Bright.

 I'd been laboring for over 24 hours. Though only part-way through my 2nd year of med school and this being my first pregnancy, I still knew we were reaching some sort of limit. The OB walks in to check progress. This woman was not my regular provider.  (Of course, my doc had warned me not to go into labor early because she was out of town the weekend before my due date). I'm not sure I'd even met her before this day. I knew of her, mostly because of her reputation as one of the few docs that still performed abortions. When she walked in for the first time, I could see she had no fucks to give. By my estimate, the last fuck she gave was probably at age 11 in the the 5th grade. Badass. Pretty sure she went outside to smoke cigs between surgeries and cervical checks. I appreciated Dr. B because she trusted me, my body and my veteran nurse (who happened to know me well from my swimming days, therefore knew the caliber of my so-called grit.)

She'd sort of saunter in every few hours or so, look at the monitor, talk to the nurse and shrug "Guess you can keep going" then walk out...for coffee and a smoke? I could tell her overall attitude was one of skepticism. She'd seen thousands of women with premature rupture of the membranes, with slow progression go over the 24 hour mark, which typically means cesarean. Infection risk and all that. And just as she suspected, I progressed at a snail's pace. (I'm not going to get into my theories that the night nurse simply didn't want me to progress so as to avoid an actual delivery...because, in the end, time of delivery doesn't really matter, now does it?)

A fascinating piece to this, and even as a 2nd year med student, I identified on the monitor a pattern of early decelerations in the infants heart rate - indicating that the cord might be wrapped around it's neck. If the heart rate recovers immediately, post contraction, you can carry on...so...we carried on. Again, she shrugged. No fucks. 

All this being said, the clock was not our friend. My incredible nurse looked at me and said, "the baby is slightly turned, but we have to start pushing. I'm going to try to turn it's head while you push as hard as you can with every contraction. I know you can do this. I saw you swim."  We did this. For over 3 hours. In this 3 hours, the anesthesiologist (a former grade-school classmate of my husband's) visited twice, in prep for potential cesarean. Dr. B all but said, "call me when it's time to operate." Again, coolly meandering out the room. 

I'll never forget the absolute shocked look on the doc's face, when she walked in the room at 27 hours and my nurse said, "it's time to deliver a baby." The shock dissolved quickly into what appeared to be simple routine baby catching - she's done a million times before. I got no impression that she would remember me and my herculean pushing efforts which resulted in avoiding an all but inevitable cesarean. I am woman, hear me ROAR. 

With that, my entire body shook, and ripped in two, and I simultaneously experienced the worst pain in my life and the most peaceful, content euphoria and amazement as my firstborn son cried and gazed at me. After she had unwrapped the cord THREE times from around his neck, of course. The nurse stood flabbergasted, "a triple nuchal! That explains everything." But, Brock just stared. Straight into my eyes. Straight into my soul. I swear I could see the wheels already spinning; you are my mother. I am here. What is this world? How can I learn about it immediately? Huge. Curious. Piercing. Alert. AWARE. Beautiful, bright eyes. 

The doctor continued with my excruciating perineal care, telling me I shouldn't be feeling this (I later found out that my epidural wore off at some point in those 3 hours of pushing.) She finished. Walked up to the head of the bed to stand by me. I don't know what I thought she would say, "sorry for the pain with all those stitches. You did incredible. I think you're the most amazing woman to have ever delivered a baby in all my history of being an OB." In complete monotone she says, "I have never given an infant 9 and 10 APGARs, because, well, that just doesn't happen. So I gave your son 8 and 9. BUT. If I were willing to give 9 and 10...that's the first baby I've ever seen with it. And that's with a cord wrapped around his neck 3 times." She sort of stood there for a moment, in seeming amazement. The most emotion I'd observed on her face up to that point. Then strolled out of that room, never to be seen again. (Well, until I ran into her at target, years later.)

Brock and my blood-type don't match - which usually produces Jaundice. He had none. The child does not get sick, even to this day. And his eyes and curiosity have never, ever stopped. He is about to complete his freshman year at Rockhurst, and will take on the hardest academic curriculum possible as a Sophomore. I see him and how he operates and feel like a lowly bystander.  And in these moments, I can't help but remember the day he was born, the look in his strikingly bright, alert eyes, and the stunned reaction of that veteran, cowboy of an OB that seemed impressed by nothing...and think to myself; we all always knew you were something extraordinary. 

The Goal gets all the Glory. But what about the assist?

Seemingly out of the blue, Curtis says to me, "Mom, what's an insist?" I pondered for a moment, trying to guess at what he could possibly be asking. Umm, I don't know. Maybe the thing I do all day, everyday to my children? Insist they get dressed. Insist they sit down. Insist they pick up. Insist they listen. Insist they stop picking their nose. Insist they play outside on nice days. Insist they not play in the mud outside. Insist they sit to eat at the table. Insist they behave like reasonable humans!?? Great. Now, I'm mad.

"Curtis, honey, why don't you give me an example of what you mean?" Phew. Saved that one.

"You know, like when I throw in the ball or kick it in soccer and get an Insist. People keep telling me I'm really good at insists."

Oh. You mean Assist.

I went on to explain that an assist in soccer is a play where your actions led directly to a goal scored. This means, that though you didn't make the actual goal, it could not have happened without your help. My little soccer-loving boy beamed with pride. His natural position seems to be midfield, which means, he will likely have a lifetime of assists, with very few goals. And, at age 7, it might be too early to tell, but I could venture a very solid educated guess that this may be the story of his life. Though he is absolutely my most competitive child when it comes to sports and games, he is my most thoughtful, self-sacrificing and helpful child when it comes to everything else. Curtis is at his happiest when he is assisting and making happy those he loves. It's beautiful.

I happen to be extremely close to another human, very much like this. This human would be Curtis' father, otherwise known as my husband. Matt.

Seven weeks ago, when I became disabled via Achilles rupture, Matt, without hesitation assumed the role of caretaker, home-maker and continued to go to work full-time. But I could tell, his heart belonged with me. If he were forced to choose one thing in that moment, it would have been helping me get well. Assisting.

I hated putting him in this position. Though, it's well known, I'm here for the glory...I also like to give credit where credit is due. Great teammates can make an assist feel just as important as the goal. Teamwork, it's beautiful. 

That's the bummer of it though. It seems only those closest can see it. The assist position lacks validation. People only asked Matt how I was doing - never checking in on him. The true bearer of all the repercussions. Our 5 kids were ages 3 thru 9, and with my immobility, I effectively became a 6th child twin to the 3 year old. I couldn't even shower on my own. 

When Curtis talks of soccer, people typically ask, "Did you score a goal?" And he has to say no. And a little piece of him feels less than. And he gets that message over and over and over from the outsiders. And I just want him to know that giving the assist, helping the team achieve their goal, is absolutely, one of the greatest things a human can do. He can look to his father and see a man who has achieved an incredible career. A happy marriage. And 5 beautiful children. 

Honestly, when you look at it like that...it seems like maybe it's actually the assist gets all the glory. 

-Written May 2018.

Are they your {Beauty} Standards? Or...

 Do you know what I realized one day? There has never been a single person to step foot in my exam room and ask me if there's anything I can do to help them become an Olympian. Or a professional sports player. Or heck, even a college athlete. It seems that most everyone has a firm grasp on what it takes to get to that sort of position. Determination. Dedication. Drive. Goals. Plans. Persistence. Prioritization. Proper nutrition. Proper genetics. As that classic No Fear brand t-shirt claims: No Pain, No Gain. 

The message out there about sports to the masses is clear. You cannot expect the results you want, if you haven't devoted the proper time or energy to your goals. It's also understood, that the moment you stop training, is the moment you stop improving. You will deteriorate. Your muscles will revert to the standard human form. Continued strength and athleticism requires upkeep. Forever. And ever. Until you die. The end. And don't forget, that it's also a fairly accepted idea that if you're born under 5' 7", your sport of choice probably shouldn't be basketball, volleyball or rowing...it's not impossible, it's just that much harder.

I don't think anyone reading this has a counter argument. There's no devil's advocate here. We all agree; them's the facts. You could try to tell me that there are natural born athlete's gifted beyond all other humans - and you'd be right. There are always outliers. But even they have to train day in day out to beat all of those other more determined humans. No one gets a free ride. In the wise words of Steve Prefontaine, “No matter how hard you train, Somebody will train harder. No matter how hard you run, somebody will run harder. No matter how hard you want it, somebody will want it more, I am somebody.”

At this point, you're probably thinking, "duh, Erin. Why would someone come to the doctor to ask about something so obvious? Besides helping with an injury. Or looking in to an atypical metabolic or genetic type disorder preventing one from building muscle. There's no reason to come to your family physician to ask about becoming an elite athlete. This is something you do on your own and find teams and coaches who specialize in that sport." And I agree. 

Here's where we get to the fascinating part. I see so many glaring parallels within competitive sports and the beauty industry. We are inundated with models, actors, influencers. They are beautiful. Flawless. Perfectly dressed and the "exact right weight". They have made a career out of their looks, rather than their athleticism or intelligence. Just like athletes, they have goals, they are never satisfied, they don't look in the mirror one day and say, "Aha, it is done! And now I rest." They continuously work, day in and day out to keep up that appearance. To maintain the fountain of youth and the finely toned bodies. They have coaches and nutritionist and chefs. They think about and plan their intakes, their output, their beauty brands. This is their job. They are the Olympians and Professional athletes of the Beauty Industry. Dedication. Determination. Proper nutrition. Proper Genetics. Yet...

...I have someone come in my office almost every single day, hoping for some help from me to achieve this goal. They seem to understand that models and actresses have a leg up. They have a whole fleet of people helping them achieve this beauty standard. But, Betty Sue in the cubicle next to them eats Cheetos and has a Pepsi every single day and is still a size 2. We don't know what she does with the other 16 hours of her day, but for the 8 we see her, she seems to eat and do whatever she wants..."I want that."

I can't even describe the look of dejection I get when I explain the logistics behind their weight goals. When I impress upon them that weight loss is not static, it's a lifelong endeavor. Nor can I describe the look of confusion I get when I try to tell them that "weight" is not synonymous with "health". If Betty Sue is a size 2, and only eating Cheetos and Pepsi. She is going to be in a world of hurt by her 60's, bent over and osteoporotic, and probably dead &/or demented by 70. But, hey, she looked good for 50+ years!

Marketing, Social media, Magazines, the Beauty industry as a whole, has been pouring BS down everyone's throat since the day we could print materials. They want us to think that anyone could be an Olympian and that it's easy - as long as you have all the right products. They conveniently leave out the whole part about eating the right foods, in the right quantities, with the right amount of exercise, every day for the rest of your life as being part of the key to success here. Buy their products and be that "10"! No effort necessary. 

The Beauty industry doesn't want you to think about ALL THE OTHER THINGS that influence your outward appearance. Your genetics. Your mental health. Your lifestyle. Your finances. Your physical health. Your living situation. There is no limit to the complexities of being human. Just like running a mile under 6 minutes can come to some with relative ease - they still have to train. Maybe not as much as you, but it didn't come for free. And it couldn't be bought. 

I'm not here to tell you that there isn't a time and place and necessity for weight loss medications and surgeries. I absolutely recommend these options for those in need. It can be life saving. But in most other instances, if you aren't the "10" that you "want to be" it's because -and don't get mad at me for saying this - YOU don't REALLY want it. Society does. When YOU really want something. You go out and get it. You set goals. You have plans. You follow through, day in and day out. If you aren't getting results, you find a coach. You remain accountable to yourself, every single day. 

And you know what? That's OK. It's fine to skip a work out. Get a dessert. Have a drink. Enjoy a 5 course meal. Be a size 8 or 14 or 20. As long as you are otherwise, getting your steps in. Getting all the food groups in. Not smoking heavily. Not drinking heavily (alcohol or soda). Not doing illicit drugs heavily. Look at your body like those athletes do. Treat it like the beautiful vessel it is. Embrace the differences we have amongst age, gender, race, height, weight, genetics. Do you really want to look just like everyone else? Maybe you do. And that's OK too! 

I just really need you to understand that you aren't a failure, when you haven't even tried yet. Don't listen to the media. It's not easy. Try to be honest with yourself, try to ignore that outside chatter - that sometimes even comes from the ones we love most. Our mothers. Our fathers. Our spouses. Our friends. If they can't love you in the body your in, it's a "them" problem. You can be whoever you want - with the right amount of dedication. Everything is achievable - and most of it - unnecessary. 

The DMV. A Short Story.

 "Belligerent and threatening behavior will not be tolerated". Not, "please have ID and forms ready". Nor, "No shirts, no shoes, no service". Not even an "open" sign dons the door I open to step in to the DMV. Just a threatening sign about being threatening. Deep breath. I will not be belligerent. I will not be threatening. I will smile. I will be patient. I will say thank you. I will not tell people how to do their job. Deep breath. Though, I now fear that the reduced caffeine intake and belly full from lunch might not have been quite enough to help me keep my composure. Probably should have medicated myself as well. Rookie mistake. I'm 41. When will I ever learn!? 

In my defense, I think this is only the 4th time I've ever had to renew my driver's license, so my naivety can perhaps be excused. Also, as another vouch for my character, I know for a fact that I have all the documents one could possibly need to acquire said license. Found not only my current SS card with the "O'Laughlin" name, but my original one with "Smith". AND a notarized photo copy of it as well. Packed that away into my Tumi shoulder bag along with my current expired license, passport, birth certificate, marriage license, both MO & KS medical licenses, 2 most recent pay stubs, my overdue Gap credit card bill (well, that was already there- because I was supposed to pay it) as well as other various mail, my health insurance card, and finally, my 6 drivers license renewal reminder post cards. (Because, obviously, I'm coming to renew this months to a year after and first card arrived and 6 days before it's too late. Do you know what happens when it's "too late"? You have to take all the tests over again, like a 16 year old. I'm not even sure I'm going to pass the eye test (because, 41) nor the easy blank sign recognition test. I promise you, I'd fail a full driver's test. Don't you feel nice and reassured and safe with me on the road now?)  

I know my strengths and I know my weaknesses, and understanding simple paperwork and the requirements to fulfill as much is extremely high up on my "weaknesses" list. Like, maybe the top. I even mess up the name part if the order isn't obvious. And procrastination? Well, that tops both lists...because, truthfully, is it a strength (I sort of think so) or is it a weakness (meh)? Hopefully, my new license arrives by next week when I leave for Denver...So, anyway, that's why I showed up incredibly over prepared to get my renewed license, and more specifically, the REAL ID. You know, so I can continue to travel whenever that actually becomes a required thing at the airports. 

Despite the sign, I step through the door with complete confidence that I can and will, seamlessly acquire my new REAL ID Driver's license. I'm not even both feet in the door when I hear "Can I help you!!?" I'm half looking for the voice screaming (at me?) and half looking for the little number dispenser. I'm not crazy, I KNOW the procedure used to be grabbing one of those old-timey looking paper slips with a number typed on it, with like, old type-writer style print and ink. "CAN I HELP YOU??" Oh, shit. Yep. She means me. I {attempted to} timidly walk toward where the voice seemed to be originating from to find a folding table set up near the door with gloves and hand sanitizer (will Covid never end?) as well as more signs about not being threatening. This time, there were also signs saying to have documents ready and to be sure and request "REAL ID" if you want it. 

"May. I. Help. You?" She says. Again. Hasitily. So, now I'm looking around confused because there is no line. I am one of the only 6 non-employees here, and the only one standing. The tone so extremely mismatches the situation, I yet again am wondering if I came properly medicated for this endeavor - and the process really hasn't even started. Deep breaths. I will not be belligerent, I will not be threatening. "Yes, I'd like to renew my license." This, received by a huff that depreciates all other huffs, "What TYPE of license" accompanied by an eye roll. "Oh! Yes, Driver's licen...."

"Previous license and a piece of current mail."

"Ok, I have those, but..."

Hand out turned, "Previous license and a piece of current mail."

"Here you go" Pointing to the sign. "But I'd like REAL ID."

Handing me my forms back, paperclipped with a number and pointing, "Go sit over there."

"Ok, got it. That's where I sit to get my new driver's license with REAL ID?"

"Yes, right there."

I take my paperclipped stack along with my belongings and go sit to wait for number 83 to be called. I get out some of my other identifying forms, as I just am sure REAL ID calls for more than just my license and a piece of mail. I know I didn't bring every single important document of my life along with me for no reason. Again, my confidence to complete this sort of thing is low, but Matt even confirmed this with me. And if anyone knows these sorts of procedures, it's my thorough, rule abiding, instruction reading (who does that!?) husband. Just as I start to read on my phone (though, I'm really not sure this is even allowed because there are also signs everywhere saying "No cell phones") the number 83 is called. 

I sit, she puts out her hand. As I'm placing my tiny pile of paperclipped documents in her hand, I'm also pointing to, yet another bolded sign that says, "If you want REAL ID, you a have to tell them at Check in. If you did not do this, you need to go back to check in." Deep breaths. I will not be belligerent, I will not be threatening, I will not tell people how to do their job. I smile, politely and say, "I wanted REAL ID, and I told her at check in, but she only requested those documents." I get the slightest of nods and she proceeds. I confirm my address. I pass the eye test. I pass the sign test (she gives me a pass for calling a stop light a stop sign), she tells me it's $27. I never provided any other identification. I know, in my gut, this cannot be right. "This is for the REAL ID, right?"

She stares. "No. You have to tell them you want that at check in."  Deep breaths. As I look up at the sign, directly above her head: Belligerent and threatening behavior will not be tolerated. I'm now beginning to wonder who actually makes it out of this place without becoming belligerent and threatening. 

As kindly and sweetly and apologetically as I can, crouching into my chair, trying to make myself seem as small and meek and helpless as humanly possible, I say, "I'm so sorry, but I really need to get REAL ID. I'm happy to get back in {the non-existent} line to show the right documents..."

Exasperated, with a huff that might have rivaled check in lady's huff "I have to start the whole process over again to get you REAL ID." She says, eyeing the stack of my identifying documents I've set on the table. I can tell she sees that I have it all right there. 

"I know this makes your job more difficult, and I really am happy to get back in line, but I'm guessing you are the only one doing this, so I'll just be back here in front of you in a few minutes."

She snatches me documents, she completes the renewal again, she purposely takes my photo while I'm blinking, and viola! I will have my renew REAL ID drivers license in a few weeks. Deep breaths.