Happiness

It was field hockey at a grammar school in east London that turned my mother off organized sports, and I inherited her dislike of all things “gym” for many years. The good news was that I grew up close to the Rockies and so spent much of my spare time hiking in those lovely mountains, running up and down trails like a mountain goat.

I also played the clarinet, and for fun my music teacher would get us to lie down and put heavy dictionaries on our bellies and teach us to breathe with our diaphragms. As an adult I kept myself fit: for many years I hauled cement, small children, water and wood and as we renovated and ran an old farm in Italy.

But years later, I started running. My sister took me for a run one day and I was hooked! I had run a little before then, around a park, wearing unsuitable clothing and big old tennis shoes. In 2012, just after my father died, I went for my first real run. In 2014, after my mother also passed away, I decided to try a race. In 2015 I ran my first half and since then I have run several races, and I try to run at least two or three times a week. I did a half last year on my 60^th, beating my PR by four minutes at 2:33.

Its not quantity that matters, though, with running.  That’s the beauty of the sport. Its what you do with it, how you incorporate running into your life, and what you learn from those hours on your own or with friends, moving quickly through your world, conscious of every footfall.

Everything I’ve learned running can be applied to life itself.

What have I learned?

I learned about gratitude. I’ve learned that every run is a gift; my health is a gift; every full breath I take is a gift.

I’ve learned to accept my body, which I used to look upon with disappointment and disdain. It may not be perfect, but its still running after all these years!

I learned about competition. Every runner has a competitive streak, even if you’re just competing against yourself. Healthy competition is good; comparing yourself constantly against an ideal or another person is useless.

I learned about play. Running is fun! It’s great to run through the world, by myself or with my friends or my dog. Loving what I see and what I feel.

I learned discipline. The act of lacing my shoes and piling on the layers, when it is -16 outside and a light snow blowing can be an act of defiance. Running that extra few kilometers when I’m done and I want to eat and drink is a lesson. I can use that strength when life is not going exactly the way I want it to. I can breathe and keep my mouth shut and think good thoughts.

And I’ve learned that its not “running” that taught me: it was me! I ran all those kilometers, I trained my self to be disciplined about it, I worked on strength and speed, I got up early to run before work. I rested when I had to, and learned to eat better.

The biggest lesson, though, has been about happiness. You take it where you can find it, just like you go for a run wherever and whenever you can. And guess what, I’m happy!   

Sexual Politics

Back in the day when I was first becoming an adult and exploring my relationship to the world, we used to say "The personal is political". Generations that have come after mine have absorbed this saying so that what seemed revolutionary to us is a given for them.

A few years ago we had a big kerfuffle in the American midwifery community. There was a pitched battle between the old guard, feminists who believed that their fight for women's rights and the right to choose and women's right to power over their own bodies was their domain, and the domain of midwifery and the be-all and end-all of reproductive justice.

The new guard said, no, actually, we have a new and different way of looking at bodies. We have taken your idea that everyone could "be what they want to be", and be respected for that, and we've lifted it one step higher. Now we are fighting for the freedom to actually create our own identities, and for the freedom to be treated as people on our own terms, in our own inclusive language, freed from the restrictions that the "women's movement" imposed upon revolutionary change.

Heady stuff. I signed a letter that agreed with the original proposition, that, yes, we have fought long and hard for "women's rights". But several of my younger students and a couple of my friends came to me and said, actually your view is distasteful to us, and offensive to some. We are fighting a different battle, they said. You don't understand the basic concepts, or the rules of engagement, or anything really. So sit and listen and learn.

So I did. I took my name off the letter (actually its still on, but hoping for closure at some point). I sat and listened. I don't agree with everything I hear, in fact some of it I downright disagree with. But I do agree, and fully support, a person's right to passionately believe in something. I believe that to change is to live. I believe that just because I don't understand something does not give me the right to offend people or dismiss their beliefs.

Part of the huge gift of being on this planet for sixty years is that I experienced infancy, childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, young motherhood, older motherhood, and I am just starting to see the value of acceptance and flexibility. So I say to the young guard: so happy you are making changes. May you make them wisely. And when the time comes, may you have the grace to pass the torch to your children and their children.

Where Have You Been?

I was in Greece during the coldest winter for years, working to ameliorate the lives of refugee women, men and their families there. I'm haunted by it. Not so much by the stories, which are monuments to human destruction and human triumphant resilience at the same time. But by the ego-based failure of those who wish to help, to really do anything effective.

I just heard news from Raqqa. The families there have no human choice. Stay and die. Leave and die.

What will we do? What is to be done?

I remembered the stories I heard when I was in the camps in Greece. And this song was going on and on in my mind.

A woman with bomb pieces in her hip.

Families who know they will never see their homes again.

A man who lay bleeding for hours in Aleppo.

A child who was thrown from her father's arms to her uncle's, as her father was dragged back to Turkey.

A child who makes money for the family selling sex ... while her mother takes care of her baby.

A man who walked with his wife, children and his mother across several countries to make a better life, who is angry because he is stuck in northern Greece.

An artist who painted the pictures of terror.

A child with a look of horror who walked around the hotel lobby playing a tin drum.

A predator extorting refugees for money.

A volunteer leader who is cruel and greedy.

Some children in a military camp killing a litter of puppies.

A baby dying of hepatitis.

A young man dying while the doctors were at the gate being questioned for papers.

The boats arriving through the fog and snow.

Boxes and boxes of stuff sitting waiting in warehouses while paperwork gets done and people are cold and underfed.

Couples wanting to make love and condoms tied up in bureaucratic red tape.

A young man in jail in Turkey for no reason.

A family with a newborn with nowhere to live.

And what do you do now, my darling young one?

Gold Medals, Happiness, and Fascia

I ran my first race in 2015, a half marathon (that's 13 miles). I made it in 2 hours and 37 minutes, and I was really happy and proud. The next day and the next after that were painful and tough: my body seized up and I could hardly walk down or up the stairs.
Since then I have run another half marathon, a ten k and a 12 k. I love racing! My pace is getting faster as I work hard on my body to perform better and better.

I had some injuries: IT Band Syndrome is when imbalances and weakness in the hips and the thighs manifest as extreme knee pain. I did some exercises and fixed it. Plantar fasciitis struck me last summer, and it has been much harder to overcome. This is a condition where the fascia beneath the foot become inflamed and tight. It can cause unbearable pain if it is ignored.
Both these common runners injuries are related to inflammation or tightening of the fascia. The fascia can be understood as a sheath of connective tissue that covers much of the inside of the body: organs, glands, muscles are covered with slimy and fascinating fascia. It is that white shimmery stuff you can see under the skin of a chicken.

It holds us together. People are now suggesting that it is a vital clue to understanding the body in a holistic way.

As a midwife, working with childbearing women for over twenty years, I saw time and time again the effects of emotional states and attitudes on the pain and difficulty of labor and birth. I am not saying that a smiling and easygoing woman will have an easy birth. A big old smile during hard physical work really does help though!

The women I attended who had the most satisfying (for them), the easiest (for them), and the most joyful births were usually the women who tried their very best to go with the flow - to take the labor contractions one at a time, to smile and have a good time during the process. Very often, the women who birthed with such grace would have done yoga throughout their lives or at least throughout their pregnancies. This would help them figure out how to deal with a difficult physical situation - the necessity to hold a yoga pose even after you think you can't is a very good lesson for having children.

I started to notice with my Plantar fasciitis that the pain seemed to come in waves. Some days it would be fine, then it would get really really bad, then it would pass again. It didn't have a lot to do with the amount I ran, or my frequency or pace. It first erupted when I had a couple of mishaps that involved my left foot.
1. My dog ran me over when she was joyfully running down the hill. My left foot was super sore for a couple of days but I put comfrey leaves on and it was fine.
2. A month later I capsized in a canoe and banged my left shin bone up quite badly.
Then about a month after that, I was walking home in my flat sandals after a day at work (on my feet), carrying a heavy backpack ... I asked my husband to help carry it and his bag was also heavy, long story short when I got home my foot was KILLING me.

It got worse and worse. I read up on treatments. I used tape, massage, exercises. I stopped running for a while. I ran a ten k instead of a half in November. It started to pass. I joined a gym so I could run inside, started doing strength training, all the stuff ....

Then I noticed that it would flair up when I went for an angry run. When I went out to get my yayas out, when I was mad about some stupid thing some shitty person had done ... when I was working stuff out.

Now don't get me wrong, I know that our time running is like meditation, you can resolve things and bring peace and reach conclusions and find enlightenment. But we should not, ever! run like mad! Anger, hatred, envy, all the stressful feelings, disturb the smooth workings of our fascia. Just like when a woman is laboring to birth her baby, when you are running or racing, you need to let it go! Don't think about the pain, don't get stressed! It will have a direct, immediate and long-term effect on your fascia. This can lead to further injuries, to more pain, and ultimately a slower pace and less enjoyment.

Now, I make sure I do a little yoga-based stretch after each run: Mogul Muncher. I leave my worries at the door when I run outside, and at home when I go to the gym. I visualize healing in my foot. I am kind to myself. I let it hurt a little bit - after all, this old body has given me sixty years of great service!

My advice to you? Love your body! Shake your tail feathers! Let your body move! Keep those fascia loosey-goosey!

Pyrrhic Victory

Last night I attended my last birth for a long time, unless one of my special people asks me over to attend her birth - and you know who you are my loves!

I was working in my capacity as a doula - to my utmost capacity - I calmly stood by while the staff dickered around about whether the meconium was thick or light. I kept a grin off my face when the young medical student estimated that the birthing woman, who was clearly very close to pushing, was "progressing nicely" at six centimeters, and I kept calm when five minutes later she started pushing in earnest. I kept the worried look off my face when it appeared that there might be an abruption, and I supported the nurse while she tried to do her job.

I supported the woman, I supported her husband and her mother. I kept my face devoid of grumpy callouts when staff acted unprofessionally. I pandered to the two young doctors, and praised the Big Doctor Man when my client asked me, in front of him, if he was "good". In short, I brown-nosed the way doulas learn to do in our maternity care system.

The doula's job is to support the birthing family, to bring love into the birthing room, to create a safe space.

So imagine my conundrum when the nurse asked my client if she agreed to erythromycin ointment for the baby's eyes. My client didn't know what to say, so she turned to me for support.
I had to think quickly. I could site the most recent statement by the Canadian Pediatric Society, (http://www.cps.ca/en/documents/position/ophthalmia-neonatorum), which suggests eliminating the practice of universal antibiotic prophylaxis for neonatal eye infections (most dangerously caused by gonorrhea or chlamydia), or I could avoid looking like a know-it-all and making the doctor feel like a fool, and simply use a tactic that I had seen him use a few years ago (something about his wife, can't remember the details).

What to do? Think fast! It's three am and your client wants an answer. She then asked me "Did you give it to your kids?".  An honest answer - yes, I did.

Pipes up the honourable physician, to the effect that my client shouldn't be so stupid as to agree to an intervention just because "someone" had it done to her kids, but rather should have it done because "doctors advise it". Um. We were all rendered rather voiceless. Then, again, Dr. A. pipes up: "Will you vaccinate your child?" My client answers that, yes, of course she will.

Intimation being that I wouldn't vaccinate my kids, and would advise my clients not to. So rude! So judgemental! So many unfounded assumptions! So disrespectful of the birth room!

It makes me sad that people that are supposed to be practicing good medicine, and good science, are practicing mediocre medicine, not reading the literature, and showing off their skills at making an older woman feel like shit at three in the morning. Bravo! Physician, heal thyself!

 

Brutal Births for Asylum Seekers

Yes, as if it wasn't bad enough leaving Mosul, Aleppo, Damascus or any other not so well-known  place where war killed thousands and maimed more (have a peek here to get a sense of the immensity of the crisis), yes if that wasn't bad enough, if it wasn't bad enough to flee - to have to flee, leaving a normal life - the kind of life you and I lead - with phones and laptops and going out to eat and new clothes and a job and a house and cool stuff and a country you love or you love to complain about -if it wasn't bad enough to run through a country you didn't recognize, and maybe get caught by the police, or maybe your brother gets caught and he throws you his child - and you keep running - and then if it wasn't bad enough to have to live in a tent, when you're pregnant and having to pee all the time, and your sister is in Turkey and you are worried about her, and its your first baby and you don't know anything about having a baby because you were studying finance in University before all this shit started - and if it wasn't bad enough to get a call at midnight from the UNHCR telling you to pack your stuff because you're being relocated tomorrow, so any friends you had you can only communicate by Whats App because no one can get around much - and if it wasn't bad enough that you packed all your stuff in one nylon bag, and your belly is hurting and you don't know why, and you are moved to a hotel past the airport, and there is an abusive helper man there but you can't tell anyone, and if it wasn't bad enough to be living in a hotel, with no chance to cook so you want to be back living in a tent in a warehouse ....

Then you may be in labor but you don't really know - and who has ever been pregnant for the first time knows how this feels - and of course we get calls all the time when people think they're in labor and they just need some love and reassurance and they usually go back to sleep, unless they really are in labor in which case we go to be with them.

But in any case, there's no one to call, and you're frightened for the baby, so you call an ambulance. And indeed you're not in labor, but its kind of around your due date, and your baby's big according to the ultrasound, so you have a c-section. Alone, because husbands aren't allowed in, and because you don't have a doula, and because just because. Your life just gets more and more painful, and the blood is awful, and the people speaking Greek to you, loudly so you understand, but you don’t understand anything – not why you had to leave, why you are running, why you can’t just go to Switzerland where your brother is, why you are having your baby cut out of you instead of how normal people have their babies … it is awful, and you think about your friend a few years ago, she had a baby. She had it in the hospital, back home in Syria, she said it was painful but nothing you couldn’t do with just a little encouragement. Her older sister went with her, and she had a nice doctor.

Cesarean section rates are ridiculously high in Greece, much higher than the recommended 15% that the WHO suggests is a rate that both protects mothers and babies, and higher than the rate was in Syria before the war (see Syrian c-section rates here). Our average in Canada is around 25%. That’s one in four babies born – but those figures vary widely across the country and across socio-economic lines. More wealthy and educated people in Canada are now working hard to have a vaginal birth, and of course the possibility of midwifery care greatly increases your chance of having your baby vaginally. My private doula clients have generally had rates of c-section varying from 6 to 15 %. The volunteer doula program I led for many years served marginalized families in Montreal, and our c-section rates were high – up to 35%. I am extrapolating from my figures and from what I heard from the mothers I met, and I suggest that from a Greek 60% it may go up to closer to 90% for asylum seekers, in a rural hospital next to a refugee camp.

If you are an asylum seeker in Greece, you are at the mercy of spotty health care, and that care is embedded in a system that doesn’t work! The medical NGOs are doing their best - Medecins du Monde, Medecins Sans Frontiers, SAM, Rowing Together ... but prenatal care is patchy. And there isn't the kind of continuity that always makes a difference. Frequent ultrasounds are the norm, instead of quality week-by-week prenatal care. Logistically, it’s easier to plan an induction or a c-section than to have a laboring woman transferred by … by what? Taxi? Ambulance? Someone’s private car?  … at 3 in the morning if she goes into labor and has been relocated to the back of beyond? So she gets the call from her doctor, or a doctor who comes to the hotel or the camp, and off she goes.

The word is, that doulas aren’t allowed in the hospitals, but I don’t believe it. I believe a friendly, smiling face accompanying a laboring mother will be welcomed by the hospital, especially if that mother starts screaming the doula’s name when she is separated (sorry, yes, I have done this). I want to change things around for these mothers, and provide them with caring companions who will be with them through thick and thin. Even if they don’t get to go into the labor room, even if a mother does end up having a surgical birth, a smiling face at the end of that tunnel is a life-changer.

I’m not big on bureaucracy, protocols, rules. I believe kindness, unconditional love, and a little who-gives-a-shit attitude can go a long way. I am determined to change some peoples’ lives for the better, starting with their birth day.

Who’s with me? Please let me know if you would like to be part of my dream: leave me a comment and I will reply as soon as I can, or join my group on Facebook: Birth Companions International.

Volunteer Conspiracy: making a difference?

I arrived in Thessaloniki to a huge mess. The snow was only about a foot high, but the city was completely paralyzed. And people living in tents or warehouses were suffering, of course, not only from extreme cold but because we couldn't get there to do our work, for about two days. On the third day, the one car we had that was functioning (mine, because I had wisely left it at the bottom of the hill).

We schlepped out to the camp, bearing supplementary food packs (for pregnant, breastfeeding mums or children under two), diapers, and smiles. Our smiles probably looked a bit grim by the time we arrived because on the way, our chains fell off the front tire so we had a little crisis.

The second night I was there, my glasses broke but they were effectively fixed with white electrical tape so I have looked like a bag lady during this whole time, which probably increases my approachability.

We arrived to the news/rumour that the UNCHR was closing the camps, and they started by removing the vulnerable people, including families with pregnant women, babies or children under two. This made the volunteers' jobs much more difficult because we did not know where everyone was, and we did not have "official permission" to visit some of the hotels that people had been relocated to. Apparently. 

More volunteers kept arriving. The apartment became full of wonderful people, all willing and able to lend a hand where it was needed. I lived with thirteen volunteers at different times during my stay in Thessaloniki and worked with six coordinators of various types.

I would like to share with you what I have seen about the people who give up their jobs, family responsibilities, lives and lovers, homes - for even as short a time as two weeks - to live in a crowded, cold, disorganized small apartment with many other people - just so that they can provide support, care and whatever is needed to the people who are stuck here in Greece after fleeing incomprehensible violence and terror.

I met three other women from Canada. Yay Canadians! I love us for our toughness, kindness, "can do!" attitude, knowledge of chains and snow, sense of humour, sense of responsibility ... political savvy.... 

I met two women from America. One from Portugal, two from Spain, one from Wales, seven from England, and more from Italy, France, and Bahrain...

They brought skills! Knowledge of breastfeeding, midwifery, the art of being a doula (the most valuable skill!), women's health, massage, yoga, Arabic, ... they were dedicated. They were authentic. They were sensitive. 

One was a young soul who loved everyone and everything. She brought joy to everyone she met. One was a wise woman who brought peace. One was a chemist who never complained. One Canadian got grease up to her elbows trying to fix the chains in freezing winds on a Greek highway. One was a firefighter, her friend was a midwife - their friendship made us all feel hope in the world. One was 17 days older than me. Two are from another world, a world full of love, kindness, and amazing food. One is an unbelievable organizer, and makes everything better.... one does African dancing on the balcony... 

We got along! We didn't fight! We cooked together, and cleaned sometimes (sorry Molly) ... I think I was probably the biggest bitch there because I can be an awful bitch. But generally, we laughed, we knit, we took care of each other, we listened.

In the end, it wasn't enough. I have a dream. My dream is just starting to become a reality, and I am gestating it. Many of you know me as a person who gets things done. I am going to get this done.