A Work in Progress: Overcoming my Fear of Childbirth

My mother has told me a million different horror stories about her various experiences with childbirth. Her labor took forever with me due to the large size of my head. The umbilical cord was wrapped around my sister’s neck. She lost so much blood birthing my sister that she had to have a blood transfusion. She tore horribly with my youngest brother. The only one of my siblings that I can’t recall any horror stories about is my brother Nycholas (baby #3). These stories have definitely helped shape my perception of childbirth: painful, horrific, and potentially life threatening. For a long time I swore I would never have children because I was so scared of going through childbirth, and then I told everyone that I would only reproduce if I could have a c-section. When I first found out I was pregnant my initial plan was an early c-section in a Korean hospital. This was partially due to our tight schedule, but heavily influenced by my negative emotions regarding childbirth.

Fortunately, my opinions have changed drastically in the last month. Once I began reading and researching about c-sections, I was extremely uncomfortable with the increased risk to the baby and mother. I also read that it is unwise to schedule any type of induction prior to 39 weeks. The baby will come when he/she is ready. Forcing them out early because it is more convenient can have devastating consequences. My next course of action was to find out everything I could about having a baby in Korea. Fortunately, there was a wealth of information online- whole websites devoted to birthing in Korea, blogs documenting the experiences of Korean expats, and Korean hospital/birthing center websites that were in English. That is how I came across the term doula. A doula assists a woman during childbirth and is focused primarily on helping keep the mother and father comfortable. They are experienced in comfort measures- different labor positions, massage techniques, etc., to help keep the mother calm and focused.

The more I read about doulas, the more comfortable I felt with having a natural childbirth. Surprisingly, there are several doulas in Korea, but the only one that got back to us was Lisa (Birthing in Korea). We spent over an hour chatting with her at a local coffee shop, and by the time the meeting was over we felt 100% more informed about our childbirth choices in Korea. We decided that night to hire her as our doula and to take her Hypnobirthing class in April/May. Lisa has attended over 60 births in Korea, and it was reassuring to hear her say that she has never heard a woman scream or swear in childbirth. Hopefully I won’t be the first…

I met with Lisa again about 2 weeks ago. We talked briefly about our progress in choosing a location to have our baby and she gave me a copy of Hypnobirthing: The Mongan Method, the text that accompanies the birthing class we signed up for. She asked that I read the entire text before the start of the classes. At first I was worried that I wouldn’t have time to complete the reading, but I ended up finishing the book in less than a week. The greatest difficulty has been trying to motivate Joe to read the first 70 pages so he is prepared for our first class. Thank goodness the NBA playoffs end well before the birth of our child or he would probably be trying to watch a game while I am in labor!

The book begins with an obvious question, but one that is typically ignored: Why is it that childbirth is such a production in the west? In less developed parts of the world, women work throughout early labor and birth their babies at home, often with very little assistance. Sure, some labors are complicated, but frequently that is not the case. More and more, women with low-risk, uncomplicated pregnancies are encouraged to embrace drugs and interventions that are often unnecessary and very expensive.

The concept of Hypnobirthing argues that women are often completely unprepared for the actual birthing experience. They have heard how painful childbirth is from their friends and family members, and they begin the experience in a state of fear. When Joe and I first arrived in Korea, I experienced firsthand how powerfully the body reacts when it is afraid. Joe and I were pulled behind a boat on what is called a Flying Fish. The windy conditions and our unbalanced body weight caused the Flying Fish to bounce high into the air- much higher on my side because of my smaller size. While Joe was smiling, laughing, and having a great time, I was completely freaked out that one of us was going to be seriously injured. My body was completely tensed up, and shortly after the ride began I noticed a searing pain in my left shoulder/arm. I let go as soon as the fish touched the water again, fearing that I had broken my arm. I ended up with a muscle injury in my shoulder that didn’t go away for over a year.

When a person is afraid, and fear is a natural reaction to pain, their muscles involuntarily clench up. When your muscles are tight, your chances of increased pain and injury are much higher than when you are relaxed. Because your uterus is also a muscle, when a woman is afraid during childbirth it tightens up instead of remaining in a functional state. Fear then releases adrenaline and other hormones into the body, having the undesirable effect of directing blood to parts of the body other than the uterus. Hypnobirthing argues that much of the pain that comes with childbirth is a result of fear and can be eliminated if we remain calm and focused. It also encourages women to let their bodies do the work by working with your uterus and maximizing each contraction through relaxed breathing.

I am sure many of you think that this sounds like a load of crap, but after reading the book, I feel a lot more confident about having my baby naturally. I hope to bring my baby into the world as calmly and comfortably as possible, and I plan on doing everything I can to make sure that this happens. Of course, there are no guarantees that I will not experience complications and pain, but I believe that preparation is the key to minimizing the need for medication and interventions.

I am currently doing everything I can to prepare my body for a smooth natural birth. At least 5 days a week, I walk 2-3 miles to and from school. I have also started stretching for 30+ minutes in the morning, sticking to stretches recommended for pregnant women (squats, yoga poses, etc.,) Before I started stretching every day, I was beginning to have problems with heartburn, but the heartburn has now completely disappeared and the only thing I can attribute that to is my daily stretching routine.

I see the birth of my child as an event that requires preparation at a level similar to searching for my first job and planning my wedding. It is definitely not something I feel comfortable winging. Hopefully my efforts pay off, but no matter what, the end result is worth it!

Peddlers

I should have more sympathy for beggars and street peddlers. After all, I worked as a fundraiser for a non-profit organization for over three years before taking a break and moving overseas to work and travel. Selling and asking for donations is easy when you truly believe in what you are doing. The shoeless kids and toothless grandmothers who have approached us on the streets in Vietnam and Cambodia aren't pushing magnets and pooka shells because they believe in the product (all of which is most likely assembled in Macau anyway). They make the ask because their family depends on the money brought in by tourists like me.

Outside of Korea, our first big trip was to Fiji. We mainly stuck to our resort, or boated out for day trips to remote and uninhabited islands, but we were fortunate enough to tour a couple of the local villages. While there, some of the villagers made an effort to display items for sale. The people in Fiji are famously laid back and seem to care none at all if you decline to purchase their painted seashells attached to a pieces of rope. Still, we weren't just going to stroll by their makeshift displays without buying at least one souvenir, or more for co-workers (this was before we found out that Koreans don't really give a shit if you bring them souvenirs and actually kind of think that you are a braggart if you do- like you are showing off for leaving the peninsula or something "Oooh you rich-ey!" Well, guess what. Stop spending thousands of dollars on cell phones and private academy tuition for your five year old and you can afford to leave the peninsula too).

Our next big trip was to Siem Reap, Cambodia where the kids selling magnets and postcards were so cute that we couldn't say no. I did draw the line when one little girl gave me a tiny little flower- like a budding dandelion picked from the grass. I said thank you and took it, thinking it a nice (if annoying) gesture, but of course she wanted compensation. "One dahwl-ah. One dahw-luh." I just ignored her punk ass. Kids are so stupid.

Shanghai was where I really learned to watch myself. It was there where we nearly got sucked in to a famous tea house scam- someone invites you to a tea house to drink tea and practice English, then they leave you to pay the bill which is exorbitantly high. We weren't so lucky later on when a paper cutter cut a picture of my profile and demanded payment.

I felt like a sucker after the paper cutting incident and vowed never to be played for fool again. Before our trip to southeast Asia, I read in some guidebook that the best way to handle street peddlers is to simply ignore their greetings entirely and refuse to make eye contact. This worked pretty well in Saigon and again in Phonm Penh where the people asking for a handout were often victims of landmines with missing limbs. It was heartbreaking to walk past them, but Sami reminded me that we were on the tightest of budgets, especially with that added knowledge that there would be a new addition to our family in August. Besides, the guidebook said that I would only be wasting their time by engaging in conversation with no intention of giving money.

In Hanoi things were different. We couldn't help but get the feeling that we were being looked at only as dollar signs. Everywhere we ate we had to negotiate a price beforehand and even then we were given incorrect change. In addition to the nightmarish motor scooter traffic, we couldn't move without being offered fruit or a photocopied addition of some guidebook or historical novel set in Vietnam. Every taxi and tuk-tuk driver was convinced we needed a ride and pegged us as crazies when we politely refused.

The final straw came the afternoon of our return from Ha Long Bay and Cat Ba Island. When we checked back into the hotel we were given cups of complimentary tea. The tea must have been loaded with caffeine because afterwards, I was in a great mood and bounced through the streets to meet up with our friends Tor and Becky. Along the way I was accosted by street peddlers, but I playfully danced around them and the hundreds of parked motor scooters, determined not to let them break my high. In fact one of them laughed along with me, amused by my cunning avoidance (or so I would like to believe).

I was still feeling good when we stopped to take a picture near a famous statue in front of Hoan Kiem Lake. It was then that a woman handed me a long stick with a basket of bananas on each end and placed a ubiquitous Vietnamese conical hat on my head. I gave her the camera and she took a picture. If you look at the picture you could tell I knew something was up but I didn't want to admit it. Afterward, I bounded off, but turned to see Sami, Tor and Becky shaking their heads. Sami was engaged in a heated discussion with my photographer. She was obligated to buy bananas. She reluctantly asked for only one, but was given a whole bushel and no change. My wife came storming at me, pissed off that I pissed away half of our scarce dinner allowance on bananas. I became frustrated because I wanted to believe the woman was just doing something nice and thought that it would be funny. I should have known better from all of our past experiences. I was played again.

My frustration turned into rage. I was mad at myself for being so stupid, annoyed with having to document how every penny was spent, and most of all, embarrassed in front of my wife and friends. Sami was yelling in my face like I had never experienced before, and I felt it to be a public dressing down of my manhood. Acting entirely on impulse, I snatched the bag of bananas and flung them as high as I could into the air. They plopped down with a dull thud in the middle of the road and were immediately squashed by scooters.

I couldn't even think straight afterwards. I didn't know how to proceed. We were supposed to buy tickets for the famous water puppet show down the street, but I wasn't sure if we had money for that and dinner. If there was a big enough hole, I gladly would have crawled in and died. All around us tourists and peddlers stared for a quick second and the banana hurling fool, and then went right on about their business of trying to feed their families or hold on to their dinner money.

NBA Playoffs

Sami let me get NBA International League Pass for the playoffs which means that I can watch all of the games online live and on-demand. For the past two weeks I have been consumed by basketball, watching three or four games a day. It's pretty awesome.
 My first memory of the NBA playoffs is from back in 1990. I was seven. The Blazers were beaten in the finals by the Detroit Pistons, and while the series only went five games, the final deciding game went down to the last shot. Vinnie "The Microwave" Johnson hit a game winner with .07 seconds left. I bawled my eyes out that night like it was the end of the world. At the time it had been 13 years since the Blazers won their one and only championship and that was twenty-one years ago.

As I get older, I often find myself revisiting memories in the past through the eyes of my parents. My dad was right around my age when the Blazers lost back in '90. The year after, I remember he had a friend come over to the house to watch the Blazers play the Lakers in the Western Conference Finals. I recall that series as much for the visitor (6'8" college basketball coach with a thick braided ponytail down to his ass) as I do the final play- Magic Johnson collecting a rebound and rolling the rock like it was a bowling ball down to the Laker baseline. That heady play used up nearly all of the remaining game clock and sealed the series.

In 1992 Michael Jordan's Bulls took care of the Blazers in a series that will always be remembered for the "shrug game" where MJ went unconscious in the first half of Game 1. This was a difficult time for me as a kid torn between his favorite team and the undeniably popular superstar whom every grade schooler tried to emulate with an outstretched tongue. Once, in the second grade lunch line, a friend showed me a picture he drew of the Blazers and Bulls' logos intersected by the letters v and s. Being young and not able to comprehend my mix of emotions, I tore the paper up, and made the kid cry. He ended up not telling on me, for which I am grateful.

On Sunday I woke up at 5:30 in the morning to watch the Blazers play Game 4 of their first round series against Dallas. Sure, I could have slept in and watched it on demand later, but if given the opportunity, I have to watch it live. I can't stand not knowing while the rest of the Blazer universe rejoices or jumps from the Broadway Bridge. And yes, fast forwarding through all of the commercial breaks, game stoppages, free throws etc., is convenient (and crucial if you have a lot of games to get through in a day) but it cuts out nearly all of the drama.

The first three quarters of the game were horrific- probably the worst basketball I have ever seen since my dad retired from coaching middle school girls. I couldn't help but wake up Sami in the other room with what started out as violent cursing in the first quarter before transforming into pitiful moans in the third. By the fourth quarter I had given up. We were down by 18 and it would take nothing short of a miracle to even make it competitive. Sami came into the room, sat and said that maybe our unborn daughter would be good luck. I guess you know what happened if you follow sports- Dallas quit defending and throwing up long jumpers and Brandon Roy turned back the clock. The score kept getting closer and closer and I was rubbing Sami's belly like she was a Buddha statue for good luck. When Roy converted the four point play I began jumping, dancing and screaming like a mad man. I threw my fleece Oregon blanket in the air and Sami said I looked like I was doing interpretive dance. All of it was worth the price of the NBA League Pass and when Roy banked home the winner, it felt like the steal of the century.

Like nearly everyone who follows hoops, I had given up on Roy (and to an extent still have, let's see him show up for a road game). He was horrendous in the first two games and really looked like he couldn't move. It was an incredible experience watching him carry the team on his back and I have to admit that I cried when he was interviewed after the game and said "I thought I'd never play basketball again." It was my first tear since "The Microwave" ended the dream in the Memorial Coliseum twenty-one years ago.

Having a Baby in Korea, Part 2

After 5 weeks without seeing a doctor I ventured to Asan Hospital last Tuesday. It usually takes me 80-90 minutes to get there by bus, subway, and then a 15-minute walk. I arrived at the hospital to learn that my doctor was in surgery and that my appointment was delayed, but I didn’t mind because I was able to chat with another couple who were also expecting. They were the first couple I have met in Korea who are having a baby, but I think it is quite common for expats to want to birth in Korea. The health insurance, technology, and low cost make Korea a great place to give birth, especially if your pregnancy is low risk and you can avoid a hospital birth (and likely c-section)… Also, at least for public school teachers, the guaranteed maternity leave is way better than what most jobs offer in the states. You are guaranteed a 2-month paid leave and you can take a third month unpaid. I will only be taking the month of August off, so I don’t get the second paid month off because my contract ends on August 31^st. However, this is still more paid leave than my teaching job in the US offers.

Unfortunately, the couple informed me that they visited Mediflower Women’s Clinic and really liked it, but due to the high cost they were seeking alternative options. They did have some other suggestions of places to give birth, and so in addition to visiting Mediflower on Saturday, Joe and I are going to make an appointment at an additional birthing clinic located in Bucheon (about 45 minutes from where we live), and look into possibly giving birth at home. The advantage of birthing at Mediflower is that a doctor attends your birth, but he is primarily there to observe, and won’t intervene unless there is an emergency. The other birthing clinic we are going to look into does not have a doctor, so I would give birth with only a midwife. If I want an epidural or have to have a c-section, we have to transfer to a hospital no matter which birthing center we choose, so at this point we are exploring more cost-effective options.

At first I was really skeptical about giving birth at home, but lately it is looking more appealing. It would be nice to give birth and not have to travel with a newborn from the birthing center after the baby is born, especially considering we don’t have a car. Our only options would be to take a taxi or the subway home, and the taxis here usually are not equipped with seat belts. As long as my pregnancy remains low-risk, having the baby at home is an option we are going to strongly consider.

Back to my appointment… All of my appointments are scheduled through the International Clinic at Asan Hospital. An English-speaking volunteer then guides me to the various places I have to go and helps with any necessary translating. When I expressed my interest in finding out the sex of my baby the volunteer informed me that I couldn’t directly ask the ultrasound technician or the doctor what the gender of my baby was. I instead had to ask a less direct question such as, “Does my baby like pink or blue?” Because Koreans used to abort their babies when they found out they were having a girl, legally a pregnant woman is not supposed to be informed of her baby’s gender until after the 7^th month. This is no longer a common practice in Korea, but they still haven’t changed the law. Koreans still want boys, mainly because the sons traditionally take care of their parents as they age, but most Koreans would no longer abort their baby just because it is a girl.

My baby is a little wiggle worm. She is constantly nudging me throughout the day and at night she is even more active. She was moving around throughout the ultrasound appointment, so much that the ultrasound technicians were laughing. One of them looked at me and said, “Your baby moves a lot,” as she struggled to perform all of the necessary tests and measurements. Her little hands were balled into fists, and it was comical to watch her continuous jabs at the ultrasound equipment as they attempted to navigate around her movements. Even though she was moving around constantly, it was very apparent to me (and I am not experienced at reading ultrasounds) at several points that it was probably a little girl. When the appointment was over, I asked the technicians, “Does my baby like pink or blue?” They both started laughing before they told me that my baby liked pink.

I was ecstatic to hear that I was carrying a girl. Joe and I were convinced that it was probably a boy, even though every old wives’ tale pointed towards a girl. I had terrible morning sickness, and I have read that there is scientific evidence that women are more likely to experience severe morning sickness when they are carrying a girl. I have also craved sweets, mainly fruit, since the end of the first trimester. So far, I am carrying this baby high, and I haven’t needed to buy any maternity pants at this point. I am sure that will change within a few weeks! All of those characteristics traditionally point to the likelihood of a girl, but based on how active this baby is and the ultrasound pictures, we both figured it was a boy. Lesson learned- 13 week ultrasound pictures are unlikely to be indicative of your baby’s gender!

I was also convinced that it would be a boy because I consider Joe to be the lucky one in our relationship. Things almost go his way. The night before my ultrasound appointment I had a very vivid dream about the baby, and it was definitely a boy in my dream. I told Joe the next morning that I was almost positive that we were having a boy. He of course gave me a huge smile- he was really hoping for a boy.

I was pretty quiet during the journey home, partly because I was starving, but mostly because I knew that I was going to have to tell Joe he was going to have a daughter when he really wanted a son. Fortunately, there is no doubt in my mind that Joe will be thrilled when he finally meets his daughter!

Ha Long Bay: Part 3

At breakfast the next morning, everyone was surprised and happy to see Sami back in the fold looking healthy and ready to eat something other than bread. I, on the other hand, assumed the role of the sickly one after a night of beer, scotch and boatrock. I don't remember any of this, but Sami informed me that between one of my frequent puke trips, I belched in her direction. She kindly asked if I would turn the other way to do that and I threw a fit. It was not one of my finer moments.

After breakfast Tor, Becky, Sami and I said goodbye to our shipmates and boarded a ferry bound for Cat Ba Island. The rest of the travelers only signed up for the overnight tour whereas we were there for three days, two nights. During the additional time we would bike Cat Ba National Park, kayak around the bay and explore the town of Cat Ba.

Cat Ba Island is famous as the home of the Cat Ba Langur, an endangered monkey. There are only around 100 Cat Ba Langurs alive today and when I asked our guide if there was a possibility that we would see one of the primates during our ride, he said no chance- not because of the scarcity of the animal, but rather for the unfortunate truth that if one was spotted, it would be immediately killed by the villagers who would feast on its brains. The villagers' equal opportunity diet soon became the major theme of the day.  We once stopped to tour a home littered with scurrying puppies, kittens, baby chicks and piglets. It could have been a picture out of a nursery rhyme, but the guide told us that everything moving was raised to be slaughtered and eaten.

Dogs and cats that will be food.

 Being showed around the village was an experience we will never forget, but I couldn't shake the feeling that we were intruding. The villagers did not seem bothered however, and unlike in Korea, the locals did not gawk at our bizarre Caucasian profiles. There was a small, impromptu morning market taking place outside of one of the houses and everyone scrambled for the days' fresh catches without giving us the least bit of notice.

Catch of the Day

 The villagers undoubtedly appreciate the tourism dollars that roll in which were used to build a school and hospital which we later toured. Our guide did tell us one story of corruption, where the village chief skimmed money off of a project to build a city hall. The city hall remains only half completed in the middle of the village and may stay that way for some time.

The bike riding itself was, for me, the most enjoyable part of our Ha Long Bay cruise. We have gone on a few bicycle tours in our travels the past two years, and each one has been worth it. It is a great way to get a feel for the culture and habitat of a new country. I didn't once forget that I was in Vietnam when we were biking through dirt roads and rice paddies surrounded by green and sharply angled mountains.

After our ride we headed back to the ferry where a nicely set table waited for us. We feasted on what we now came to recognize as the standard tourist meal- shrimp in their shells, whole fish with cucumber and carrots, and rice. There was one new addition that we all clamored for- simple peanuts fried with sugar. Great snack.

Next we kayaked around the bay. Sami wasn't too keen to kayaking and she informed me that I would be doing the majority of the rowing. As a result, we did not cover much ground. It was a surreal experience being out on the water alone. Other than Tor and Becky, we may have been the only tourists out. Just the night before, hundreds of party boats were out on the water. Apparently, the overnight trip is more popular than the longer tour, but all four of us agree that the three day, two night is the way to go. If we would have left after one night we would not have felt like we got our money's worth.

Ready to take off

Tor and Becky a little too close to that rock

We finished off the day in the tourist town of Cat Ba. First, we checked in to out hotel which, after compared to our economic cabins back on the ship, felt like the W. Marble floors and a bed that didn't quite break your back. After that we walked down to experience the market, all the while dodging begging would-be drivers.

The market was dark and crowded and, since we had arrived late in the afternoon, stunk of spoiling fruit and fish. On the way Tor and I spotted squished rats and cockroaches, but this did not deter us from seeking out the dragonfruit that had evaded me earlier in the vacation. I finally found a stand on the way out and bought one for what was probably a quarter or fifty cents. I had our vendor carve it up for us, and I was surprised at how soft and waxy the skin of the spiky looking fruit was. She cut it into fourths and gave it to me in a plastic bag. This is one of my big pet peeves. Everywhere we go, people want to give you plastic bags. They don't every decompose and I just know whenever I get one that it is going to end up in some whale's blowhole.

We walked outside and ate the fruit which is pink on the outside with white flesh and hundreds of tiny white seeds. We decided that it had the taste and texture of a kiwi. We ate over the dead rat and wondered why it was spared by the locals. Could it be that much worse than monkey brains?

Having a Baby in Korea, Part 1

We found out I was pregnant a few days before Christmas. The weekend before Christmas we had some friends over, Joe cooked dinner, and we headed to the noraebang (Korean karaoke room) to sing some Christmas carols. It was a fabulous night, and everyone was drinking except for me. You can imagine my surprise when I woke up the next morning with what felt like a very severe hangover. I remember feeling slightly irritated that my husband, who was feeling no pain the night before, seemed to be fine the next morning. I, on the other hand, could barely get out of bed and felt repulsed by all of the foods that had tasted so wonderful only the night before. A few days later my pregnancy suspicions were confirmed by the bright red line on my Korean pregnancy test. Luckily I speak enough Korean that I was able to confirm that the line did in fact mean I was pregnant!

Shortly afterwards I made an appointment at Asan Hospital in Seoul. A friend of mine had surgery there and had a positive experience. She had informed me about their international clinic, where volunteers who spoke English helped foreigners navigate the Korean hospital system. Knowing nothing about having a baby, let alone having a baby in Korea, just having someone who spoke English soothed a great deal of my anxiety. Making the appointment was simple. At the appointment I found out I was 6 weeks pregnant (not as far along as I thought I was) and was able to see the baby on the ultrasound. Joe came to the appointment with me, but unfortunately he wasn't allowed in when I had the ultrasound or when I met with the doctor. The fathers are almost completely left out of the birthing process in Korea at most of the major hospitals, a fact that didn't really sit well with either of us. When I met with the doctor I was thrilled to find out he spoke English quite well. I didn't even need the international clinic volunteer to stay with me. My main concern at the time was getting a prescription for something that would help with my morning sickness. We were leaving in three weeks for a 24 day trip to SE Asia, and I had been very ill for over 2 weeks at that point. I was rapidly losing weight and barely keeping fluids down, so the doctor prescribed me Vitamin B and an anti-nausea drug that is commonly taken here. While it didn't cure the morning sickness, it definitely made it bearable.

I didn't have another appointment until 7 weeks later because of our trip. When we returned I ventured to Asan Hospital on my own (no point in Joe going since he couldn't participate in anything). I was very anxious about the appointment, especially considering that the only pregnancy symptom I had was morning sickness. I couldn't feel the baby yet, and until I could feel my baby moving, I worried every day that I was going to lose it. My fears were immediately placated when I saw my little one on the monitor. I can honestly say that no moment to date, other than my wedding day, comes close to equaling the joy and amazement I felt when I saw my baby kicking and punching at the ultrasound equipment. Feisty little thing- no surprise there! It is amazing how much they look like a baby at 13 weeks, especially when you consider that the first 4 weeks of pregnancy they aren't even implanted in your uterus. I met with the doctor and was relieved to have him inform me that my baby appeared to be completely normal and that he considered my pregnancy very low risk. He then talked with me about the series of tests he wanted to run at my next appointment- screening for genetic abnormalities. While he was a little hesitant to have me take the tests because I am not Korean, he advised me to take the tests to rule out certain potential disorders. Completely naive, I agreed and made the next appointment, learning later that these tests are rarely performed in the United States without reason.

After we came home from Bali, Joe and I began to seriously discuss what type of birth I should have. Our situation is rather complicated. Baby Boyd is due to arrive around August 23rd. Our employment contracts in Korea expire August 31st, meaning we will no longer have our apartment or health insurance after that date. In addition, we have to leave within 10 days of our contract expiring in order for our schools to pay for our airfare home. Our original plan was to have a planned c-section at 39 weeks (August 16th) so that I would have enough time to recover to travel home on September 10th. In Korea, almost 50% of women end up having a c-section. Women are strapped down during the birth, and if their labor isn't progressing fast enough, they will be forced to have a c-section. You can imagine the complications this could cause if I were to have an unplanned c-section on August 31st. With nowhere to live and no health insurance, it wouldn't be a very positive situation to bring our little one into. So, we figured let's be proactive and just schedule a c-section, hoping to avoid complicating our situation further.

Around this time, I started researching c-sections, particularly how to prepare for them and recover from them. It didn't take me very long to realize that I REALLY didn't want to have a c-section. I decided I needed to talk with my doctor about everything at my next appointment and see what he thought. When I met with him, his solution was simply to have me try to have a natural childbirth. He advised induction around the 28th of August if the baby still hadn't come. I left the appointment determined to do everything possible to prepare for a successful natural childbirth.

In addition to my newly found determination deliver this baby naturally, I started to realize that perhaps the traditional Korean hospital route was not going to be the right fit for me. As an American, used to making my own individual decisions, it can be really frustrating to live in a country that has standard procedures and rituals that are followed by almost everyone without question. For example, after a woman gives birth in Korea they believe that she should only eat seaweed soup for a month. They also believe it is important for the woman to be hot, meaning lots of blankets and no air conditioning, even in the summer. I happen to hate seaweed soup. I know it is healthy, is rich in iron, and is probably a good food to eat after having a baby, but the stuff makes me gag. When I informed my co-teacher (who is also pregnant) that I didn't think I would be able to eat seaweed soup after the birth she looked at me like I was crazy and told me that the hospital would not allow me to eat anything else. As silly as it may seem, the possibility of being forced to eat seaweed soup was what inspired me to start researching options other than birthing at a hospital. Because they force you to stay at the hospital after the birth for 2-3 more nights, I could not imagine sweating profusely in my hospital bed being forced to eat seaweed soup. It just wasn't how I wanted to start my experience as a mother.

Fortunately I came across Birthing in Korea run by Lisa Fincaryk. She runs childbirth classes in Seoul and works as a doula. A doula is someone who offers non-medical support during pregnancy and childbirth, and statistics show that they reduce c-section rates, shorten labor, reduce the need for interventions and medication, and increase the mother's overall satisfaction with the birth experience. We met with Lisa a few Saturdays ago and were thrilled to find out that we did in fact have options other than having our baby at a hospital in Seoul, and if we did decide to have our baby in a hospital, some hospitals are more flexible than others. Since our meeting we have signed up for birthing classes that are focused on the Hypnobirthing method (more on that later), hired Lisa as our doula, and set up an appointment at Mediflower Women's Clinic and Natural Birthing Center. I am really exited about visiting Mediflower. Not only are the costs comparable to a Korean hospital, but they emphasize birthing your baby as comfortably as possible, allowing the mother to move around, even birth in  the tub if that is what she wants. After the birth, the baby is immediately given to the mother, whereas in Korean hospitals you barely see the baby until you take it home. The rooms are free of medical equipment and look like a wonderful place to give birth. They don't force you to stay there if you don't need to be there, unlike Korean hospitals where you are forced to stay for the mandatory 2-3 nights. I was also informed that since the clinic opened, they have only had to transfer 3 women to nearby hospitals for a c-section. And yes, I would have the option of having an epidural, but I am very focused on avoiding medication during the birth.

I have one remaining appointment at Asan on Tuesday to have an ultrasound (hopefully we will be able to tell if we are having a boy or a girl), and at that point I am going to ask them for all of my files so I can pass the information on to whatever hospital or birthing center we decide on. Even though we don't yet know where we are having the baby, I feel a lot more confident and happy about having the baby in Korea.

Sprints

Today I finished week two of a new three-day-a-week morning sprint interval regiment. Sami came up with the idea to run in the mornings. She had read in one of her pregnancy books that mothers who perform light exercise while pregnant lose post-birth baby fat faster than those who don't, and politely suggested that I show my support by accompanying her in her endeavor. I responded the same way I respond to all of her ideas by first vehemently opposing, then politely declining, then leaving it up for debate, and finally consenting. I can't stand a guilty conscience and so I always come around. It went something like this:

Me: "You're mad I'm not going to run with you aren't you?"

Her: "No, it's fine."

Me: "I'm sorry, but it's just that I hate running and I hate waking up early."

Her: "It's fine. I'll go by myself. I knew it was a long shot."

Me: (Heavy sigh) "Fine. Maybe I'll do it even though I don't want to. Let me think about it."

Her: "Joe. It's ok. Seriously, don't worry about it."

Me: "Fine, I'll do it. Whatever."

The worst is when, as in this instance, my initial negative reaction to an idea doesn't seem to bother her. She plays it off like it's no big deal, but it's ALWAYS a big deal. Right? Maybe. Who knows? I don't think man will ever understand the complexity and mystery of woman. Because I cannot be sure of her true feelings, (and I am slowly beginning to feel that a husband is secretly tested a half dozen times every day) I play it safe and give in. Also, I seem to be more comfortable doing something against my will.

Weeks passed and we kept putting off our start date claiming that the weather was still too cold. Finally, after staring down at my muffin top of a stomach, I decided it was time to go for it. By this time, however, Sami had lost interest and embarked on a new endeavor of "hardcore" stretching.

Why did I continue on without her? Easy. I borrowed a stopwatch from school. There is just something obsessively appealing about the chirping sound of the start and stop button, and to look down and read numbers so exact.

The first day I went, it was cold and windy out, which did not bother me during the workout. It was only after I had returned into the warm apartment that my ears began to throb. Since then I have worn Sami's girly earmuffs which I can get away with here, being a strange foreigner and all.

There is a turf field next to the subway station about a three minute light jog away from our doorstep (and believe me, this is accurate. I have a stopwatch). This is where I do my sprinting. That first day, I could only manage four down and backs at around 20 seconds each with a 90 second jog in between. This doesn't sound like much, and it isn't, but I finished begging for an extra pair of lungs. I have gradually worked my way up to five down-back-down-backs at 40 seconds each- more than double what I started. I may choose to keep going for more, but I run before school and prefer to sleep in as long as possible, leaving me just enough time to get ready for the day when I return.

While my lungs have adapted slightly, and increased their capacity, my leg muscles still ache like the first day. My hamstrings in particular are as tight as piano wires. I stretch before and after and even throughout the day, but to no avail. Luckily, we wear indoor slippers at work, so I can shuffle around like the rest instead of walking like a 90 year old man who needs to poop.

During my run I am usually accompanied by one older woman who speed walks the perimeter of the field, and a man who reads the paper while hula-hooping. Hula-hoops are big here and even taken seriously as exercise. A woman at my gym stands and watches TV for 40 plus minutes, gyrating and thrusting and spinning that damn hoop all the while. I on the other hand, can only hula-hoop for three to four revolutions, depending on how fast I can get it started spinning with my hands and how fast gravity works.

Ideally, I would like to sprint Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but this week muscle soreness and laziness pushed me into Saturday. The great part about running on Saturday is that I was able to sleep in, however, this meant that more people would be occupying my running space. Koreans have school every other Saturday, and today there were a group of them bunched in my field farting around with badminton racquets and shuttlecocks. As I jogged to warm up many of them said hello, but I ignored them and acted as if the combination of my girly earmuffs and the blasting volume on my iPod was enough to drown their greetings. This may sound cruel and inconsiderate, but after nearly two years in Korea, you get a little tired of being a spectacle and just wish for nothing more than to blend in and be inconspicuous. This is impossible given the current situation because 1) I am white and no one else is white and 2) I am running outside for exercise and this is unheard of.

As I started my first sprint one funny guy, the class clown, decided to run along with me in a mock race. This was mildly annoying, but he quit after a down and only half of an up. As I charged ahead I told myself that if anyone got in my way I was just going to run them over. I was in a surly mood. After all, I was doing something I never wanted to do without the person I wanted to be doing it with. The one back at home doing the hardcore stretches whom I still can't figure out.

Ha Long Bay: Part 2

In my previous post I failed to mention the presence of another passenger on our trip to Ha Long Bay- the mixologist. He rode in the back of the van with us from Hanoi and carried with him a cardboard box filled with clanking, half drained fifths. His mission was to train the bartender on our boat whom I imagined alone on the ship and making an exhaustive attempt at opening a can of beer with a corkscrew. Our friend had trouble gaining access to the boat, what with his libation bottles, but eventually words were exchanged and promises made and he joined us in the cabin. While he stayed after lunch and taught the crew how to evenly layer a cosmopolitan no one would ever order, we climbed up to the deck and partook in smuggled scotch swilled from plastic rinse cups.

Liquor purchased from anywhere other than the sparse bar on board was strictly prohibited, but this didn't stop the boat vendors that paddled from ship to ship from pushing product. One woman accosted us from her floating 7-11 the moment we slowed to reach the ferry that would take us to Sung Sot Cave, the largest cave in Ha Long Bay located on Bo Hon Island. Her inventory of beers and snacks were tempting, but the look from our guide suggested we stick to the rules.

The cave itself was magnificent and (much to my amazement) rivaled the caves of Mulu National Park in Borneo. While climbing up to the mouth of the cave, we couldn't help but slow down the procession of followers by taking extra time to enjoy the view below. The combination of green water and wooden ships framed by harshly vertical limestone islands seemed of another era. There were more than a few prime locations reserved for families and couples, but Sami had opted to stay back on the boat, having grown increasingly sick and worried that she had contracted a virus. The only thing she was able to keep down was sliced white bread.

Inside the warty icicle stalactydes and stalagmites- typically the color of mud, glowed bright green, yellow and blue under artificial light. The ambiance couldn't have contrasted more with the 17th century pirate scene out in the water. It was like walking through a Star Trek episode.

Of course, the lighting inside of the cave makes it impossible for a camera to capture it's true magnitude of depth and complexity. I tried in vain to snap digital photos, but our cheap Kodak captured the scene as a blur of grainy color. The pictures might as well have been taken at an Ecstasy fueled rave.

Pictures never turn out inside caves

 One image that did come in clearly was a trash receptacle fashioned as an orca. At least I thought it was an orca. Tor called it a dolphin, but to Becky it was a penguin. Identical trash receptacles lined the path inside , which worked wonders for keeping the cave clean even if they did seem a bit out of place.

Penguin? Orca?

 After the cave we were ferried to another small island with a peak resting pagoda that offered even more spectacular views of the bay. After taking pictures at the top, I tried to get the young man at the beer stand to sell me a can for anything less than thirty-thousand dong (or was it 40?), but he wouldn't budge. After initially walking away in disgust, I sheepishly returned, all to eager to maintain my fading buzz. We sat at a picnic table and drank our '333' brand beers and watched as a girl stripped down to her bikini on a dare and ran into the cold water. It couldn't have been warmer than 50 degrees outside. I think she may have been European from one of those Scandinavian countries.

When we got back to our ship I checked on Sami who was in terrible shape and questioning our decision to travel in the first place. One of our fellow shipmates offered up a litany of suggestions intended to handle morning sickness, not of which were available to us given our current location.

While Sami lay suffering in our cabin a few feet away, the rest of us gathered around for our Vietnamese cooking lesson. It wasn't cooking really, just assembling spring rolls, the ingredients of which had all been chopped beforehand. The mixture consisted of a beaten egg, mushrooms, garlic, white and green onion, pork, carrot and salt. I volunteered to wrap the first one and when our guide commented that it was too big, I informed him that mine was "American sized" while patting my belly.

That guy looks pretty happy about my roll

After dinner (fish, rice, vegetables and our spring rolls for us; bread in bed for Sami) we went upstairs to finish off the scotch. I should mention at this time that Sami insisted I go up and have a good time. I fear I am starting to sound like a selfish drunk.

We sat and chatted with the older Australian bloke. He tried to explain rugby to us and we tried to explain American football. Neither party left impressed.

After finishing the bottle, it was a wobbly walk down the steps. I don't remember much of the night other than visiting the toilet to call dinosaurs. Perhaps Sami could tell the story better, but I doubt she wants to.

Ha Long Bay: Part 1

Our Ha Long Bay cruise traveling crew consisted of our friends Tor and Becky, two sets of Australian couples, and a Chinese family of four. We were each asked to introduce ourselves early into the early morning van ride from Hanoi. Rolling through flat farmland interrupted by jutting French inspired architecture- worn down relics of a bygone era- I kept one ear on the short and sweet recent histories of our fellow passengers and another monitoring the nauseous grumblings of my sick wife.

The older Australian couple had just finished visiting Malaysia. I didn't pick up on this, but a questions was raised about their accents and it was explained that they had been raised in Wales before migrating to Gold Coast. Or was it Melbourne? Anyway, the female half of the younger two from down under was of Vietnamese descent. Her and her boyfriend were vacationing in Vietnam and visiting areas her family came from. A younger daughter in the Chinese foursome did the talking and translating for her family. I can't recall anything she had to say.

Snapshots from inside the van on our drive from Hanoi

Sami had convinced herself that it was the unidentifiable green vegetable in our noodles from the night before that had made her sick. She vomited throughout the night, but claimed that she was feeling better in the morning. However, as the van bumped along third world roads her hangover-like symptoms began to resurface.

We stopped at a rest area/tourist shop about half-way through our ride. I was on a quest to find the price of dragon fruit. I knew that it had to be dirt cheap for Sami to let me get it because I had already spent my allowance on a bottle of scotch to bring on the boat.

*********

I don't remember boarding our cruise ship. I can't recall if we took a ferry ride to it or if we boarded right from the dock. I wish I could recapture those first waves of emotion I must have felt taking in the scenery. The truth is that a tragedy took place on those same waters a mere three weeks after we visited. A wooden pirate inspired vessel similar in style to ours started listing in the early evening of February 17th. Despite notifications from other boats, the crew neglected to notify the passengers and 12 people, including 10 tourists died trapped inside their cabins in the early hours of the next morning.

For days afterward, I couldn't help but imagine the horror of the situation. I became obsessed with certain thoughts. How long did the passengers locked inside their rooms know what was going on? What did the moment feel like when they realized the gravity of the situation? It must have been terrifying and it bothers me to no end.

*********

Once aboard we passengers were able to properly assess our surroundings. Huge windows lined the perimeter of the dining room and lounge letting in a pallor of natural light. Outside limestone mountains bobbed out of the colorless ocean, their forms smudged by fog that could make entire cliffs disappear. At the time I was disappointed that the weather wasn't ten degrees warmer, the sky bluer and clearer. However, I as look back on the experience I am pleased that we were able to capture they mystery of a landscape so often depicted on book cover jackets. I imagine summertime Ha Long Bay to be none too different than Lake Shasta over Memorial Day weekend, and that just doesn't seem right.

Our lunch on the boat was fish, shrimp and vegetables. We were all quite pleased with the meal at the time, but it was one we would become quite familiar with by the end of the excursion. 

Feeling sick, Sami retired to our room to rest and I grabbed the bottle of scotch to meet with Tor and Becky. Ours was the only room in the main cabin, and felt safer than the rooms downstairs whose entrance led to a wooden walkway around the outside of the boat guarded only by a knee-high wall. I felt confident walking that potentially hazardous path that led to Tor and Becky's room carrying an unopened bottle of J&B scotch. I wasn't so sure how easily a time I would have maneuvering the plank after the bottle had been emptied. 

You can see how low the side railing is in this picture

After a couple of pops inside the warm cabin, the three of us ventured upstairs to the top deck. Up there we drank the throat warming scotch discreetly, out of our yellow plastic rinsing cups. We smoked the cigarillos purchased in Saigon and looked out into a landscape of natural wonder, completely giving in to the adventure ahead.

Freak Out

I freaked out Tuesday, third period. Homeroom #6 isn't even my worst class. Far from it. In fact, Homeroom #6 has the greatest number of students with a high level of English proficiency. Maybe that is part of the problem. Maybe they feel that the subject matter is too basic to take seriously. Maybe they thought that because my co-teacher was out of the room it would be ok to disregard the basic tenets of respect and classroom protocol ingrained through thousands of school days endured over a seven year span of formal education. Maybe they were looking ahead to an upcoming three day field trip, and just couldn't contain their excitement enough to focus.

Or maybe they are just bastards.

This is my fourth semester teaching English at an elementary school in Korea. The first three were spent exclusively with 3rd and 5th graders, which was fine. I had each 5th grade homeroom class twice a week, and each 3rd grade class once a week. The 5th graders could be buttheads at times, carrying on conversations in their native tongue and constantly hitting each other instead of paying attention, but the third graders were cute and funny and, most importantly, had an unadulterated passion for the subject matter that made it all worthwhile. As the school year wore on, the fifth graders became worse and worse, and in my limited understanding of Korean, I was able to pick up on grumblings from the other teachers as to just how bad this particular group was. Everyone was happy that they would be moving on to the sixth grade, except of course, those who would be teaching sixth grade the following year.

One of the things a foreigner must learn to accept about Korean culture is that they refuse to make plans in advance. Here it was the day before the new school year was to start and I still had no clue as to whom my co-teacher was to be, nor what grade I would be teaching. Minutes before I left for the day my Vice Principal called me into her office and informed me that I would be teaching 5th grade exclusively. It was decided that 5th and 6th grade would have English class three times a week, and another teacher would handle the 3rd graders. My new co-teacher (and as an aside, in Korea all of the teachers change grades every year and schools every 5, so at just about the time a teacher masters a grade or a subject, they move on to something entirely different) would be a young female teacher transferring in from another school. I left the brief meeting feeling a little bummed that I would no longer have the 3rd graders, but relieved that I could move forward and begin planning having finally received my assignment. Minutes later I was summoned back into the VPs office where she informed me that the school's other native English speaking teacher- the one who handled 4th and 6th graders, had refused to teach 6th grade for another year. I was asked if I wouldn't mind handling 6th grade exclusively. Being an accommodating tool, I acquiesced.

So here I was this past Tuesday with a group of students who have gotten to know me well over the last year and a month. My co-teacher, being both young and new to the school, has been given additional responsibilities undoubtedly passed on to her by more tenured co-workers which cause her to miss the majority of class time. I have been left alone with the students many times, and until this year, I have never had a problem getting the students' full attention. This year has been a struggle, and on this particular day, I reached my breaking point.

At first I called up the class leader (voted on by the other students at the beginning of the year) to quiet the class down. After all, he speaks their language, maybe he could get through to them with a special chant or something. No go. I stayed silent for a moment and then just decided to jump into the lesson, hoping my smile and enthusiasm would catch on. It didn't and then seemingly out of nowhere the rage overtook me.

"WHY CAN'T YOU BE QUIET!!!" (pause, deep breath to gather air for maximum force) "LISTEN!!!"

The class was stunned. I made eye contact with one of my best students and I could see that she was visibly frightened. I scared myself a little actually. My throat tightened and I could feel the adrenaline racing through me. I wanted to throw or break something, but thankfully held back and said something else like "What's the matter with you?" that I am sure they don't have the ability to translate.

I instructed them to put their hands on their heads (common practice I probably should have attempted first) and walked out of the classroom. I crossed paths with my co-teacher who was on her way back in. She must have heard the melee because she asked if I was ok. I said yes and told her that I just needed to get some water. I went in the teacher's room and sat, cooling off for 5-10 minutes. When I walked back in it was deathly quiet and I finished the lesson without one person speaking out of turn. It was eerie, but it felt kind of great.

I told the other teachers about the incident and they assured me that my actions were fine. The thing is, they don't really understand the rage that I felt inside of me and with the cultural barrier, I cannot adequately describe it. The next day the students left for the three day field trip which afforded me a much needed break.

Hanoi: Day One

At baggage claim in Hanoi, I noticed a lot of red suitcases pushed continually around the belt. Normally, I wouldn't notice such a minor detail, but we have grown accustomed to flying with Korean passengers, 99 percent of whom travel exclusively with black Samsonites. It is always easy to spot Sami's indigo hiker's backpack make it's way around. Much like Korea, however, there is a mad rush to jockey for position at baggage claim, as if the bags aren't crawling at a snail's pace. Perhaps my humble upbringing in the wide open spaces of the US has instilled in me an unrealistic value in elbow room. Whatever it is, I have never grown accustomed to being shouldered out of the way by elderly women a foot shorter. Most of the time I take it like the accommodating weenie that I am, but there have been instances where I have pushed back with something more than subtle force. So far my action has elicited no more than a grunt and sideways stare from my victims, but Sami is always left mortified by her companion's behavior.

Luckily, there was no such incident leaving the Hanoi Airport. Unlike our first night in Saigon, we were picked up by one of our hotel drivers and were spared the frustrations of having to negotiate a fare. It took nearly an hour to drive from the airport to our hotel in the Old Quarter. Judging by the scenery on the other side of the windshield, I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that we had entered another country entirely. The sky was mottled gray and thick as we rolled through brown flooded rice paddies flanked by dirty concrete buildings.

Once inside its boundaries, the city instantly overwhelmed us. Narrow main thoroughfares sprouted impossibly skinny sidestreet tributaries. Rapidly crisscrossing motorscooters clogged every artery and parked scooters monopolized sidewalks. Trudging on foot was a move at your own risk proposition and many heavy white tourists clutching fat spouse arms and Loney Planet guides stood, mouth agape, and waited for a moment of open space that never arrived. Space not taken up by one man vehicles was swallowed by spillover markets, and indeed thousands of rural residents had flocked to Hanoi days before to capitalize on the upcoming Lunar New Year holiday.

Thanks to planning and luck we met our friends Tor and Becky Ostrom outside of our hotel at sundown. As we cautiously tiptoed through the chaos all around us, Tor regaled us with a tale of their cobra eating adventure earlier in the day. A live cobra was sacrificed for them and cooked in a number of different ways (judging by the pictures, I was surprised at just how much meat a snake contained). Highlights included ingesting the still beating heart and swilling a shot of snake bile. Apparently, the bile is none too appetizing. Tor smiled maniacally as he verbally painted, but Becky merely smiled, happy to have the experience behind her.

I took the initiative and chose an eating establishment for the evening. It was a little more authentic (see: dirty) than Sami would have liked, but she was happy enough to play along- a fact she would come to regret later when food borne illness took hold. But in the meantime, we sat down on the ubiquitous tiny plastic stools and ordered by pointing at fellow diner's plates. Our bowls of noodles were good, but they contained an unidentifiable green vegetable that we later pinpointed as the cause of Sami's sickness.

The three of us (minus Sami) drank beers with dinner. Much to the horror of my dining companions, I asked for an ice-filled mug- the way the locals drink it. Apparently they did not agree with my dangerous approach, but when is an authentic experience not worth the risk of diarrhea? Oh, yeah- every time.

We drank more beers out on the street (all very legal and commonplace) after dinner and did our best to ignore the peddlers. Eventually one of us caved and bought too much of something we all wanted a little of.

We said our goodbyes with an early morning looming over our heads. Back at the hotel Sami gave me two instructions while hurrying toward the toilet. I was to buy a bottle of water and request a wake up call for 6am. The visit to the front desk provided yet another reminder that we were away from Korea: an employee with an actual sense of humor. When I asked for a bottle of water she said "Ok, one million dong" as opposed to the ten thousand it actually cost. When I asked for a 6am wake up call she said "ok, we wake you up 3 a.m."