This isn’t a post about being unprepared to do something – which I totally was not prepared to do this race on Saturday. I hadn’t run since March, and only 1.5-mile spits at that. This isn’t a post about motherhood. Or even my total time. Whether I ran it all, or walked some of it. This is a post about overcoming.
For years, my months were filled with doctors appointments, tests and medications. All working tirelessly to make my body function as it should so that we could have children. For years, at the end of every month, the anticipation of “what may be” had me chewing my nails down to my fingers. For years, I watched as friends around me got pregnant and had children. I celebrated with them in genuine joy, because not only did they all deserved to have that, but I was excited for them to start an incredible chapter of their lives. For years, I sought to stay on the positive side of what was a negative, heartbreaking road. I had nights where grief struck, hard, and kept me awake all night. I had days that were, in all honesty, nearly impossible to get through. Because, why couldn’t I have just ONE? I endured years of comments like “Maybe you shouldn’t work out so much”, “Maybe you shouldn’t eat this”, “You’re too skinny”, etc… Which were harder to deal with than the actual infertility itself.
There wasn’t anything I did to cause it. I have polycystic ovarian syndrome with high testosterone levels. My ovaries are cystic, and my body produces so much testosterone, ovulating almost never happens.
After all of those years, in April of 2014, we were given the biggest blow: Even with medical intervention, my odds of getting pregnant were almost non-existent. We were now faced with spending tens of thousands in treatments, trips to the doctor several hours away, for a very, very small chance.
We stepped back to catch our breath before proceeding with whatever decision we made. I steeled myself to the fact that I would probably never, ever get to shower a child of my own with love and affection. I chugged on.
A few months later, in June, I ran one of many 5-kilometer races in my life. Just another day for me, but it was a big thing for my youngest sister. It was her first. I was there to support her, run alongside her and push her to show off all of the hard work she had been doing in the months before. I ran that Summer Solstice race, not even knowing that the next day our lives would change – forever. I didn’t know that this race would become so meaningful for myself. The following day, just before bed, I had a niggling voice in the back of my head that said “Just test, it won’t hurt anything”. With shaking hands and filled with shock, we found out that I was pregnant.
Suddenly, that weekend became one of the most important, powerful and meaningful weekends in my life. In our lives.
The 5k took a special place in me, in my heart. We sat out last year, because at 4-months postpartum, my body (and pelvic floor) just was not ready. But, on Saturday, Moose and I hit the streets for our second Summer Solstice 5k race. While he may have quit on me just past the first mile marker, my legs didn’t. Just like my heart didn’t quit during all of those years.
One thought on “The Heart Doesn’t Quit.”