Tag Archives: pregnancy

Running from the Old Me

How did I—a reasonably sane 42-year-old woman who once fancied herself a college athlete—end up screeching across the dinner table, “Stop saying buttcrack, for the love of God”? It’s a fair question, and the answer, I’m afraid, is that life has a way of sprinting ahead while you’re still lacing up your trainers. None of it was my doing. Not a single humiliating, heart-stopping mile. Call me stubborn if you must, but let me trot out the evidence like so many rogue blisters on a marathoner’s heel.

Exhibit A: Compartment Syndrome, My Five-Year Nemesis (2001–2005)
Ah, college volleyball glory days—until my legs decided to rebel. Chronic compartment syndrome: too much muscle crammed into too small a sheath, swelling like overpacked luggage on a redeye flight. I could barely hobble off the court, pain radiating like I’d run a marathon barefoot over coals. Surgery in 2002? Fizzled like a dud firework. The punchline? I was too fit. My body, that traitorous overachiever, had outgrown its own packaging. Who knew ambition could literally cramp your style?

Exhibit B: The Husband Who Strayed (2015—or Whenever the Heck It Ended)
End of June 2015, baby in arms, no maternity leave, husband off on noble recruiting trips like the dedicated coach he was. Or so I thought. What should have been a relay race through early parenthood turned into a solitary slog through betrayal’s mud pit. The fallout? A wound that festers still, quite possibly the hidden accelerant to that later stroke. Life’s curveballs don’t come with batting practice.

Exhibit C: The NICU Marathon (January 1–21, 2018)
Why my body treats pregnancy like a bad blind date—bolting for the exit before the appetizers arrive—is one of life’s more baffling mysteries. My babies always emerge from the chaos strong, healthy, and perfect as polished trophies, yet my womb seems to regard the whole affair as an unwelcome intrusion, ejecting its precious cargo weeks ahead of schedule. It’s a wretched mismatch, like a marathoner cursed with shoes two sizes too small. That premature arrival turned our world into a 21-day gauntlet of beeping monitors, tiny incubators, and the kind of bone-deep terror that makes every sunrise feel like borrowed time. Touch-and-go doesn’t begin to cover it. He’s thriving now, of course—my little sprinter, outpacing the odds—but those NICU nights remain the slowest, most grueling miles I’ve ever logged.

Exhibit D: The Stroke That Came Out of Nowhere (March 24, 2022)
Picture this: six weeks postpartum, fit as a fiddle, no vices to speak of. I’d never smoked, rarely sipped, and my cholesterol was so pristine you could frame it. Doctors poked and prodded, shrugged their white-coated shoulders, and declared it cryptogenic—a fancy word for “beats us.” Just one of those cosmic pratfalls, like tripping over your own shadow mid-stride. No warning, no fault, just a brain misfiring while I was still catching my breath from new-mom life.

Exhibit E: AFib’s Electrical Gremlins (January 19, 2025)
One ordinary Sunday, my heart decides it’s auditioning for a techno rave. Electrical system gone haywire—no clogged pipes, no dietary sins, no excess poundage. Just faulty wiring in the old ticker, demanding a hospital marathon and surgical pit stop. Here I am, patched up and plodding on, wondering if my body’s secretly plotting a mutiny.

I could keep lapping this track—miscarriages, job upheavals, the daily gauntlet of boy-mom chaos—but what’s the point? Running from everything has left me winded, circling the same bruised shin. No more. I’m grabbing the baton, plotting a new course, even if the map’s half-sketched. Because here’s the truth I’ve pounded into my skull on a thousand solo jogs: you don’t outrun life’s ambushes by fleeing faster. You lace up tighter, pick your stride, and charge toward whatever finish line you damn well choose. Buttcrack or no buttcrack.

Running from the Toddler

Ah, motherhood. That grand, mysterious adventure that begins with nine months of discomfort, followed by a brief stint as a conveyor belt for tiny humans and culminates in the realization that your life is now entirely dictated by someone who can’t tie their own shoes. The remarkable thing about this whole process is how quickly we forget the pain—the swollen ankles, the sleepless nights, the moment you realized your bladder had been demoted to a trampoline. It’s as if nature has thoughtfully provided us with a mental delete button. But then, just when you think you’ve moved on, along comes the age of three to remind you that perhaps you haven’t forgotten quite enough.

Now, people often talk about the “terrible twos,” which is misleading. Two is merely an amuse-bouche of chaos compared to the full buffet of madness that awaits at three. Three is when your cherubic toddler transforms into a pint-sized dictator with an alarming grasp of language and an uncanny ability to manipulate adults. They don’t just demand hot dogs; they demand them with conviction. They don’t just want you to play; they want you to be exactly the Transformer they’ve assigned while they prance about as Slinky Dog. And heaven help you if you don’t queue up their favorite show for the 87th time—an oversight that will be met with outrage worthy of a United Nations summit.

I can say with confidence that I despise three-year-olds—my own included. It’s not personal; it’s just that they’ve perfected the art of being simultaneously exhausting and infuriating. They refuse naps, despite being visibly more tired than a marathon runner at mile 26. They develop peculiar preferences for things like milk cups, which they express in cryptic proclamations like, “That’s more like it!”—a phrase so bizarre it makes you wonder if you’re raising an eccentric Victorian aristocrat.

But let me assure you, it doesn’t stop at three. Oh no, seven and nine have their own unique horrors. Seven-year-olds seem to think sibling rivalry is an Olympic sport, and nine-year-olds have mastered the fine art of being insufferably smug while still needing help with basic hygiene. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve shouted “Keep your hands to yourself!” I’d be lounging on a private island right now, sipping cocktails and marveling at my fortune.

This is why I run—not metaphorically or figuratively—but literally. Running is my escape from the madness, my chance to pound out my frustrations on the pavement while fantasizing about a world where children come with mute buttons. Lexapro helps, but even modern pharmaceuticals have their limits when faced with preschoolers who think they’re ready to govern small nations.

Still, hope glimmers faintly on the horizon: preschool starts in the fall. Surely someone else can deal with his boundless energy and insatiable curiosity for a few hours each day. Until then, I’ll be here—dodging demands for hot dogs and Transformer reenactments—counting down the days until sanity returns (or at least takes a brief holiday).

Running from my Birthday

Ah, birthdays. Those peculiar annual rituals where we’re expected to celebrate the inexorable march towards our own mortality with cake and forced merriment. For most, it’s a day of joyous reflection and an excuse to indulge in socially acceptable gluttony. For me, it’s become a rather more complicated affair, thanks to a mischievous little cerebrovascular event that decided to gatecrash my party just as I was about to hit the big 3-9.

Picture, if you will, a scene of impending festivity. Balloons at the ready, candles poised for their fiery demise, and a cake so laden with sugar it could send a hummingbird into diabetic shock. But instead of blowing out candles, I found myself blowing bubbles in a hospital bed, my brain having decided to take an impromptu vacation without so much as a postcard.

The next few days passed in a haze of confusion and medical jargon, as if I’d suddenly been dropped into an episode of ER, but with significantly less George Clooney and a lot more bewildered mumbling. By the time I resurfaced, I felt compelled to inform my long-suffering husband that “something was definitely wrong.” I imagine his response was along the lines of, “You don’t say, dear. I thought lying comatose in a hospital was your new hobby.”

Now, birthdays and I have a relationship that’s about as warm and fuzzy as a cactus in a snowstorm. The stroke merely added an extra layer of complexity to our already strained association. It’s as if my birthday has become a sort of morbid anniversary, a day when I’m supposed to simultaneously celebrate my continued existence and mourn the person I used to be. It’s like trying to have a party in a funhouse mirror maze – disorienting, slightly nauseating, and with an unsettling sense that you’re not quite who you thought you were.

I’m well aware that my attitude towards this annual milestone is about as cheerful as a wet weekend in Miami. But when you’ve spent over a year cataloging your deficits like some sort of neurological accountant, it’s hard to muster enthusiasm for party hats and noisemakers.

And let’s not forget the baby – my third little bundle of joy, who had the misfortune of being born just 6 weeks before his mother decided to audition for a medical drama. I missed out on all those precious newborn moments – the sleepless nights, the endless diaper changes, the spit-up on every clean shirt. It’s enough to make a person weep, or at least wish for a time machine and a neurologist on speed dial.

So here I am, forever 39, stuck in a perpetual loop of birthday ambivalence. It’s a day that serves as a stark reminder of what was lost, what was gained, and the peculiar journey of rediscovering oneself post-stroke. But who knows? Perhaps one day I’ll embrace the occasion with the enthusiasm of a labrador at a tennis ball factory. Until then, I’ll be here, blowing out candles and silently thanking my stubborn brain for sticking around for another year of this bizarre adventure we call life.

I’m not faking being sick

Today is a really hard day. Today is Quinn’s birthday. I have a 5 week old baby that wouldn’t be here if she was. That’s a really hard concept to grasp. It’s perfect and not fair all at the same time.

I read a quote today that said, “I’m not faking being sick. I’m faking being well.” A lot of days that is how I feel. I could talk to someone/people about it, but I don’t want to. No one understands like a mother. And the biggest problem is that this sort of pain will never go away. I will always think about what I lost: the sleepless nights, the bows and dresses, the pigtails and the pink and purple. All of it.

It’s not fair, but it’s the way it’s supposed to be.

Oz is awesome. He is a good baby. He grunts and yells. He is so small. I just love him to pieces. But he’s not my Quinn.

More about Oz in posts to come, but for now, I am just going to wallow in my sorrow for a while.

The life before

Well, I think I am finally ready to give you all the details of the past 4 months of my life. They have been something out of a story book, unbelievable for sure.

Let’s start at the beginning. November 15th was my last day with volleyball. We had a meeting, turned in gear, and I went on my way, back to the life of mom, General Manager for Prep2Prep, wrestling wife and pregnant woman. 2 days later I started having contractions that just wouldn’t quit, so we made our first of many (Little did I know) trips to Labor and Delivery here at HaysMed. They checked me for awhile, baby was fine, so I was put on bed rest for the weekend.

2 weeks later, I woke up in excruciating pain on my left side. I have a cyst on my ovary on that side and thought it might be the cause of the problems. I left Chas and Cub to sleep and went to the ER, where they again sent me to Labor and Delivery. I stayed for a few hours, was given pain meds and told that it was round ligament pain. What a wimp I was!! I was so mad at myself, but trust me, the pain was furious.

My mom came in for the weekend and Monday night we went to look at Christmas lights. Cub had a great time, but when we got home, I was having severe contractions, and decided to head to bed in hopes they would calm down.

I woke up early the next day, feeling back to normal and excited for my 30 week ultrasound that morning. Chas, Cub and I loaded up for the hospital. The appointment seemed normal enough, but right at the end, the technician said that she couldn’t get a good measurement of my cervix and needed to try something different. Once she finally got the measurement she told us to go ahead and go upstairs to the doctor’s office because she was a little concerned that I had a short cervix.

After that is sort of a blur. I was told to go to Labor and Delivery again. They determined I was in pre-term labor and decided to give me magnesium to try to stop it. Within a few hours, I was told I was being sent to Wichita, because if the baby was born, HaysMed’s NICU couldn’t handle him that small… little did I know I wasn’t driving to Wichita. I was being taken by helicopter.

The flight lasted 51 minutes, of which I remember very little. I was very uncomfortable and having contractions. Once I got to Wesley, I went through the entire admissions process again, and for the next 6 days, I was stuck. Worst of all, I was told I wasn’t leaving Wichita until we hit 34 weeks, about a month away.

I stayed with my brother and his wife, who coincidentally had just moved to Wichita in September. It was the longest month ever, without my husband and Cub, but I made it somehow. I was given the all clear to head home 1 day early on December 31st to spend New Years Eve with my family.

The morning of the 31st I loaded up the car and off I went, stopping at Starbucks for a breakfast sandwich and a bottle of water. In the drive thru is where I had my first contraction that day. I was having well over 70 a day most days, so I wasn’t concerned but started timing them as I always did. I got about 30 mins down the road, and realized that my contractions were consistently 2:10 apart, and I knew I was in trouble.

After a LONG drive back to Hays, I attempted to get calmed down, but the contractions just kept coming. We went to the hospital at 6:15 that evening, and Oz Henley Thompson was born at 3:16am on January 1, 2018. I missed my tax deduction by 3 hours and 16 minutes.

After 17 days in the NICU, Ozzie came home to live with us, a perfect little ball of baby. He is such a good boy, and I am so excited I get to be his mommy.

After the excitement of the first few days of 2018, I am sure this is going to be a year to remember!

The New Adventures of Old Jen

Well, I have some good news, if you didn’t know already. The day after my last post (Pregnancy is a marathon), I delivered a healthy baby boy. Cub William Thompson is my new normal. At 8 lbs. 3oz. and 19 inches long, he made his appearance just as his mother wanted, very quickly. After having what I thought were just Braxton-Hicks contractions for about 12 hours, we knew that it was close to time for him to arrive. Sunday morning, June 28th, we headed to the hospital about 9:15 am, as my contractions were about 3:30 mins apart. After being checked at 10:30 am and measuring in at 3 cm dilated, the doctor broke my water, boldly predicting that I would be holding a baby by supper time. Cub had other plans.

I have been very strong in my opinion not to have drugs while I was in labor. I did not want an epidural, and knew that I had the strength to skip it. At approximately 11:30 am I looked at my husband and finally said, “if this is a 3, I need an epidural.” After discussing it with him and the nurse, she went to order the epidural and then came back to check my progress again. To everyone’s surprise, the extremely pain I was in was not 3 cm pain, but 8 cm pain. Before the anesthesiologist could even make it to the room (approx. 10 mins.) I was dilated to 10, pushing, and praying the doctor would get there in time to catch the newest member of my family.

At 12:21 pm, four pushes later, Cub came into this world with a perfectly round little head, and the cutest little cry you have ever heard. He was (and is) perfect.

I don’t remember a lot about the delivery. I remember my legs shaking like crazy, getting really hot, and keeping my eyes closed almost the entire time. It was an unbelievable experience, and the parts I do remember will never be forgotten.

Then there is this guy. Cub is the best and most challenging thing I have ever had to deal with in my life. Motherhood is constant problem solving, and I am getting better at it. I could spend all my time just looking at him. He is such a special and loved little boy.

Now that we have reached the 6 week mark, and I am almost feeling back to my normal self, I am excited to get into some sort of a routine, particularly with regards to my fitness. The healing process after birth is no joke, and I am still working on it.

The new life I am living is definitely the complete opposite of where I was just a year ago. It is still the old me, but I know I will continue to evolve, so really, it is a new me. And I like the new me.

Pregnancy is a marathon

IMG_3592We made it to week 40! The big 4-0. It is a comforting feeling, because I know that the growth of Baby T is complete. On the other hand, I have been pregnant for forty week people. And not with just any baby: Chas Thompson’s baby. Those of you that know my husband know him as a noise maker, a wiggler, a wrestler (obviously), but a very sweet guy. Well I may not have met him yet, but I can tell you my son is just like his father, besides the fact that I am fairly certain he will wrestle at 197 or heavyweight based on his and my size at this point! At 34 weeks he was almost 7 lbs already… Yeah.

I am so in love with my husband, but he paces around the house when he is thinking hard or talking on the phone. He is constantly making noise like water dripping, or randomly singing out of nowhere and scaring the living daylights out of me (he has even made the baby jump before). Like his father, my unborn son does not stop moving. I have actually asked the nurse at my prenatal appointments if there is a point when you worry about your baby moving too much. I swear he will come out and be like Dash from The Incredibles, his little legs never slowing down. It’s like hyperactivity disorder in the womb! But in the end, I think he is just a happy boy that likes hanging out with him mom everyday.

When you first get pregnant, you know that week 40 is your goal. If you can cook that baby to week 40, you can relax a little bit, because growth should be done by that point. But for all women who have ever had a baby, you realize how much a marathon this process is. Let’s start from the beginning shall we?

At the beginning of the race, you are excited! You have you number on and are waiting in your corral, and if you are at Disney, you get to see fireworks as you cross the start line. Pregnancy… well I will just leave it at that.

The first few weeks, like the first few miles, you are getting your groove, getting used to the idea that you will be running for hours on end or carrying this baby for months. You feel fairly good as you get your stride, and are excited that you have something to look forward to: the finish line.

After about mile 4-5 (week 6-7 of pregnancy), you start wondering why you are doing this. You have so far to go. At Disney, you aren’t even to the Magic Kingdom yet! You need food and fuel, but you sort of feel like you might spew at any minute, but you force down that gel anyway. Really you just kinda wanna lay down. This is called the first trimester, and it lasts until about mile 8 or so.

From mile 8 to mile 18 (week 13-27), things start to go numb. Things hurt occasionally, but you are sort of in your groove, and the crowd of excited fans has finally thinned out a little bit. You realize that there is no turning back now, so you are basically just going through the motions attempting to make it to the next mile (or milestone). With every gel, your energy level increases for a bit, and you feel like you can actually accomplish something here.

Once you hit mile 20 (week 30ish), you know that you have only a few more to go before you get to see that finish line. You are once again excited and rejuvenated, but at the same time, your body hurts so bad that it is hard to concentrate on finishing. You know you will and can, but sometimes you just want to stop and cry, asking yourself why in God’s name did you sign up to do this in the first place!

The last month of pregnancy is pretty much identical to the last .2 miles of a marathon. It takes forever to get there, and you are sure that you were probably in such a daze you ran right past the finish, just continued to keep running and missed it, because there is no way in hell that .2 miles takes this long to run. Yep, that is pregnancy after week 36. You know what is coming. You are constantly in pain with a foot in your rib, nerve pain that cripples you at the drop of a hat, and peeing 14 times a night. You know this is what you have been working for these past nine months, but the ending is so unpredictable that you are still nervous. 

I know at some point I will make it to the finish line. We aren’t there quite yet. And like getting that nice shiny medal, my little baby will be the prize at the end of a long race. And oddly enough, I will probably be walking the same as if I had finished a marathon when he finally gets here. I am also fairly certain that when I see him, as when you finish a race, I will forget about how horrible the full experience really was and probably sign up for another. However, I am telling my husband that we are never doing this again…

The Long Arduous Journey

IMG_357438 weeks… That is how far along I will be tomorrow morning. Baby has decided to grow by leaps and bounds since my last post, and I am now measuring over 40 weeks, even though we have not reached that milestone week yet. Life has gotten significantly harder since week 30… ah those were the good ole days!

I can’t walk anymore, because I have so much nerve pain in my pelvic area and legs. Oh, and not to mention a nasty limp when I do walk. My hands and face are swollen. Not even my maternity clothes fit me anymore, and waistbands are out of the question. What does that leave for daily attire? Basically just muumuus. I pee about 3 times an hour, and go through a least 1 roll of toilet paper every 2 days. The baby is constantly moving, and burrowing his head into places that make my life a living hell.

But I still love the little guy, and I really can’t wait to meet him. Everything is pretty much ready for him to arrive. The nursery is done. We have an installed car seat. Hospital bags are packed. All attending parties are on call in case of something happening at any hour of the day. I am pretty much just counting down the days now.

My days seem very long as a person who works from home. Like I have said before on here, I am so lucky to be able to do that, but when you feel miserable often, the days tend to drag on a bit. So what did I do? I started a calendar of what I am going to do everyday until he is born. Here are a few great example:

June 14th- Clean out kitchen cabinets
June 18th- Vacuum and dust the baby’s room, Wash all the curtains in the house
June 23rd- Appointment with Dr. Fort, Clean the bathroom

Exciting, I know. Now, if I can actually get any of these accomplished, that is a totally different story, but I am sure as hell going to try!

The hardest part of all of this is that I have been having urges to run. Like CRAZY urges. Part of this running year, or most of this running year has been spent not running. That’s ok. I have to grow a little baby, and that is much more important right now. But wow, I can’t wait to get back out there. And best of all, I have a really great jogging stroller to try out too!

 

Three Fourths of the Way

The kitty already loving on his baby.

When you are running a marathon, you have a lot of time to compute things in your head, assuming you are still conscious enough to do it. I love math, so attempting to calculate what percentage of a race I have left is sort of a regular in my repetriore of things to think about while running.

Naturally, as my pregnancy has progressed, I tend to do the same thing. We hit the 3rd trimester about a week and a half ago, which was huge. The chance of baby surviving outside of the womb is about 90% now, which is so encouraging, especially since it takes 6 full months for him to even be viable in there.

As of Saturday, I will be able to say that we are 3/4th of the way done! And if you have seen any of my other posts throughout my pregnancy, you know that I am certainly looking forward to the end, not because I get to meet my little guy (although I am excited about that), but because I have been fairly miserable my entire pregnancy. Every day it is something else, and I tend to have more bad days that good. I literally couldn’t walk almost the entire weekend because I was having such bad muscle (stretching) pain in my groin. It feels like someone is stabbing me with a knife, NO JOKE!

It’s funny that my little guy is now on sort of a schedule, even pre-birth. He always kicks me a few times between 7-7:30 in the morning, before Chas’ alarm goes. He is the first to let me know that I am hungry. In the evening when Chas gets home, he always let’s me know that he is aware of it, and best of all, he likes music now. I have been playing a variety of things for him, but so far is favorite song is Crimson and Clover. It is pretty cool to go through, but all the while painful.

As we continue to get closer to delivery day, and I get larger and larger, the excitement and fear grows. He will be here soon, and there is still so many things to do, trips to take, and moments to remember. It’s going to be a fun ride.

Just a few more days

20150216134520546There are many milestones in a pregnancy, and again, I don’t think they are talked about enough. The first is just getting that positive test. For some people, this takes a lot of time, energy, money, and for some it never happens. We were extremely fortunate, and it happened with little effort.

The next milestone is the end of the first trimester, when the chance of miscarriage decreases to something like 7%. Again, while my first trimester was rough, we met and exceeded this milestone easily.

In my opinion, as seldom talked about mile stone is the 24 week mark. Once you hit 24 weeks, the pregnancy is finally viable, and the baby could technically survive outside the womb. We are four short days away from this mark.

You would logically think that it should be all down hill from here. If something happens, your baby can be born. You are only 3 short months away from the birth. But there problem here is that the baby is only about one pound right now. That means that over the course of the next 16 weeks, The baby could gain somewhere between 4-7 more pounds, making the mom’s job even harder!

My current experience is that I continue to get hungrier and hungrier, but I have less and less space to hold anything extra. That’s good, because my baby is growing big and strong, but it is getting more uncomfortable every day. Even though I am feeling less and less like myself, I am very excited that our last ultrasound showed that we are having a little boy.

We are getting closer and closer, but for an expectant mama, it seems like it is taking WAY TO LONG!