Heartbeats

Today, at my wife's prenatal doctor visit, we heard our baby's heartbeat for the very first time.  It was about 160 beats per minute.  Today was also the day of the Boston Marathon, and there were 2 bombs that exploded at the finish line, stopping several heartbeats, and probably increasing the heart rates of the runners who already had elevated heart rates due to the miles that they had just run.

My wife and I are both runners.  We've each done two half marathons, and several shorter races.  In fact, one of the first purchases we made for our yet-to-be-born baby was a jogging stroller so that we can take him or her out with us for runs when he or she is old enough.  We are hoping to share our love for the outdoors and physical exercise with our child whose heartbeat we heard today.  Neither my wife nor I are elite runners; women in our age group qualify to participate in Boston if they can run 26.2 miles in 3 hours and 35 minutes or less.  We are not part of the Boston community, and yet as runners, we are a part of that community.  It may sound strange to those who don't run, but runners share a common bond over the miles we run, the challenges we choose to take on, and the dedication we put into such an individual sport.  And because of this, I feel a connection to those runners and race spectators in Boston today.

It is a very strange juxtaposition to hear our child's heartbeat for the first time on a day when some of the best members of our running community were threatened and injured by bombings.  I am overjoyed and deeply disturbed at the same time.  It makes me worry about the kind of world our little one will grow up in. I know that bad things have happened all throughout history, and that this really is nothing new.  It just feels a lot more personal this time.