New York City Subways are for Gestating

Hello everyone and thank you for coming over the liver blog. It's so nice to have you. Today I'm thinking about what it might be like to not have a thyroid, since I am officially off my thyroid pill for 4 weeks in prep for the radioactive iodine treatment to kill any little cancer nasties that may still lurk in my throat.

The worst of it will likely be fatigue, I'm told. So here's my thyroid void coping strategy. My thought is that since I survived 2 pregnancies while working full time, I can do this too. Survived? Isn't that a quite a strong word to describe modern childbearing, you ask? For those of you who were around me at the time, you will remember that it wasn't pretty. I vowed to be one of those cute pregnant ladies. Many women seem to pull off pregnant and cute; however I could not. I was just too dog gone tired, hot and sick.

I gestated in the NYC subways for almost 18 months altogether. You see, I did it all backwards. When I was prime and energetic and in my twenties I worked as a youth director in Madison, South Dakota, where the average age was 65 years old, according to the census. While my church-based social circle was lovely, I was lonely. I needed so much more. (And how mind blowing to come across Karen, here at seminary who was 5 years old or so at that time and from that very same church, St. John.) So then I moved to NYC to be with Bob. That's when all the young colleagues at LWR were finding everything free and wonderful in Manhattan -- concerts, movies, theater, cocktails, soirees. What was I doing? Gestating. All I wanted to do was get home to Brooklyn and go to sleep.

My big belly would blend and not bump the bungle of humanity all around me. That's what I hoped for anyway, when I was pregnant and riding the subways. Being from the Midwest I didn't want to draw attention to myself. But those mean old New Yorkers always noticed my round protrusion. Subway riders always stood to let me have their seat. And I always wondered why that made me feel humiliated when it was the decent thing to do.

In hindsight I don't know exactly why because I didn't have to, but I worked full time right up to both deliveries, hence the nearly 18 months of gestation in the subways. With Aidan, I worked 'til Friday at 5:00 p.m. He was born the next day at 3:00 p.m. My colleague Jeff W. sent me a congratulatory note saying something like, "Don't you think you could've put in a few more hours before delivery?" (If you know Jeff W, you'll recognize his humor.)

Am I making it sound simple? If so then I am failing miserably in this writing. Amanda was born the so-called "easy way out" via c-section. Aidan was born via the so-called "natural" way via screaming and swearing. Actually, that was a v-bac, vaginal birth after Cesarean, which was new at the time. If this is TMI -- too much information -- sorry, but just let me get this one little point in. My child-bearning experiences remain to this day among the very most traumatic experiences in my life. I would make a horrible birthing coach, although I long to do that. I would say stuff like -- DON'T DO IT! DON'T HAVE BABIES! IT'S TOO AWFUL! YOU'LL NEVER FORGET HOW AWFUL IT IS! I VOLUNTEER TO RING YOUR PARTNER'S NECK! I WILL HUNT HIM DOWN AND MAKE HIM PAY!

So anyway, this is really my point -- our work in the field of reproductive healthcare is the most important thing in the universe. It is the foundation of all that is both human and divine. And yet, it seems to be so hard to talk about. And the conversation is cooped by the crazy uninformed extremists who can only focus on abortion and who have probably not spent a day in their life bumping bellies in the NYC subway. Or getting sewed up somewhere by someone who can't wait to get to the baseball game later.

ANYWHO, so there's a long way of explaining my thyroid void strategy. It can't get worse than that. And now, since I got overly preaching here, and to completely change the subject, I wanted to close with a clip from one of from a favorite scene from a favorite movie including my favorite soundtrack. How sweet it is to mix-n-match cultures and values. A final scene from Bend it Like Beckham. Enjoy!



With love, T