The vast blue stretched out around him in every direction; blinding rays of sun pierced the water’s surface. The frothy waves calmed the deeper he sank into the sapphire abyss. As he breathed slowly and evenly out of his tank, tiny air bubbles danced back towards the sun above. Life was all around him. In the brilliant fishes that swam past, and the odd shaped coral he skimmed his fingertips over.
He used to watch coral as some watch clouds; drifting by and trying to see dinosaurs or kittens in the twisted shapes. It was a nice enough distraction until one piece reminded him of something he did not want to be reminded of. He never played that game again.
Water slipped into his wetsuit and sent a thousand needles up his spine, but he didn’t mind. This was his escape. It was like another world down here. He didn’t have to think about who he was or where he came from. He didn’t have to have a name or a life or a history.
Why is it that everyone needs to know everyone else’s story anyway? Isn’t that the whole reason someone runs away; to escape their old story and start a new one? But humans are inherently nosey, hiding their curiosity behind tuna casserole and mini muffin baskets as they probe into their new neighbor’s former life. That’s how he finally ended up here. Fish don’t judge you and coral doesn’t ask questions.
All he needed was air in his lungs and he could sink into this different world and get lost, until the air ran out that is. He dreaded that time more than any other: the air running out. It meant he would have to wrench himself from this perfectly calm and quiet world or be lost forever. Time always ticked faster and faster as the air ran out. And before he knew it, he would be struggling to breathe, struggling for life. The life he wanted wasn’t where the air was. He didn’t want to trudge back up the beach. He didn’t want his brain to be out of the water where his thoughts ran wild and he couldn’t help but remember. He wanted to stay in the water forever, but forever was impossible; he should know that by now.
So he would have to slowly drift towards the surface. Staring upwards, the sunlight illuminated the water into millions of sparkling shafts of light. If there was such a thing, he figured this had to be what it would look like for the heavens to open up. Sometimes he would imagine that he actually was drifting towards heaven, that he would just keep floating, wetsuit and all, and finally break through the blinding light to what was waiting for him on the other side.
But the calm tranquility instead broke forth to tempestuous seas, and he fought the urge to go back under. He struggled up the beach, clamoring awkwardly over the sand in gear that had just seemed so graceful and weightless in the water. He ditched his fins and tank outside his tiny hut and went in to pour a glass of water. The fresh water mingled with the salty sea on his lips and burned his throat, but it felt good. Tiny grains of snow white sand stuck between his toes and in his hair. A slimy chuck of kelp clung to his leg and a sheath of grainy salt covered his body like a thin blanket.
He went back outside and picked up a shell. The shell was interesting. He tried to focus on its symmetrical curves, its porcelain white body clashing with its baby pink insides. He tried to focus on the scratches on its back, where a bird most likely went looking for lunch. He tried to focus on the tiny chips in the outer rim that put a subtle damper on perfection. True the shell was interesting, but not interesting enough.
Like a tidal wave, the old familiar thoughts came rushing back. They flooded his mind as if he had simply stayed under water forever and let the sea claim him. A woman’s left hand. Soft strawberry blonde ringlets. A child’s smiling face. Grilled cheese sandwiches and Goodnight Moon. A soft yellow baby blanket. A single tear streaming down a perfect cheek. A lullaby.
The memories were excruciating yet relieving. He craved them as much as he dreaded them. He never knew what he would see, but one thing was certain, he would always see them. No matter where he went, be it the top of a snowy mountain or the bottom of a salty sea, he couldn’t escape them. These pictures haunted him like the most terrifyingly beautiful ghost. He lay back on the sand and let the memories take control, there was no use fighting it.
When he awoke it was dark. The last blood red streaks of the sun were being swallowed by the sea. The thoughts of the family he once knew had gone. His mind had finally had mercy on him and went blank. He knew there was only one thing to do. And so, he grabbed his tank and descended once again into the blue that had turned to blackness. Deeper and deeper, to the only place he felt safe, to the only home he now knew. Finally he was calm. For a while, all he could hear was his own heart beat slowly in his chest. But gradually a song drifted into his ears. A lullaby. He knew it all too well. And as the air began to run out for the last time, the lullaby played, and he drifted toward the light above.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Don't Stop This Train
What if I just didn’t get off the train at my stop? If I just kept going until the mood struck me to get up from the hard cracked leather seat, or the ticket clicker guy kicked me off, whichever came first. These thoughts raced through my head as I stared out the window at the same scene I’d seen a million times. Where would I end up?
Maybe it would be New York City where I’d tap my way into an audition for 42nd Street and get discovered as the biggest new Broadway sensation. Or maybe it would be the gated communities of Orange County, where I’d be the newest dysfunctional ‘real’ housewife. I was practically a desperate housewife already, minus the boob job and the whole husband part. It could be Texas, where I’d drive to an NRA support rally at the Outback Steakhouse in a rusty pickup truck with a confederate flag bumper sticker. It might take me down to Mexico where I could swap my suit for a bikini and join the wasted spring breakers in their endless pursuit to take enough shots of tequila to be featured on an MTV spring break special. Or it could be Alaska, where I’d go ice fishing with two old men whose old man nose hairs would freeze and form little nose hair icicles. We would sit around for hours not catching fish and hearing about how back in the day, they had to walk five miles to school, in the snow, up hill, both ways.
It would probably take me to the airport and I would jump on a plane to Italy, where a tall, dark, and even handsome Italian in a leather jacket with Patrick Dempsey hair would sweep me off my feet. We would spend our days eating spaghetti, and floating down canals in gondolas, and riding off into the sunset on a little red vespa. From there I could go to a farm Scotland, where I could search for Nessie and be woken up by bagpipes and roosters instead of an alarm clock. Then I could jet over to Japan, where I’d trade my briefcase for a Hello Kitty purse and dance back up with the Harajuku girls for an impromptu Gwen Stefani concert. As we were eating wasabi eel rolls after the show, a casting agent would discover me and I’d make a guest appearance on Iron Chef, chopping eggplants and racing the clock to get my gnocchi just right. After all that I could go to Hawaii and become a professional hula dancer, dancing at luaus around a pineapple stuffed pig for tourists in obnoxious floral shirts and fanny packs.
Suddenly, the train stops and I get off. But I’m not in Texas, or Scotland, or Japan; I’m in my office building, staring at my cubicle. There’s a pile of paperwork on my desk and a fresh coffee stain on my chair that I didn’t put there and I already see my greasy haired boss coming to tell me I’m two minutes late. Tomorrow, I’m not getting off that train.
Maybe it would be New York City where I’d tap my way into an audition for 42nd Street and get discovered as the biggest new Broadway sensation. Or maybe it would be the gated communities of Orange County, where I’d be the newest dysfunctional ‘real’ housewife. I was practically a desperate housewife already, minus the boob job and the whole husband part. It could be Texas, where I’d drive to an NRA support rally at the Outback Steakhouse in a rusty pickup truck with a confederate flag bumper sticker. It might take me down to Mexico where I could swap my suit for a bikini and join the wasted spring breakers in their endless pursuit to take enough shots of tequila to be featured on an MTV spring break special. Or it could be Alaska, where I’d go ice fishing with two old men whose old man nose hairs would freeze and form little nose hair icicles. We would sit around for hours not catching fish and hearing about how back in the day, they had to walk five miles to school, in the snow, up hill, both ways.
It would probably take me to the airport and I would jump on a plane to Italy, where a tall, dark, and even handsome Italian in a leather jacket with Patrick Dempsey hair would sweep me off my feet. We would spend our days eating spaghetti, and floating down canals in gondolas, and riding off into the sunset on a little red vespa. From there I could go to a farm Scotland, where I could search for Nessie and be woken up by bagpipes and roosters instead of an alarm clock. Then I could jet over to Japan, where I’d trade my briefcase for a Hello Kitty purse and dance back up with the Harajuku girls for an impromptu Gwen Stefani concert. As we were eating wasabi eel rolls after the show, a casting agent would discover me and I’d make a guest appearance on Iron Chef, chopping eggplants and racing the clock to get my gnocchi just right. After all that I could go to Hawaii and become a professional hula dancer, dancing at luaus around a pineapple stuffed pig for tourists in obnoxious floral shirts and fanny packs.
Suddenly, the train stops and I get off. But I’m not in Texas, or Scotland, or Japan; I’m in my office building, staring at my cubicle. There’s a pile of paperwork on my desk and a fresh coffee stain on my chair that I didn’t put there and I already see my greasy haired boss coming to tell me I’m two minutes late. Tomorrow, I’m not getting off that train.
The Race
I am alone at the foot of the blocks. I inhale deeply and the familiar scent of chlorine drifts up to my nostrils. I look down at my arms, my legs; the tools of my trade poised at the ready for the task laid before them. All I hear is the slow thud of my heart beat, all I see is the icy depths of the pool. I whip back to reality. There are hundreds of people gathered around me like I’m some sort of unsuspecting celebrity, and as I slowly wrap my mind around what’s happening, I realize I am, for now at least. It is the last relay of the biggest swim meet of my life, my team’s victory balances on a fraying cord, and my performance will dictate which team conquers which in the bitter rivalry that is potent in the sweltering summer night air. As I shake off my entourage of eager teammates, my wary eyes lock on the scene playing out in the water. It’s one I’ve seen before, one in which the ending can be one of pure jubilance, or utter despair. The swimmers are neck and neck, and I am last to swim. As my opponent and I step up, we glance confidently at each other, a sort of silent challenge. The second my fingertips plunge into the blue abyss, I am no longer human. My limbs fly towards the finish as if they have a mind of their own, not waiting for my own brain to catch up. At the turn, I sneak a glance at my temporary arch enemy. Though we are polar opposites, we are perfectly matched, uncannily similar in our speed and agility. I refocus to my own race, just me and the water. As long as it’s just me and the water, I will succeed. No age old rivalry, no expecting fans, no menacing enemies, just me and the water. My hands rip through the waves, harsh yet gentle in some strange juxtaposition that could only exist in water. My body moves gracefully and smoothly, like a prima ballerina, but it’s only a façade my fingertips create as they turn each drop of water they touch into bubbly works of art. Underneath the calm, my straining muscles churn the waves to froth in a frantic, desperate race to the end. I am exhilarated to touch first, terrified to touch second. The adrenaline pulses through my body, taking control as the water becomes suddenly treacherous. I seem to move in slow motion as the last few strokes I have to take now seem impossible. The pool has become a raging sea thirsting to toss me to the depths, but if only I can reach the wall that now seems so far away. And without notice, I crash into something hard, something I hadn’t expected yet. It was over, a tidal wave of strength had brought me in to the wall and I slowly lifted my shaking head to meet my fate. My teammates are exuberant, passionately rejoicing. That must mean something good, but again, I do not hear them, because I am alone in the water. I am alone and the tumultuous waves have ceased to the serenity that is my home. We won the race together, just me and the water, and we are alone, and there is no place I’d rather be, than alone in the water.
Until I met him, I did not know about love, that it could be too amazing, too devastating, too great, too terrible, too perfect, too sad. That there could be too little at the right time, too much at the wrong time, and vice versa.
I did not know that love coming at the very start of summer, can feel like years of longing relieved, and take you by surprise all at once.
I had not seen a long, slow love like this, lying for hours under the summer stars, whispering promises that laid out a life of bliss.
Until I saw the most vicious fights and struggled to hang on, I had forgotten why everyone I knew had so much bitterness towards love.
I had not seen the hurt, and the pain, and the sadness; a path of slow devastation leading to a heart broken into a thousand pieces, shards and fragments of broken love scattered. I had not seen that pure joy could go so quickly to pure sadness. I had not seen the tears flowing in an incessant stream.
I had not realized that a deep, unexplainable love at just the right time, a love that changes you, a surreal, perfect love is more than a blessing. It’s a miracle.
Someone once asked me if I would give it all back to avoid the pain that I see now. “No.” I answered. “Well then,” they said, “you’ve seen love.”
I did not know that love coming at the very start of summer, can feel like years of longing relieved, and take you by surprise all at once.
I had not seen a long, slow love like this, lying for hours under the summer stars, whispering promises that laid out a life of bliss.
Until I saw the most vicious fights and struggled to hang on, I had forgotten why everyone I knew had so much bitterness towards love.
I had not seen the hurt, and the pain, and the sadness; a path of slow devastation leading to a heart broken into a thousand pieces, shards and fragments of broken love scattered. I had not seen that pure joy could go so quickly to pure sadness. I had not seen the tears flowing in an incessant stream.
I had not realized that a deep, unexplainable love at just the right time, a love that changes you, a surreal, perfect love is more than a blessing. It’s a miracle.
Someone once asked me if I would give it all back to avoid the pain that I see now. “No.” I answered. “Well then,” they said, “you’ve seen love.”
Paths
When you are presented with a road with two paths, it is harder than anyone would like to think to choose which path to follow. However the paths come to you, whether they suddenly appear out of the blue or you’ve seen them in the distance drawing nearer for a long time, they have always been there. It’s when you finally choose to see the alternative path that things get hard. Of course one would like to think that they would take the adventurous path over the safe path, but when you really think about it the safe path is underestimated. The safe path is warm and comfortable. There are no potholes or unexpected turns. You never get lost along the way, and if you do there is always someone there to point you in the right direction. People are looked down upon for taking the safe path, but the safe path is nice, and the safe path can make you happy, a wonderfully consistent kind of happy. But though the safe path leads a life of security the truth is it leads to a life of suppression and boredom too, and those who take it usually regret it. The adventurous path is scary, even terrifying for those who have taken it before and gotten horribly lost on it. The adventurous path can be amazingly exciting one moment, and terribly lonely the next. You go from feeling full of life to barely living in a split second. The adventurous path gives you your highest highs and you lowest lows. The adventurous path often ends in disaster, but every once in a while a miracle happens and it leads to a life most only dream about. And though people look upon those who take the adventurous path with admiration, the truth is those who take the path usually regret it. Those who take the adventurous path sit alone in a bar and wonder how happy they’d be if they had taken the safe path. At the same time, those who took the safe path stare out their windows and wonder how happy they’d be if they had taken the adventurous path. At any rate, even if you think you can, you can’t go back. Once you have chosen your path you have chosen for good. If you choose the safe path and later decide you made a mistake, the opening to the adventurous path will have closed up for you. If you choose the adventurous path and later decide you made a mistake, all of the things that made the safe path safe will no longer be there for you. So which do you choose?
Alki Beach
My hands shook ever so slightly on the steering wheel, the only subtle indication of my heart pounding in my chest, threatening to betray my feelings to the boy sitting next to me. ‘He’s just a boy,’ I tried to tell myself. The boy that had been my best friend since the sixth grade when we would sit at obnoxiously orange lunch tables and make fun of all the other awkward middle schoolers. The boy that flashed me a huge smile, braces and all, every time I came to his house to hang out with his sister, with a secret alternative agenda of seeing him. The boy that had told me I looked beautiful at freshman year homecoming, even though my hair was still soaked with chlorine from the swim meet I had just come from. The boy that had been there for me every time other boys made me cry, or when I needed someone to make me laugh. The boy I’d been in love with since the day I met him, but hadn’t had the guts to tell him for five years. Oh right… that boy.
I tried to calm my nerves as I pulled off the freeway and onto the car lined road to Alki Beach. The song P.S. I Love You was floating softly through the airwaves and out of my car radio, ironic I know. I wished I could tell Brendan so easily, just slip it in to one of our conversations. ‘So I went to the mall today, and oh yea, p.s., I love you!” It had proven a slightly more complicated task for me, and I punched the ‘next’ button on my stereo, envying the singer who had her love life all figured out.
I finally squeezed my car into a miniscule spot in front of the beach, putting my disgraceful parallel parking skills to work. As I stepped outside, the chill winter air caught me by surprise and I shivered in the thin coat I had worn. Of course Brendan noticed and I had to argue incessantly to avoid the chivalrous surrender of his own jacket. We stumbled over the soft brown sand toward the ocean, daring each other to brave the icy cold waters. Kicking off my shoes, I inched my tiny baby toe into the very edge of the frothy black sea. Shivers erupted up my spine and I ran from the water to the top of a sandy hill where Brendan was sitting laughing at my brilliant idea to stick my feet in the ocean in the dead of winter.
I laughed with him and lay back onto the tiny quilt we brought, almost too small for the two of us, which worked out quite well actually. A thick layer of bonfire smoke drifted over us and mingled with the smell of the ocean. A family to our right was chasing after their hyperactive kids, trying to keep them away from the impressively drunk teenagers to the left of us. Everyone was celebrating the new year that was on its way in about fifteen minutes. I stared up at the stars, seeing them clearer than ever in the black sky as the moon illuminated the shining silver waves lapping against the shore. I ran my hands through the soft sand as Brendan and I traded new year’s resolutions we both knew we wouldn’t keep.
As the countdown began my fluttering heart seemed to stop in its tracks. Our eyes locked and in that moment, every unspoken feeling and emotion came flowing forward. Through that one glance, I saw everything both of us had ever wanted. I struggled to breathe as we went silent for the first time in the entire night and slowly leaned ever so slightly forward…
All of a sudden the sky erupted with fireworks. We were jerked away from our perfect moment to watch the fire dance in the blackness, illuminating the night sky in color. The kids screamed and the teenagers drank and everyone was celebrating the new year; but we were celebrating something completely different. And as the air grew colder, sky grew darker, sea grew calmer; we remained on our tiny blanket in the sand, listening to each other’s heart beats, which had finally betrayed us both.
I tried to calm my nerves as I pulled off the freeway and onto the car lined road to Alki Beach. The song P.S. I Love You was floating softly through the airwaves and out of my car radio, ironic I know. I wished I could tell Brendan so easily, just slip it in to one of our conversations. ‘So I went to the mall today, and oh yea, p.s., I love you!” It had proven a slightly more complicated task for me, and I punched the ‘next’ button on my stereo, envying the singer who had her love life all figured out.
I finally squeezed my car into a miniscule spot in front of the beach, putting my disgraceful parallel parking skills to work. As I stepped outside, the chill winter air caught me by surprise and I shivered in the thin coat I had worn. Of course Brendan noticed and I had to argue incessantly to avoid the chivalrous surrender of his own jacket. We stumbled over the soft brown sand toward the ocean, daring each other to brave the icy cold waters. Kicking off my shoes, I inched my tiny baby toe into the very edge of the frothy black sea. Shivers erupted up my spine and I ran from the water to the top of a sandy hill where Brendan was sitting laughing at my brilliant idea to stick my feet in the ocean in the dead of winter.
I laughed with him and lay back onto the tiny quilt we brought, almost too small for the two of us, which worked out quite well actually. A thick layer of bonfire smoke drifted over us and mingled with the smell of the ocean. A family to our right was chasing after their hyperactive kids, trying to keep them away from the impressively drunk teenagers to the left of us. Everyone was celebrating the new year that was on its way in about fifteen minutes. I stared up at the stars, seeing them clearer than ever in the black sky as the moon illuminated the shining silver waves lapping against the shore. I ran my hands through the soft sand as Brendan and I traded new year’s resolutions we both knew we wouldn’t keep.
As the countdown began my fluttering heart seemed to stop in its tracks. Our eyes locked and in that moment, every unspoken feeling and emotion came flowing forward. Through that one glance, I saw everything both of us had ever wanted. I struggled to breathe as we went silent for the first time in the entire night and slowly leaned ever so slightly forward…
All of a sudden the sky erupted with fireworks. We were jerked away from our perfect moment to watch the fire dance in the blackness, illuminating the night sky in color. The kids screamed and the teenagers drank and everyone was celebrating the new year; but we were celebrating something completely different. And as the air grew colder, sky grew darker, sea grew calmer; we remained on our tiny blanket in the sand, listening to each other’s heart beats, which had finally betrayed us both.
The Swimming Lesson
Every summer, in every country club, proud parents watch lovingly as their children splash into the water for swim lessons, struggling to outdo each other in mastering such fine skills as the jellyfish float and the art of the cannonball. Each parent smiles and proclaims their child a little fish, even the parents of the girl clinging to the wall crying, or the wide eyed boy decked out in floaties and fearing for his life. I don’t know about those kids, but I really was a little fish: destined to grow up at the Twin Lakes Country Club, falling in love with the pool, the community, and most of all swimming. The minute I became an official Twin Lakes speedy sixer, I was hooked, and swimming became one of the most important parts of my life.
Fast forward ten years and I’m a junior in high school, entering my third season of Decatur High School swimming. For some reason, I had a good feeling about this year, and at one of the meets I found out why: my relay qualified for state. As my relay team screamed, hugged, and cried, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face, knowing that all these years of hard work would pay off once I was standing on the blocks at the state championships. As my coach ran over to congratulate us, she asked me if my arm felt okay, and I was brutally whipped back to reality. There was just one tiny little detail I forgot to mention: I had been having trouble with my left arm. Since the beginning of the season, my arm had been swelling up and turning slightly pink at practice, morphing to a somewhat frightening purple at meets. Personally coined the “dinosaur arm” by my teammates, I didn’t think too much of it at first, being too blind sighted by our successful season. We went to a few doctors, and my diagnosis ranged from dehydration (easily curable), to thoracic outlet syndrome (not so much). I continued to joke about it, never thinking I would stump multitudes of doctors and become a medical mystery at the age of seventeen. Even more naïvely, I continued to swim, hoping that whatever it was wouldn’t stop me from completing the season. Boy was I wrong.
My arm continuously got worse, and finally, when it got to resemble something like a bright magenta baseball bat, I was rushed to the emergency room. As I lay there in agony while a nervous male nurse named Dino attempted to give me what seemed like the first IV he had ever performed, the doctors came back with my test results and informed me that my left arm was filled with an extensive blood clot. The next couple of days were a whirlwind: ambulance rides, blood draws, and endless questions about my medical past down to what I had eaten for lunch last Tuesday. Although I had the privilege of enjoying an entire week of infamously excellent hospital food, I couldn’t stop thinking about the state championships, which were the very next week for my team, but now impossible for me.
Turns out I have methyltetrahydrafolate reductace, and yes, that is a real blood clotting disorder, extremely rare, but real. I was released from the hospital with low spirits and twice a day shots, not to mention the knowledge that I may never be able to swim again. The next week, I had to sit in the stands and watch my relay team swim without me. The excruciating pain of witnessing first hand all my hard work wasted was worse even than the amateur IV. I envied the alternate who took my place. I yearned to run down the bleachers, push her out of the way, and dive in. But the fat purple blob that was my arm winced with a subtle pain that reminded me I was stuck on dry land. I looked at all the fans that came to cheer my team to victory. Some looked at me puzzled, others with that pitiful ‘I feel so sorry for her,’ look that I had become accustomed to by then. I looked at my team, excited and nervous all at once. I looked at the pool, the cool glistening water. Swimming is a part of my identity, a part of my soul. I felt like my arm may as well have been amputated because I had lost a part of myself. Before I knew it a single tear came to my eye, but I hid it away quickly behind a cheer as I watched the race that should have been mine.
After the championships I was devastated, but I knew I couldn’t let some disease I couldn’t even pronounce ruin swimming for me. As the bitterness wore off, and my arm began to shrink down to baby dinosaur status, I found a way to keep swimming in my life, even if I couldn’t swim competitively. I started teaching swimming lessons to the criers, Mr. Floaties, and the occasional little fishes that I swam with when I was young. And now, years later, I am the coach of the Twin Lakes Swim Team. Coaching is more rewarding than I ever could have imagined, and I never would have gotten there without that bloated arm shaped bump in the road.
When I was first hit with the shock of this experience, it seemed to me that I was losing one of the most important parts of my life. But overcoming my injury and finding ways to keep swimming in my life not only made me incredibly proud, but it also taught me so much about my personal strength, and made me realize what I really love about swimming. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing like the feeling of adrenaline rushing through your body as you race towards the finish, but when I think about it, it’s the deeper things I got out of swimming that made me fall in love with it. It taught me discipline, leadership, and sportsmanship. It taught me that winning isn’t everything, although it is something. And most importantly, it taught me that the love between a close-knit group of friends and family is the most powerful thing in life. Now, as I teach my team how to streamline or flip turn, every once in a while a new, friendly little girl who is a natural in the water will join the team, and it makes me smile, because I know that I was once that little girl, and I only hope that she will grow to love and appreciate swimming as much as I do.
Fast forward ten years and I’m a junior in high school, entering my third season of Decatur High School swimming. For some reason, I had a good feeling about this year, and at one of the meets I found out why: my relay qualified for state. As my relay team screamed, hugged, and cried, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face, knowing that all these years of hard work would pay off once I was standing on the blocks at the state championships. As my coach ran over to congratulate us, she asked me if my arm felt okay, and I was brutally whipped back to reality. There was just one tiny little detail I forgot to mention: I had been having trouble with my left arm. Since the beginning of the season, my arm had been swelling up and turning slightly pink at practice, morphing to a somewhat frightening purple at meets. Personally coined the “dinosaur arm” by my teammates, I didn’t think too much of it at first, being too blind sighted by our successful season. We went to a few doctors, and my diagnosis ranged from dehydration (easily curable), to thoracic outlet syndrome (not so much). I continued to joke about it, never thinking I would stump multitudes of doctors and become a medical mystery at the age of seventeen. Even more naïvely, I continued to swim, hoping that whatever it was wouldn’t stop me from completing the season. Boy was I wrong.
My arm continuously got worse, and finally, when it got to resemble something like a bright magenta baseball bat, I was rushed to the emergency room. As I lay there in agony while a nervous male nurse named Dino attempted to give me what seemed like the first IV he had ever performed, the doctors came back with my test results and informed me that my left arm was filled with an extensive blood clot. The next couple of days were a whirlwind: ambulance rides, blood draws, and endless questions about my medical past down to what I had eaten for lunch last Tuesday. Although I had the privilege of enjoying an entire week of infamously excellent hospital food, I couldn’t stop thinking about the state championships, which were the very next week for my team, but now impossible for me.
Turns out I have methyltetrahydrafolate reductace, and yes, that is a real blood clotting disorder, extremely rare, but real. I was released from the hospital with low spirits and twice a day shots, not to mention the knowledge that I may never be able to swim again. The next week, I had to sit in the stands and watch my relay team swim without me. The excruciating pain of witnessing first hand all my hard work wasted was worse even than the amateur IV. I envied the alternate who took my place. I yearned to run down the bleachers, push her out of the way, and dive in. But the fat purple blob that was my arm winced with a subtle pain that reminded me I was stuck on dry land. I looked at all the fans that came to cheer my team to victory. Some looked at me puzzled, others with that pitiful ‘I feel so sorry for her,’ look that I had become accustomed to by then. I looked at my team, excited and nervous all at once. I looked at the pool, the cool glistening water. Swimming is a part of my identity, a part of my soul. I felt like my arm may as well have been amputated because I had lost a part of myself. Before I knew it a single tear came to my eye, but I hid it away quickly behind a cheer as I watched the race that should have been mine.
After the championships I was devastated, but I knew I couldn’t let some disease I couldn’t even pronounce ruin swimming for me. As the bitterness wore off, and my arm began to shrink down to baby dinosaur status, I found a way to keep swimming in my life, even if I couldn’t swim competitively. I started teaching swimming lessons to the criers, Mr. Floaties, and the occasional little fishes that I swam with when I was young. And now, years later, I am the coach of the Twin Lakes Swim Team. Coaching is more rewarding than I ever could have imagined, and I never would have gotten there without that bloated arm shaped bump in the road.
When I was first hit with the shock of this experience, it seemed to me that I was losing one of the most important parts of my life. But overcoming my injury and finding ways to keep swimming in my life not only made me incredibly proud, but it also taught me so much about my personal strength, and made me realize what I really love about swimming. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing like the feeling of adrenaline rushing through your body as you race towards the finish, but when I think about it, it’s the deeper things I got out of swimming that made me fall in love with it. It taught me discipline, leadership, and sportsmanship. It taught me that winning isn’t everything, although it is something. And most importantly, it taught me that the love between a close-knit group of friends and family is the most powerful thing in life. Now, as I teach my team how to streamline or flip turn, every once in a while a new, friendly little girl who is a natural in the water will join the team, and it makes me smile, because I know that I was once that little girl, and I only hope that she will grow to love and appreciate swimming as much as I do.
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