The first morning my husband made me run, my C-section stitches felt like they were being ripped apart with every step. But that was nothing compared to the day his mother caught him. I’ll never forget the look on his face when she stepped out of that silver sedan. Let me start at the beginning.
Six weeks earlier, I was lying in a hospital bed, exhausted and elated. Our son Jacob had just been born after an emergency C-section at Oakwood General Hospital in Illinois.
The labor had been a marathon of pain and fear. For twenty-three hours, I breathed through contractions while the nurses monitored Jacob’s dipping heart rate. When Dr. Patterson finally said ‘c-section,’ I cried with relief, even though I was terrified. The surgery was successful, but the recovery would be long.
As we were being discharged, Dr. Patterson pulled my husband Ryan aside. ‘No running, no aerobics, no heavy lifting for two months,’ she repeated. ‘Her abdominal muscles were cut and stitched. She needs time.’ Ryan nodded, all smiles. But the instant we pulled into our driveway in Oakwood, I felt a shift. He helped me out of the car, but his eyes went straight to my midsection. ‘You know, you’ll want to get back in shape sooner rather than later,’ he said, almost under his breath. I froze under the hot afternoon sun. ‘Ryan, I just had major surgery.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m just saying.
The other wives at the country club, they bounced right back.’ I felt the first crack in my heart.
Our baby Jacob was everything I had dreamed of, but those first weeks at home were a blur of sleepless nights and healing wounds. I moved slowly, always careful not to pull the tender skin around my incision. Our teenage daughter, Hannah, was a huge help, often taking the baby so I could rest. I thought Ryan would be my partner in this journey. Instead, he became my warden.
The next morning, he woke me at 5:30 a.m. sharp. ‘Put on your running shoes,’ he said. I was still half-asleep, my breasts heavy with milk, my stomach achy. I looked at him in disbelief. ‘Ryan, the doctor said—’ ‘She was just being cautious,’ he cut me off. ‘You need to drop the baby weight before you get used to it.’ He took the baby from my arms after I quickly nursed him, then woke up Hannah. ‘Watch your brother.
We’ll be back in thirty minutes,’ he told her. Then he pointed at the front door. ‘Move.’
That first run was agony. The pavement seemed to rise up and hit my feet, each step sending a jarring pain through my core. I could feel the stitches pull, a sharp reminder that my body was still broken. The early morning air was cool, but I was sweating immediately from the effort. Behind me, Ryan drove slowly in his black BMW, the engine humming. When I stumbled or slowed, he’d tap the horn. It was a short, sharp beep that made me flinch every time. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t have the breath. When we finally got back to the house, I collapsed onto the couch, gasping. Ryan walked in with a satisfied look. ‘See? You did it. We’ll do this every morning.’ I stared at him, waiting for the joke. It never came.
From that day on, my life became a routine of torture. I was exhausted from feeding Jacob every two hours through the night, but Ryan never let me skip a run. He’d wake me, hand me the baby, and stand there until I put on my shoes. Sometimes my incision burned so badly that I stopped for a moment, doubling over. He’d honk. When I got home, he’d make me stand on the bathroom scale. He wrote down the number in a little notebook and took photos of my stomach from the side. ‘Look,’ he’d say, turning the screen toward me. ‘Your belly is already a little flatter. It’s working.’ I started to believe him. Maybe I was being weak. Maybe other women just healed faster. Maybe I didn’t deserve to rest.
