The June Bug

I just can't resist. Here's a picture of Rebecca June. She totally doesn't look like a preemie. I think she's the spitting image of my sister when she was a newborn.

Rebecca June

My sister's baby arrived yesterday, nearly crashing her own baby shower planned for next Saturday. Rebecca June was born at 6:33 pm, weighing an itty-bitty 4 pounds 11 ounces. Which makes sense since her actual due date is May 2nd.

Suzy had developed pregnancy-induced high blood pressure, for which the only "cure" is delivering the baby. Unfortunately, despite the fact that her body was sick, it was not ready to let go of the baby and Suzy endured a torturous four-day delivery-induction process. To lower her blood pressure, she was put on intravenous magnesium (called "mag" by nurses; dubbed "megadeath" by my sister). It caused hallucinations. It made her throw up. It made her want to give up multiple times.

But Suzy is nothing if not tenacious, and she hung on and was finally able to deliver her beautiful daughter who cried and flailed just like she was supposed to.

I was in the delivery room along with her husband Jim, acting as labor coach, massage therapist, patient advocate, photographer, and cord cutter. I feel so lucky that my sister and I have the kind of relationship in which we welcome each other into the most important moments of our lives. She was in the delivery room when Willa was born 10 years ago.

I wasn't sure I'd be able to get my two-hour run in today. I've basically been in NYC since Thursday and not getting much sleep. But I didn't want to skip the run, so I headed out figuring I'd do as much as I could. Lately my long runs have pretty much sucked, so I wasn't too hopeful. But today it was better than ever.

I found myself thinking about how hard Suzy's last week had been and how much she had suffered and managed to accomplish something she didn't think she could do. The last two hours of her labor were intense. The epidural wasn't working, so she felt every inch of the pain. When the contractions came fast and furious, she found strength she didn't know she had and she coped.

Rebecca June is in the NICU probably for the next week, but the doctors are impressed with how she's doing. And Suzy is just fine, especially now that she's off the megadeath.

I am in love with the name Rebecca June. I can't stop saying it. It sounds like the title of a poem, or a song. Rebecca is also my middle name and the name of our maternal grandmother.

Mom and baby before she was hurried off to the NICU.

I Got Curves*

*From the archives: I wrote this in 2007 when I was blogging for Women's Health and training for the Accenture Chicago Triathlon. Most of you probably never saw that blog, so I figure I might as well put these words to good use! Anyway, the point here is that it's all about the core, people. It is the key to performance and feeling good overall; it has really transformed me.

Unfortunately, the curves I'm talking about are not the Beyonce kind. They are the spinal kind. Some highlights of my back story:

Age 8: Diagnosed with mild scoliosis.

Age 12: Visit back specialist who recommends I wear hideous and very uncool-looking back brace. Fear I will become school outcast dressed in three-sizes-too-big duds that "hide" giant metal and plastic apparatus.

Age 12 (plus one month): Come down with flu and brace-fitting appointment is cancelled. In unprecedented move, Gods of Cool consider me for their team: Parents never reschedule appointment.

Age 12-21: Grow up thinking body is deformed. Although curvature is hardly noticeable to the naked eye, it's huge to me. I'm sure everyone can see that I'm going to turn into Quasimodo. (Obviously I won't, but that's hardly relevant to teenage me.)

Age 21: Turn to look at something while sitting at desk in first job out of college. Back and neck "go out." Forced to take week off from work. First of many chiropractors crack my back, apply electric and ultrasound waves, and give me lists of back and ab exercises I deem "optional."

Age 21-present: Chronic back pain becomes fact of my life. I'm hardly ever "pain-free." Acute phases are ridiculous: For weeks at a time standing up is uncomfortable (btw, so is sitting) and I literally walk bent over. Mornings are especially bad. I can hardly move when I get out of bed. If this is how I feel at 30, 35, 40, I think, 60 is really going to suck. I start riding a bike at some point "just for fun" and discover that the endorphins numb the pain, at least while I'm riding. I get really into cycling and buy crazy-expensive bike.

Now: I start training for this triathlon. Karen has me doing core and back exercises three times a week. Countless chiropractors have recommended this too, but I've poo-poo'd their advice as if they were my grandmother telling me to find a nice boy. Where's the fun in crunches and bird-dogs? I'd rather just ride my bike and look at the pretty flowers. So what if I can hardly walk after the ride? My quads look good. Isn't that enough?

Imagine my surprise when it turns out the ab exercises might actually work. Since I started training, I don't hurt. I can stand up straight when I walk and my back hasn't "gone out" since January 1, which I believe is a record for me. I'm still going to a chiropractor for mild aches and pains, but I recover within a day or two. Maybe now I'll be able to go faster on my bike, climb hills better, and put those quads to good use.

The Coroner Comes Calling

The county coroner's son is in my daughter's fourth grade class. I know this because I spent the day in Harrisburg Wednesday with her class on a field trip and he was there. He is a very nice guy. Pulled some strings and got us onto the state senate floor and a special meeting with a senator. The kids loved it. So did the grownups. But the whole day, it was all I could do not to pester him with questions about his job. Not sure why I was so fascinated. I imagine a coroner more like a character straight out of a Ruth Rendell novel rather than a real person.

I forgot all about the coroner the next morning as I headed to NYC for work.

It was drizzling as I left the house and the temp hovered right around freezing. The car fishtailed down our hill and the raindrops froze on my windshield, making it hard to see.

I blasted the front window defroster, navigated slowly, and got to the bus stop a full 10 minutes before the bus was scheduled to arrive.

The bus was late. Multiple accidents had slowed traffic. And then we crawled all the way into Port Authority. More accidents.

The workday was insane. Filmed two video spots, met with the new editor-in-chief, had a lunch date, and dealt with various crises.

Rushed to make the 6:50 bus only to find it had broken down and we wouldn't be leaving until 7:30 at the earliest.

Once on the road I called Scott to tell him we'd be late. "OK," he said. "Oh, by the way," he added. "Willa and I had a little adventure this morning."

Seems that as he drove Willa down the hill to school, he lost control of the truck on a patch of black ice. The truck spun out, flipped on its side, and then righted itself before coming to rest in a ditch.

They were fine, he said. The truck? Totaled.

Questions immediately bubbled up (Did Willa cry? Were you wearing your seat belt?), my heart aching with the realization of what could have happened.

"And then the coroner drove down the hill and slid off the road, narrowly missing us," Scott continued. "And then the trash hauler's wife and another guy in a car. It was a mess. Amazing no one was hurt."

"Was Willa scared?"

"Nah. She was fine. The coroner drove her to school."

"The coroner drove her to school?" I asked. "The coroner? She survived a wreck in which the truck was totaled, and the coroner drove her to school?"

I started to giggle. The idea that the county death investigator essentially had plucked my daughter alive from twisted metal and set her back on the path to a normal day felt like such a bizarre irony that I began to shake and tremble with a sort of giddy relief.

If you're going to take a ride with the coroner, let it be just to school.