Yes, this is a blog about running. It is also a blog about mom-ing -- in whatever form we become (or do not) moms -- and that's why, as Mother's Day got closer, I kept finding myself writing some version of this post in my head. I know, I already put out a somewhat-less-serious Mother's Day Post on how I want to cultivate joy of movement, not fear of what bodies "should" look like when modeling exercise for my Tiny Overlord. But, when I found myself mind-editing at 4 am last night, I thought, OK: time to get it out.
When I wrote about deciding to return to run the Pittsburgh Half Marathon, I also wrote publicly for the first time about experiencing a pregnancy loss. Going back to that race is inextricably linked to my own messy, complex, complicated story of motherhood. And so, in writing about running -- and especially that race -- I cannot NOT write about the messy, complex, complicated story that reproductive healthcare is for so many women (nearly every woman I know, to be honest), and how damaging it is that this messy, complex, complicated story is being steamrolled by recent waves of legislation that very, very dangerously oversimplifies it.
I'm wary about writing about this publicly, but words -- often angrier ones -- have been bouncing around in my head since my own experience of miscarriage, and especially since June of 2022. So, I'll try to start with my comfy place, with what I spend most of my hours writing about: things related to the teaching of writing.
I have a favorite assignment in my second semester college composition class: a few years ago, having spent more time with a few dear writing studies friends and Ph.D. colleagues who helped me question the idea of argumentative writing always being framed in terms of battle, I began talking with students about effective rhetoric as a means of making change -- and that "change" could, and should, be about more than just "winning" someone to your side. That "change" may be inspiring them to learn more. That "change" may also be in your own perspective.
Or, importantly, that "change" may simply be allowing someone to listen to an experience or perspective that they have not seen before by telling your own story.
The assignment begins very simply: I ask students to find a publicly published argument with which they disagree. Then, they have to respond -- in the same genre and medium -- in a way that would inspire change in the audience. Students, unsurprisingly, usually gravitate towards social media arguments -- Tweets and Instagram stories and TikToks (occasionally Facebook, but as I have been told, that's only for "people like me" which is I think students' kind way of saying "old people"). They're excited: "cool, I just have to write a Tweet or make a video -- this is SO much easier than writing an essay."
Ha. Famous last words.
Soon, we dive into my Clever Teacher Plan, which is that they'll have to do a complex rhetorical analysis of their audience, that we'll workshop and peer review and prod at whether their response considers all the values and assumptions of the original poster or writer, and that they can't just simply type up their own opinion. They usually soon find that they'll be doing multiple revisions and working really hard on rhetorical choices, a fact that the real work of this assignment -- a reflection on the rhetorical effectiveness of their response -- often shows beautifully. We talk about how hard it is to try to understand a perspective foreign to yours, and how very rarely we all see people actually aim for change in argumentative writing publicly.
I have seen some gorgeous work come out of this, but even more so, some gorgeous partnerships and change in the students themselves -- like this spring when a former Marine who regularly came to class in his pro-NRA shirts elected to become writing partners with a trans student who regularly came in a glittery "Queer AF" shirt because they both said they appreciated how the other one made them examine their own views more deeply. So, I can do this hard work, this hard thinking, this hard look in a classroom OK. Where I am less OK has been once I leave said classroom -- you know, the old "teachers are the worst students" adage. I had spent most of the last year raging about the assault on reproductive health. I have nearly lost friends because I could not understand why they did not have the same staunchly pro-reproductive rights stance I do.
But maybe now, I'll try my own assignment, and try to explain why by allowing someone to listen to an experience or perspective that they have not seen before by telling my own story.
As I mentioned on my post about returning to Pittsburgh's half marathon, I was 5 weeks pregnant at the time, and learned at my first official prenatal appointment that I had experienced what is called a "missed miscarriage" -- meaning that the fetus (In my case, fetuses, as there were two sacs -- so twins) stopped growing but my body did not recognize this. There is no heartbeat, but you're still all hepped on hormones, and otherwise, have no warning. This was a very much planned for pregnancy: Mr. Every-Body-Run is every bit as Type-A as me (a scientist and a teacher = spreadsheets and to-do lists for EVERYONE!), so after having put off starting our family for a bit longer than we wanted due to my suegra's declining health, we had ourselves all set up for success, down to assuring I'd been taking prenatal vitamins for months before we even tried. When our first try did work, it felt like the happy end to all the suffering we'd be facing, often stuck on separate continents, while trying to help my suegra -- who, also devastatingly, passed on soon after we learned we were expecting the first time. We were so happy we were able to tell her before she passed, and I was convinced that I would be fine going to that first check-up alone while Mr. EBR took care of his papa for a few more days; I flew home, went to the doctor ... and boom.
That's all the detail I can give about the feels of that right now. Boom. Epic boom. Even four years out, it still hurts.
As can be the case, however, a week later, there showed there was still some remaining matter that could, by this point, lead to infection. Again, being given very comprehensive scientific data, we went with my OB's suggestion to use mifepristone, as this would be far less likely to lead to potential future risks than another surgical procedure. Again, we got nothing but support and compassion from every health professional we interacted with.
While those two weeks in June of 2019 were the worst of my life, I can't imagine what would have happened if I had not that comprehensive and careful data, that support and compassion from people. If I had needed to fight or cross state lines, or worse still, faced a fear prosecution on top of the crushing depression and grief that followed pregnancy loss.
But. This is what we are asking mothers to do when we oversimplify reproductive healthcare into the binary "pro" terms that the recent restrictions have had. As I noted, I am staunchly, and will remain, staunchly pro-reproductive healthcare access. But, I cannot use "pro-choice" /"pro-life" binary terms anymore because I see them causing more harm than good in how they obscure and divide. There's some great scholarship coming out of the intersection of feminist and disability scholarship that have better explanations than I can create about the current rhetoric around reproductive rights, but for now, for me the words are just too ... simple. They don't tell stories.
So, here's mine: I did not really "choose", to have a D&C -- but I am extremely grateful for this healthcare option. It helped assure the light of my life, my Tiny Overlord, could come into this world.
Nor did I really choose the now-very-precarious-legal-state drug of mifepristone -- but I am extremely grateful for this healthcare option. It helped assure the light of my life, my Tiny Overlord, could come into this world.
And here are the stories, just three years after my own, of women who were denied the same care I had by practicioners scared of running afoul of the law, or being sent home bleeding until there was better "proof" of it being a miscarriage.
And, like most "geriatric" mamas out there, I have plenty of stories from friends struggling with infertility, who may now find their treatments illegal as well.
And there’s also a lot of stories about the choices, some more complicated and some less, for women who do choose the not-becoming-a-mom path — and the weight of societal pressure and scorn that can so often come with that, whatever form of reproductive healthcare you use to make that your route.
Yes, this is a blog about running. But it is also a blog about mom-ing. And moms -- and those who love them -- we need to run something else: our mouths, our words about all of our experiences.
There is still, so SO much secrecy and shrouding of reproductive issues. My slice of this story, micarriage, is as common as 1 in 4 pregnancies, but we still rarely talk about it. I understand not wanting to. Heck,I do not really want to. Yet, I know we need to -- not only to help crush the flattening sense of isolation that comes in the days after, but to discuss all the messy, complex and complicated paths to motherhood -- or not -- that are the norm for women rather than the exception. We need to share the messy, complex, complicated stories, because oversimplifying is, quite literally, very dangerous.
My messy, complex, complicated story did have the happiest ending I could hope for.
Mother's Day will be a joy for me -- though I won't get to sleep in and will definitely get a tantrum or four (hello twos!) -- I ended up where I am because of healthcare that treated this decision as just that: healthcare. Not rhetoric. Not a "stance." There's a lot of folx who won't be feeling the same way this Mother's Day, or next. And I often feel powerless to do anything to help. So I'll run my mouth, and hope enough of these messy, complex, complicated stories can start to break and mix the binaries that have led us into this danger.
And, of course, I'll run to the polls each chance I get.
