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.  (Because, 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 should 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 to 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. They 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. 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.