AMR Love Week: Adrienne Martini + Martini Fridays
Some of Warrior Moms—women who have overcome PPD and other issues—on Postpartum Progress.
Our week of AMR Love concludes as Fridays around here lately have: with Martini Fridays. Adrienne has plenty of love to spread; she just needs some help on the “how” part.
Ten laps around the psych floor at St. Mary’s Hospital in Knoxville, Tennessee, equals one mile. I know because I spent five days there after my first baby was born.
Postpartum depression isn’t a subject that gets a lot of press unless a) a celebrity, like Brooke Shields, confesses to it or b) a mom who suffers from it does something tragic either to herself or her children. Then the subject fades away again, partly because we’re just not comfortable with the idea that a new mom could feel anything but bliss.
Two weeks after I had Maddy, bliss was the farthest thing from my mind. I’d stopped feeling much of anything, frankly, and no longer slept or ate. I knew this wasn’t a sustainable situation and had started thinking about ways to make it stop. In the shower on the morning I’d actually check myself in, I calmly put together a plan that involved using the chef’s knife in the kitchen.
Maddy at 9 months; I started running when she was 9 years.
What happened next is a long story—in fact, I wrote a book about it—but the bit that matters most is that I got help. I spent some time locked away, which is exactly what I needed—but something I never ever want to repeat. More on that part in a minute.
Postpartum Progress didn’t exist when I was still in baby-making mode, which is a shame because I could have used their services. Not only does the organization function as a place to find local help, it also serves as a catalyst for change. Katherine Stone, the founder, continues to fight to end the stigma that surrounds postpartum mood disorders, of which depression is just one.
While simply finishing the Pittsburgh Half Marathon has been my main goal, I’ve also been trying to work out how to use my race to raise both awareness and funds for Postpartum Progress. I’m all ears if you, dear mother runner, have any thoughts about how to achieve any of that. I’m also all ears if you want to talk about your own experiences.
I have a lot of ears, it appears—and can’t resist a rhyme.
Nearly every image you find related to postpartum depression features a woman holding her hand to her head like she has a wee headache. It isn’t a wee headache.
Here’s the part that I told you I’d circle back for: It would make a great story to say that running helped me out of depression. But life is rarely that tidy. What helped me out were some strong pharmaceuticals, a great psychiatrist, and time. Lots and lots of time. So much time, in fact, that I can’t remember exactly how many laps actually made a mile in that locked ward; I estimated above. Part of my brain insists that it was 18 but that seems like way too many.
What I can remember, however, is how I learned that tidbit of information. One of the Physician’s Assistant’s led a class on using exercise to deal with life. He couldn’t take us outside but could lead us in daily walks around the ward. I found it helpful but didn’t really keep it up once I was back on the outside and dealing with the demands of a newborn.
I didn’t start running until that same first baby was nine years old. During the last two-and-some years, the physical changes have been great. Those I expected. What I didn’t anticipate are the emotional changes. See, mental illness of any flavor doesn’t go away. It ebbs. It flows. Sometimes, you forget to notice that the tide has been out for months. Sometimes it decides to drown you again, just for funsies. You have to learn how to ride the waves, but I didn’t realize that running could be my own personal surfboard until I got over the big this is really hard hill at the beginning.
It would also make a great story if I tied this all together with and this week was also really hard” It wasn’t too bad, though. I ran 7 miles on Tuesday using the lap function on Herr Garmin so that I didn’t have to do anything hard like count. Worked like a charm, after a few false starts. Thanks to all who suggested it.
Before I started training, seven miles seemed like such a big deal. Now, I just head to the track and git ‘r done. What I am finding, however, is that I really need that rest day on Wednesdays. With the work-outs, my actual job, and the kids, I’m pretty pooped mid-week and need a day to be still.
That doesn’t mean I’m completely NBD about this whole thing. I made the mistake of looking forward to see how long the next long runs are. Nine miles? Ten? 11? Crazy talk.
No pun intended, of course.
If you’ve got ideas for Adrienne on how her running can benefit Postpartum Progress, please post in the comments. Also, here’s a helpful Q+A post about PPD from AMR a few years ago. xo
Martini Fridays: Week 3 and The Living is Fine, if a Little Nutty
What does this remind you of?
21 Days into the Train Like a Mother: Finish It Half-Marathon Plan for Adrienne Martini, who will definitely finish the Pittsburgh Half-Marathon, her first.
Lousy runs make for great columns—and the knowledge that “this really will be funny later” is one of my main motivators. Decent runs make for lackluster posts. Week 3, you’ll soon discover, was full of decent runs. (But no need to stop reading!)
I don’t always harsh on the treadmill. It’s great for days that call for an easy three miles plus strides. Ditto an interval Thursday, where there’s a 10 minute warm-up, some speed, and a cool-down. It’s those long runs where the ‘mill and I start to loathe each other.
Actually, I can’t speak for the ‘mill. It seems largely indifferent to my hatred. Why won’t you pay attention to my needs, treadmill? Why?
One of the harder parts of the TLAM Half-Marathon Finish It plan has been the Tuesday longish runs. They range between 5 and 7 miles, depending on how strenuous the weekend’s long run was. The challenge isn’t the runs themselves—although there have been a few not-so-easy moments—but squeezing them in to an already packed work week. Like Week 3, where I had to get up extra early on Tuesday to drop kid #1 off at middle school because it is unreasonable to ask her to walk the half-mile when it’s -8 outside. We believe in the power of walking to and from school, but not in the inconvenience of being frozen to the sidewalk.
By the time I fussed around with her and got myself to the indoor track, I had exactly an hour and 15 minutes to run 6 miles because I had a dentist appointment at 9:30 and a class to teach at 11:30. It became a morning about numbers, really. I run 12-13 minute miles, which means the 75 minutes I had to run six miles in should be enough.
If your’e Adrienne, the correct answer is Nutter Butter.
But I had to fart around with my shoes for a few minutes because my fingers were too frozen to tie the laces. And because I’d gotten up early, my brain wasn’t awake enough to count laps. Instead, I just set the timer on my iPod and took off. Was it exactly six miles? Who knows?
(I bet the treadmill knows. Jerk.)
For part of that 75 minutes, I shared the track with eight members of our college’s men’s track team. I discovered I could hang with them if I pushed as hard as I could. Then they finished their warm-ups and took off like startled gazelles.
“You better lose yourself in the music, the moment. You own it, you better never let it go….”
On Saturday, I tackled what I’ve been calling my Eminem run: 8 miles. It’s farther than I’d ever run before. I spent the early part of the morning in a state of near panic, wondering what on earth I’d been thinking with this whole 13.1 thing. Then I put my shoes on and went.
The first five miles were great and easy, for relative definitions of “easy.” Miles 5.5 through 7 were a struggle, not physically but mentally. It seemed like I’d already been at this for so long and had so long to go. I’d go hours without looking at Herr Garmin only to discover a couple of minutes had passed. It was like that statistics class I had to take in high school, only the run might prove to be more useful in the long (pun intended) run.
Which isn’t to say that statistics class wasn’t useful for some. I’m sure there is a series of equations I could have been using to analyze why the late-middle bit of an extra long run feels so extra, extra long.
I made my eight, though, and learned a few things:
1) I need a second Gu or Chomp or something at mile 7.
2) The treads of my shoes look a lot like Nutter Butters.
3) When I add another mile to the long run my GI system revolts.
(TMI alert: sometimes after a long run and always after a longest-for-me run, I spend a good chunk of private time in the bathroom wondering if my lower intestine could actually explode. I don’t think any specific type of Gu or Chomp that triggers it or related to what I have or haven’t eaten for breakfast, mostly because I’m not terribly consistent with any of that. Anyone have any advice? Please don’t tell me the work-around involves bananas, which are one of the few fruits I loathe.)
She’s funny. Until you offer her a banana.
Tummy aside, I felt good, if tired, after my run. My step was without much pep for the rest of Saturday and most of Sunday, granted, but I felt OK. On Monday, however, I woke up feeling like I’d been beaten with a sock full of nickels. Maybe I was just dreading my return to the weekly grind? Or maybe the cats were protesting the diet kibble?
It’s as much of a mystery to me, too.
PS: Because I’m such a joiner, I’m now on Strava. I’m still trying to figure out how it works but, please, friend me if you’d like!