The following story appeared in Runner's World, April, 2004.
By Karen Bridson-Boyczuk
With their mouths agape, the two men in yellow hard hats stopped their work, turned and watched me run slowly by. My turnaround point was just a few houses up, so I knew I'd have to endure their critical stares yet again. What I didn't expect, however, was to hear them saying what they said as I ran past the second time. They were talking about the mother who had recently been charged after being videotaped punching her small daughter in the backseat of an SUV. And, it would seem, I was the inspiration for this conversation. Certainly I could be wrong about this, but judging by the horrified way the men looked at my heavily pregnant body as I trudged past, I think not. Besides, they wouldn't have been the first to judge me for running pregnant.
As my belly grew larger, so too did the reactions from people I ran past on the streets. While most were too polite to say anything directly to me about it -- one elderly man shouted, 'easy, easy' as I ran past -- you couldn't miss their stares and whispers. Clearly they were concerned for my baby; concerned, I suppose, that I didn't know what was safe. And while I appreciate my neighbours watching out for my child, it's a shame, really, that people aren't more aware. I imagine they would all rather see me sitting on the coach eating bonbons, a truly unhealthy choice for my child. I suppose what irked me the most, though, was the sense I had that their outrage wasn't really about my level of physical activity at all.
Often on my pregnant runs I would wonder if I'd get the same reaction if I were hauling 20 pounds of laundry up a staircase with a screaming toddler in tow. Likely not. Perhaps it was the seemingly selfish nature of my actions -- putting a tight ass ahead of the health of my baby -- that appalled them so. Women can bust their buns while pregnant just as long as it's for the benefit of someone else, I suppose. Meanwhile, the truth is running during pregnancy, with a few exceptions, is not only safe for an unborn baby, it's good for them. Studies have shown running does not cause miscarriage or pre-term labour, in fact, there is now evidence showing it can protect against it.
And while babies born to runner moms may tend to have less body fat than other babies, at five years of age they score higher in aptitude tests. Then there are the benefits for the mom-to-be. While continuing to keep me sane (love those endorphins) and minimizing excess weight gain, my runs fought my nausea, backaches and swelling. As for any concern about my falling, I actually felt more sure-footed running while pregnant than I did walking down the street. A woman runner I knew who did fall flat on her belly, ironically while walking after a run, found her doctor mildly concerned and her child unscathed.
Ultimately, my runs helped me survive my pregnancy, both emotionally and physically. While I would never have risked doing anything that might hurt my baby, I was glad to know I could continue to depend on my faithful old coping mechanism. We must all remember that it's just as important for a woman to take care of her child's mother as it is for them to care for that child. And for those who need further proof that running won't make a baby come sooner than it should, know this: I ran three days before my due date in a desperate attempt to go into labour and it just wouldn't happen. My eight-pound, 12-ounce, perfectly healthy baby boy arrived at 9 a.m. the day after he was due.
The following story appeared in The Globe and Mail, April 23, 2004.
By Karen Bridson-Boyczuk
Laying on my back on the kitchen floor, I tried to dissolve. Total dissolution. That was the goal, according to the annoyingly-centred yoga guru on my Power Yoga video tape. There I was, trying to melt into the cold black and white tiles beneath me when it hit me -- I actually wanted to disappear into that floor. I wanted to be swallowed up, I wanted to hide. That way, you see, they wouldn't be able to find me. 'They' being my husband and, more to the point, my new baby son. Don't get me wrong, I love my boy so much I could inhale him, but, I really must say, motherhood has knocked me on my ass. I'm not the first to want to hide. The Calgon bath foam company made a fortune banking on that fact. Other women in my family have hidden too. My cousin Resa hid under the sheets of her bed in the early weeks of motherhood when her husband would bring the baby for yet another middle-of-the-night feeding. Then there's my sister, who, much to her surprise and pleasure one day, found solace and escape under the fluff of her comforter while her two young sons ran through the house in a game of Hide and Seek. If she laid perfectly still, she later told me, her giggly little twosome didn't notice the lump beneath that was her. Ahhhh, she thought, I'm finally alone. If only for a few moments.
But that's the way motherhood is; you, your time, your wants, your needs, all of it, come second to those of your little angel. And I thought I was ready for it all. I thought I knew what I was getting into. Veteran moms now tell me, 'you wouldn't have believed me if I told you.' When I was pregnant I was preoccupied with idealized images of motherhood. That's now painfully clear when I look at how I eagerly moved my home office into our bedroom to make way for the cutest little Pooh-inspired nursery. That room has now become a dumping ground for already outgrown clothing, stacks of expensive cloth diapers that leak and a crib the baby has never slept in. And I gave up my room of one's own. (Note to self: I must get that back.) The bottom line is I have been shocked by the reality of motherhood. When I think of it now, I realize that, with a few exceptions, I have lived much of my adult life like a single man. I have done what I wanted, when I wanted and how I wanted, always. And now I simply can't. And it makes me mad. In the early days of motherhood I was a wreak, not only because I hurt from head to toe and desperately needed sleep, but because I was being forced to surrender myself to caring for this child. Motherhood requires 'giving it up,' just going with the flow and realizing your time at the centre of your world is essentially over.
While I have mastered the art of sitting on the toilet while singing 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat' with a screaming infant at my foot, and somehow sprouting a third arm when necessary, motherhood remains the most difficult job I have ever had. I know many people think I should accept this change graciously as women before me have done, I'm sure, since our days in caves. But I just haven't been able to. Reading this back now I hear how sad I sound, and I really must say I truly do love being a mother. I have grown into it and made the adjustments needed to see my 'surrender' as a fun, new chapter in my life. With every hard-earned smile or laugh I coax out of my boy, my love for him, and for mothering him, grows. But there does remain in part of me a strong bitterness at the difficulty of this new job. I hesitated to write this column for fear that I would be judged for feeling this way. Mothers aren't supposed to complain; good mothers are selfless. At least that's what society would have us believe. But, the truth is it's not always easy for every woman to put herself to the side the instant that child is placed into her arms. It's just not.
Motherhood has also brought with it the realization that another woman did all this for me. Another woman gave up all this for me. In fact, in my estimation, my mother gave up far too much of herself for her children. I have often thought over the years that I should be careful not to do the same. Now I find that I am actually railing against that inclination. I am in a fight to stake out my own space, time, identity...
What I need to do is find that sweet balance between putting my child first while taking good care of his mother. I have been angry at the world because of just how hard it all is, but what I've really been angry about is that I don't get to be the baby anymore. I'll just have to make do with babying myself when I can, and, perhaps, disappearing into the floor or hiding under the sheets every now and then.
The following story appeared in The Montreal Gazette Jan. 12, 2004.
By Karen Bridson-Boyczuk
My friend Nia has no idea who I am. As far as she's concerned, I'm a stranger. She sure was glad to see me, though, when I last went for a visit. She doesn't do much socializing these days. Once a brilliant artist, Nia can hardly write her name. Once a scholarship-winning, straight-A student, Nia now has the mental capacity of a seven-year-old child. She's about 60 pounds overweight now, and under the circumstances, that's the one change that seems to be for the better. You see, Nia died because of a desperate need to be thin. She's alive now only because of her father's frantic efforts to restart her heart. My friend had bulimia.
Thinking back, we should have been more suspicious when my entire roast of beef was mysteriously cooked and eaten overnight in the kitchen of our university dorm. We all blamed each other's drunken friends; we never even suspected Nia. She hid it so well. The vomiting. The laxatives. The bingeing. Her family wasn't so easily fooled, though. And when she dropped 50 pounds over the summer, their worries began to mount. But it wasn't until three years later, after a friend saw her skeletal legs in a pair of shorts and called her parents, that they pulled her out of school. We've heard her father tried to make her eat. He must have been desperate, watching his little girl fade away. It didn't work, though. Perhaps it made things worse. Then, one day, while running on her treadmill, Nia's poor, sick little heart could take no more. It just stopped. After years of bingeing and purging, sending her electrolytes on a roller coaster ride, her body simply shut down.
It was then, in those minutes while Nia lay lifeless on her parent's living-room floor, that her entire life was erased from her mind. We don't know how long it was before her Dad found her, but it's clear her brain went without oxygen for some time. He pounded on her chest, desperate to bring his child back to life. And he succeeded. But Nia lay in a coma, a catatonic state, then like a vegetable in the hospital for months. After a year of extensive and painful rehabilitation with some very talented doctors and therapists, Nia slowly learned to walk and talk again.
But, as her mother says, she's not the same Nia. That trademark bounce in her step has been replaced by a slow shuffle. When asked about her artwork, she now says simply, "I can't draw." She doesn't remember all of those times we skipped classes just to gab the afternoon away. She tears up when we talk to her, she says there is something familiar about us. That gives me hope that she'll remember her friends one day. She has managed to remember her family, but again, she's not the same Nia. And my friend has no idea what happened. This girl doesn't know what bulimia is. She was told she hit her head after falling on the treadmill that day. Her years of bingeing and purging were all erased with most of the memories of her life.
The Nia who did this to herself is gone. And while I can't talk to my old friend anymore, and perhaps never will, I know if she could she'd stand on the highest mountain and beg all the girls to stop starving themselves. She'd show them how it's just not worth it, explain just how much they could lose.
I know she had no idea this could happen to her. I think she thought, just the way many of us did, that if her bulimia was to get to a critical stage, we'd have the chance to stop it. But that's not the way it happened. Her heart just stopped, without warning. Apparently, that's the most common way for a bulimic to die. Hundreds of thousands of North American women die of eating disorders every year. My friend was almost one of these women. In the face of this devastation, Nia's friends have strained to try and find a reason for what's happened. Maybe this can be a new start for Nia. Maybe this new girl can break free of the demons that must have haunted my friend. Perhaps this new girl can love herself just the way she is.