I first set out to write about Frankenbelly a week ago. It was going to be a self-deprecating yet honest post about coping after a C-section. I had started writing last Saturday before heading to the gym. I was feeling great. Happy, relaxed and virtually pain free thanks to a course of corticosteroid Methylprednisolone used to reduce inflammation and rigorous physical therapy. I was so excited to go to chisel (Crunch's term for weight training) class. Saturdays are especially luxurious, as Mike and I switch off going to the gym during the morning and afternoon so I don't have to rush through my PT back strengthening exercises before and after my workout. But lately Saturdays at the Crunch on Lafayette have become a little stressful. It's a popular class that requires you to get there early, sign up an hour before class, get a wristband and set up your space as soon as the room's free. I choose the same spot, and for the last two months or so have been doing extra lower back strengthening in the room before class. Every Saturday, people (usually newbies on a Groupon promotion or guest pass) come in with no sense of personal space and set up there equipment without staggering so as to prevent a collision of arms during the chest set. This seems obvious to me, yet every week at least a dozen new people walk in minutes before the start of class without any regard for those of us who have arrive early to secure our spots, taking just enough room to extend our arms and legs. Last Saturday there was an especially toxic tone in the basement room. An older woman regular who never speaks to anyone else attacked a young woman who was very polite and set up her equipment with regard for her neighbors. The old woman muttered about how the young woman was too close to her space. She was not. When the young woman didn't respond to the old woman's passive aggressive ramblings, the regular turned her head Exorcist style and shouted, "You're a God-damned bitch!" Well, then. What a way to set the mood!
I smiled at the young woman and she smiled back. The old woman continued to balk and bitch throughout the class. I did my best to block her out, focusing on proper form for my PT routine. Just as I was coming up from a back extension, another regular, a retired schoolteacher who is usually sweet, approached me. "Welcome back!" she said. Back from what? I am at the gym at least six days a week, worked out until two days before labor and went back five weeks after my C-section. I've been back for nearly six months! Welcome back? She continued, "So, did you have the baby?" I just stared, still mid-exercise. "Did you have the baby?" she repeated. When I still didn't reply, she said, "I assume you had the baby." I won't tell you what I wanted to say ... In my mind, the censored version was laced with sarcasm and went something like this: "No. I'm nearly 16 months pregnant now! Can you believe it?" Even as she realized I was offended, she didn't offer an apology. She just went on about "welcoming" me back. Back to the class I've been attending every week (save for a weekend in LA) for the last six months! I tried to brush it off. I couldn't. She made it nearly impossible, as she spent the full hour yapping with another regular, a psychotherapist, about how she didn't know why I "seemed offended." The previous week, the psychotherapist walked into the room minutes before class screeching about how all the weights had been taken. I don't know who deserves more sympathy, the psychotherapist's patients or the retired schoolteacher's former students.
I know it sounds like petty narcissism, even pathetic, but it ruined the rest of my workout. Daily workouts are my only time away from the baby. It is my time. The time when I feel strong and healthy, even if I am still fat. Fat, yes, but do I really look 16 months pregnant? Really? I spin faster and with more resistance than anyone else in any class. I lift more weight than anyone else in the classes, even the 6'4" broad-shouldered men. (Remember, Mike and I can't take the same classes now, but if he were still there, he'd be the only one to match or outlift me.) Despite my daily sweatfests, I haven't shed the post-baby weight and the scale hasn't budged in months. It is frustrating and the source of my insecurity. My doctor says I can't blame myself, as I am afflicted with Hashimoto's Disease, a form of autoimmune hypothyroidism which essentially stalls the metabolism. Still, I work out very hard and work harder to maintain a positive self-image. Last Saturday, I was feeling confident until the retired schoolteacher shattered my self-esteem. I know it's not her fault, but I was so angry after last Saturday's class that I started writing this post again, referring to her as Baba Yaga. With her frizzy hair and short stature, she evokes the fearsome witch of Russian folklore.
I'm over the Baba Yaga incident, though I'm planning to switch my Saturday workout routine even though I like the class itself. It's just not worth the catty crapfest. I've still got to explain Frankenbelly. The number on the scale and the fact that my pre-preggo jeans (or anything else with a zipper below the waist) doesn't fit are painful enough. But having a tiny scar topped with a flap of flesh that won't whittle away is the worst. Nobody warned me about this post C-section trauma. As I mentioned before, I was adamant about avoiding a C-section and nearly devastated when after full labor, I was told it was the only way my son would survive. The surgery itself is simple. The separation from the baby for the few minutes of post-op seems like an eternity. The pain is easily managed. But the birth and girth of Frankenbelly is frightening. I'd never even heard the terms "mother's apron" and "C-flap" until I Googled them post-op. A Google search for mother's apron gets about 137,000 results, so I know I'm not alone. But that doesn't make coping with this any easier. My upper abs are nearly as strong as before the baby was born, but my lower abs, sliced and diced during Michael Alexander's delivery, are monstrous. I had planned to make light of Frankenbelly before last Saturday's ego blow. But my self-pity was bloated by Baba Yaga's callous comments.
I'm trying really hard to look past Frankenbelly. I have the most beautiful, strong, healthy son, who is certainly worth any expense. But the physical challenges just make it harder to accept the other everyday struggles that come with motherhood. The constant feeling that you're not doing enough by "just" taking care of your baby. I remind myself that I do other things. I make dinner from Farmer's Market vegetables and organic proteins and grains nearly every day. I am good at laundry. I know because the Maytag repairman in the laundry room yesterday told me so. Ha! I write a column and am actively pursuing more freelance work. Then there's what I do best: take care of my son! Clearly, I am doing a good job, as anyone who's met him would attest. Still, there's that absurd notion that even I can't overcome. It's not a constant, but it creeps in every so often. The fear that I do nothing, or nothing that matters. Truth be told, if raising a baby is nothing, then I am proud to say that nothing matters. Nothing matters more. Frankenbelly be damned.
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