.  But then when I was finished, the sun was starting to come up a bit, and I could see a little better…”

“Please, SIK, please don’t tell me that some park ranger or (god forbid) a child caught you taking a shit behind a garbage can.”

“No, no, no one saw me.  It’s just that…well, what I thought were trash cans were actually the port-a-lets.  So I took a dump behind the port-a-let.”

And this is where I fell onto the floor and began laughing so hard that I was afraid that my breakfast was going to come back up.  And I started laughing even harder when SIK said,

“Man, someone’s going to think there was some strange dog behind the port-a-lets today.”