by Jo Pavey
So that was that. My Olympics over and done with. A whole year of training to my limits, pushing myself until I was flat on my back on the track, gasping for breath after sessions, obsessively focusing on the plans and targets and tapering . . . to end the year in disaster.
CHAPTER 17
Thrilled to be Pregnant
By the end of 2008, I had not missed a single season for nine years. Despite a lot of ups and downs along the way, I’d qualified for the final in every championship I’d raced in. Considering my long battle with injuries from my teens to late twenties, that was an extremely consistent run. I was now thirty-five years of age, and gradually, my perspective on life had started to shift. I had different priorities. Always at the back of my mind I carried an image of myself as a mother, and that desire to have children became pressing. I didn’t want to wait any longer. Once the prospect of becoming a mother started playing on my mind, it grew to dominate my thoughts so much that I knew running would have to take a back seat for a while. I wasn’t miserable, or unhappy, but I wasn’t enjoying committing my entire life to running professionally. I remember one particular day when the emotion struck me especially hard. I was training on a slightly overgrown grass track. I was working my arse off, doing three-minute all-out bursts ten times over. On that bumpy surface there wasn’t any point in measuring the distance. It was a pretty standard exhausting session really, but afterwards I lay on the ground, recovering, staring up at the sky thinking, ‘What am I doing? I desperately want to be a mum, and here I am still slaughtering myself.’
Having kids was so much part of our life plan that Gav and I often talked about it. As many couples do, we chatted about the names of our future children. We also discussed how we’d eventually choose to live back in Devon so the kids would have a lovely place to grow up and we could be near our families.
Our future children, our ideal family life, was something we’d occasionally drop casually into a conversation when talking about the future, but without any specific timeframe. I remember in about 2005 or 2006, Gav and I were in Berlin at an evening after-party with Ricky and Marion who were then my managers. We were talking about the World Championships, which were going to be held there in 2009. I turned to Gav and said, ‘Oh, well, we won’t be doing that, I’ll be long retired.’ I guess I assumed we’d have a family then. The same thing happened in anticipation of my mother’s sixtieth birthday. Family milestone birthdays are important occasions so we’d plan in advance to make sure we’d be there and book flights around them where possible – Mum’s birthday is in the winter when we’d normally be in South Africa training in a milder climate. I remember working out Mum’s sixtieth would be in 2009 and thinking, ‘That’s okay. I’ll definitely be retired and have kids by then so it won’t be an issue.’ Making a come back after having a child didn’t seem an option. I thought I’d be too old.
By the winter of 2008, the desire to start a family became a longing to such an extent that I felt I couldn’t give my all to elite running. Stopping to start a family was an easy decision for us on many levels. We were obviously willing to accept any effects it had on us financially or on potential sponsorship. Gav and I are a coach/athlete unit as well as a husband/wife partnership. We are a team. When I went on ‘maternity leave’, so to speak, he did too. The financial implications were simple: we had to manage with minimal income for a year. Of course this didn’t matter; regardless of the consequences, we wanted to have a baby. If I got pregnant quickly, so much the better. If it took eighteen months, I would have spent the year neither pregnant nor an athlete!
As soon as Gav and I had acknowledged our desire to pause and try for a baby, and talked it through, I became ridiculously impatient. Literally the minute we decided to have a baby, I wanted to be pregnant right then. The waiting was sheer torture. I went out and bought lots of pregnancy tests weeks before I might even need them. I rationalised my purchases by buying cheap ones because I feared I might be wasting them anyway. If one did show a positive, I’d plan to go and get an expensive one to confirm it – the fancy kind that display ‘pregnant’ or ‘not pregnant’ rather than a line, and can even tell you how far along you are. I had already stopped training hard. Even before I knew I was pregnant, I only ran easy runs. I didn’t feel comfortable pushing myself to the limit in case there was a newly forming foetus in there.
There I was one day, locked in the bathroom with a cheap pregnancy test, incredibly early on, and it looked . . . well . . . it was impossible to tell. Was that a line or not? A blurry mark on the white bit, or was I imagining it? I squinted and squinted, but couldn’t make it out for sure. My attempt to save pennies went out of the window in a flash of excitement and I rushed out and bought one of the expensive tests there and then. Back to the bathroom and this time: PREGNANT. A plain, clear yes. I was having a baby!
Gav and I were over the moon. My priorities in life shifted immediately. All that mattered in the whole world was being pregnant. If you’d asked me about my running career, I’d have probably said, ‘What running career?’ If you’d offered an Olympic gold medal in exchange for being pregnant, I’d have scoffed at the ridiculous suggestion. We were going to have a baby. Neither of us was in any doubt that it was the best thing that could happen to us.
Gav and I had been together since we were teenagers, and by the time Jacob was born in September 2009 we had been married fourteen years. We took the best part of two decades to get to the point of parenthood. It was just how it worked out. When I thought about a family, I had always imagined myself as a full-time mum. I knew my priority would be our new baby and I had no idea if being the kind of mother I wanted to be would be compatible with my running career, so I knew I could be hanging up my spikes for good. The balance in my life would shift, I could be sure of that, and if it meant it became impossible to compete, so be it.
It’s bizarre to think that if we’d settled down in the house near Bath that we nearly bought before we went backpacking, and had kids straightaway, they’d be teenagers by now. Parenthood has brought us so much joy and happiness. Looking back, I was terribly presumptuous. I didn’t have Jacob until I was well into my mid-thirties, and Emily just a couple of weeks before I was forty, so I was incredibly lucky. Plenty of people struggle to get pregnant. I realise I was extremely fortunate to fall pregnant quickly with both the kids. With our active lifestyles, I never thought of myself as an older mum, and at my NHS antenatal class in Teddington, I wasn’t one of the oldest mums. I was pretty average. Some of the other pregnant mums found it amusing that I was still able to go out for jogs as they joked how hard they found it just walking around!
Once we knew I was pregnant, Gav and I were so thrilled we didn’t get bogged down with thoughts on how it might impact on my running and the logistics of it all. We were going to be parents, and we couldn’t be happier. I was certain that it signalled the end of my athletic life as I’d known it, and I was totally content about that. This was a new chapter and I was excited. If I did make it back, I would stay put in the UK, race less frequently and, whenever possible, go to competitions as a family. To this day, I haven’t been on a training camp since 2009 – apart from two compulsory holding camps for a week before a champs. I did wonder how a lack of altitude and warm-weather training might affect my running, but that was the way it would have to be. I wanted stability for the new addition to our family. I was looking forward to the new challenge that all mothers face: the juggling of a busy life around a family. With Gav as my supportive husband and coach, home and work were already inseparable, so I thought it might still prove possible to combine our vision of parenthood with my running. We’d have to see.
When I became pregnant, the health and safety of my unborn child was paramount. I planned to exercise through my pregnancy, not just because I’m an athlete but also because research indicates that it’s beneficial for the health of both mother and baby if it’s carried out safely and there are no known risk factors in the pregnancy. I was used to a high level of exerc
ise so some easy running would not be a stress on my body. I’d be doing a fraction of my normal training regime. My agenda was simply to maintain a healthy level of fitness and conditioning of my bones, muscles and tendons. I made sure to get all the advice I could, talking to team doctors, my GP, the midwives at my antenatal checks, as many experts as I could ask, and of course listened to my body during the different stages of pregnancy as well. If someone I trusted had advised me to stop running, I would have put my running shoes away for nine months then and there. I had reduced my training load dramatically after deciding to start a family. As soon as I knew I was pregnant, I scaled back completely. Instead of running more than 100 miles a week and training twice a day, it was now a case of jogging, slowly, for a maximum of forty minutes. I completely reduced and modified my conditioning exercises. I occasionally did a bit of aqua jogging as this involves no impact. I always took many precautions. I wore a heart-rate monitor whenever I exercised and watched it like a hawk to confirm that my heart rate stayed under 140 beats per minute. I took care to be well hydrated. If I went out on a run, I would take my phone with me and let someone know exactly what route I was taking. And I would never run in the heat of a warm day; I knew it was dangerous to overheat. I also steered clear of any rough terrain to avoid the risk of a fall. The most important thing for pregnant women who are exercising is to listen to our bodies. If I felt unwell for a second, or like I was working too hard, I’d stop and I’d regularly take a few days off. I did enter one event during this period, in April 2009, when I was three months in. It was the Windsor Asthma 10k, which I ran for fun. I found reassurance in wearing my heart-rate monitor so I could see for myself how much effort I was putting in, and could run even slower if I needed to.
I often cut back because I had horrible pregnancy sickness: the kind that makes you wonder why on earth it’s called morning sickness, because it arrived morning, noon and night. Counter-intuitively, morning was definitely my best time of day so I would work around this and try to exercise then. The sickness never truly wore off but it improved. I found it interesting that although I was getting larger, aerobic exercise began to feel easier after the first three months. Despite all those thoughts about how children might be the end of my career, I still wanted to keep the door open. I didn’t know if it would be possible, but the healthy fitness levels I’d maintained went some way to keeping a return to a running career a realistic prospect.
Running, easy though it was, felt surprisingly natural, much more so than I’d expected. When I imagined running while pregnant, I’d visualised a poor baby bouncing up and down inside me, but I could see that was illogical. Running still felt natural; my growing baby was part of me and when you run your internal organs don’t rattle about! The human body is an amazing system designed to protect and nurture a growing life – and that includes cushioning a baby beautifully. Babies are calmed by movement. It’s when you are at your most active that they tend to sleep in the womb and it’s when you are lying in bed at night trying to get some sleep that they start kicking and keeping you up. Gav filmed my bump as our baby was very active and his wriggling and squirming made my belly move so much.
Morning sickness apart, I had a lovely time during that first pregnancy. Feeling healthy and energetic, I kept jogging until just over three weeks before Jacob was born. I listened to my body and, at about thirty-six weeks, I started feeling tired and a bit run down. I was checked over by my doctor and everything was fine, but the change in my energy level seemed like a sign that it was time to stop running. Gav and I just went on some nice scenic walks. Waiting for our little one to arrive, we felt more than just excited. We couldn’t wait to meet this little baby. Gav and I prepared for a natural birth, hoping that everything would be okay. Gav was even thinking about what to say to me during labour. I walked around in a daydream a lot of the time, imagining what he or she would be like, who they’d take after in personality and in looks, what sort of little person they would be.
CHAPTER 18
Jacob
My life changed completely on 14 September 2009. That was the day I became a mum. It was also when the most wonderful moment in my life threatened to become the worst.
Throughout my pregnancy, I’d been happy and healthy. There were no signs that anything was wrong. I had been determined to listen to my body and wind down – and I was already taking it very easy. At around thirty-eight weeks, I went for my regular check with the midwife and she expressed some concern that the baby was a bit small for the number of weeks’ gestation. She suggested a scan, simply as reassurance and to confirm all was well. She was keen to put us at ease, telling us it was purely precautionary and nothing to worry about. So even with first-time-parent nerves, I didn’t worry. I’m not a big person, after all. And nor is Gav. So why would we have a huge baby? I didn’t fret about it. If anything, I was a bit sceptical, and thought maybe they were making a fuss over nothing. I understood that it is always better to be overly cautious, and that the midwives are experienced, so I was grateful for her diligence. The reasoning was based on the way in which midwives inspect your bump – using a tape to measure from your belly button to pelvis, and expecting the number of centimetres to match the number of weeks pregnant you are. It seemed curiously low-tech, but clearly useful.
As an athlete, I also reasoned that my abdominal muscles are perhaps more toned, so naturally I’d expect them to hold everything in fairly tight. It’s common for people who work out regularly to have small, ‘tidy’ bumps in pregnancy. I’d made sure that I put on weight throughout my pregnancy for the health of my baby and I wanted to make sure I could breastfeed well. But as I was still smaller than some, I reasoned that the measurements must be based on an average; and some people put on more weight than others. I figured, ‘I’m smaller than average and so is my baby. Not all babies are going to be whoppers, are they?’ However, we will always be grateful to the midwife who took this measurement as it proved to be the crucial starting point in saving Jacob’s life.
Reassuringly throughout all of this, Jacob was kicking like mad. He always kicked and kicked. Whenever I had antenatal appointments, my tummy would be contorting all over the place as he did his mad dance and little exercises in there. The kickathon was happening the day I went in for the extra scan, at thirty-eight weeks. ‘Gosh, baby’s very active and healthy,’ the midwives commented. I was thinking, ‘That’s probably why my baby’s small, he or she is burning off so much energy in there!’ The scan seemed fine. The doctors confirmed there was nothing to worry about, but they were still concerned about size. ‘Your baby’s really healthy, but we do think he’s a bit small,’ they said. ‘So we think you should come in on Monday and get induced, so we can get him out.’ As it was a Thursday and I was just over thirty-eight weeks, which is considered full term, it wasn’t even technically early. The doctors explained to us that towards the end of pregnancy, the placenta – which provides all the nourishment – can start to degrade and not be as efficient as it needs to be. In this scenario, it’s better to get a baby out earlier, and get them feeding and growing outside of the womb, rather than leaving them in what could be less than ideal conditions.
There was no sense of emergency. If there was, they said I’d have been admitted there and then. We were given an appointment to return a few days later, giving us a nice chilled-out weekend at home. The clinic staff were careful to emphasise the lack of urgency, so we didn’t worry. The doctors anticipated that when he came out, he’d be about five pounds, which, though not tiny, is pretty small for a full-term baby, and they thought he’d thrive better out of the womb. So Gav and I went home, relaxed and reassured. Knowing our lives were about to change for ever – and that this would be the last weekend with just the two of us – we decided to have an evening out. We went for a curry as we’d heard it can bring on labour.
We’d been told to ring the hospital at 6.30 a.m. on Monday to check there was a bed as emergency admissions would take priority over getting out
a baby who was just a bit titchy. The alarm went off early. We got ready, did a last-minute bag check – just in case – and rang the hospital. They told us to come in. We finished breakfast and drove to the hospital, excitedly talking about how surreal it was that we’d soon have a baby. Gav dropped me at the entrance and went off to try to find somewhere to park the car. So I walked up the stairs on my own, followed the signs and found the correct ward. The midwives showed me to a bed, stowed my bag away and told me to put my feet up and relax. Gav arrived shortly after me so we had some time alone in the room where we took final photos of the bump for our baby journal. A midwife popped in to put the trace belt on over my tummy to monitor the baby’s heart rate. And she also explained about the induction process; how I’d be given a pessary containing the drugs to start my body going into labour and that it could take a while to take effect.
And then I heard someone say, ‘The heart rate isn’t right.’
In that split second, everything changed. A doctor, alerted by the midwife, checked the heart rate and said, ‘We have to get down there now. We need to get the baby out NOW.’
I was still fully dressed in my jeans when I was handed a hospital gown and directed to the bathroom. I started to change quickly but, being very big and pregnant, I must have been a bit slow and clumsy. The urgency hit me when the midwives started banging on the door almost immediately, urging me to speed up. ‘Come on! Come on!’ they said. ‘Hurry up!’
I barely had time to react as they hurried me along the corridor to the operating theatre. Once there, I was quickly given a spinal injection. I had to wait a short while for it to work, which felt like an eternity. I remember lying there looking at the ceiling with the medical staff again attempting to find a heartbeat. It was terrifying, awful; I felt totally disconnected from reality. I lay there powerless, with Gav at my side, desperately hoping everything would be all right, but with one thought swirling around and around in my head: ‘I don’t know if my baby is going to survive.’ How could this be happening to us? Minutes earlier, nothing had been wrong in my world. Now everything was.
