Relearning How to Swim

Day 2 of relearning how to swim and I wonder if I am overexerting myself. 

Am I so excited about achieving my water goals that I can’t read my body accurately? Am I the good-tired I felt after sports growing up (exertion; competition; to be my greatest)? Or am I hanging from the ledge I seem to walk on every day since the concussions? 

I am terrified of pushing myself to no return, but I am also terrified of staying where I am (mentally, emotionally, physically, spiritually). These are two fine lines that are incongruent.

…

A few weeks ago, I was reading at the park and was approached by these two guys (at first, I couldn’t tell how old they were, but they revealed they were still in high school): “Hello, excuse me, do you mind answering some questions for us?”

Warily, I moved my glasses to the top of my head, “What kind of questions?” (I thought they’d be for a statistics class [these are the only questions asked to strangers by high school-aged persons], but I was terribly mistaken.)

My loosely remembered conversation is as follows:

“Do you believe in heaven and hell?” [When I tell you my composure was 100–astonished laughs were threatening to escape.] “I guess we should ask first if you are religious or have ever been religious.” I scanned my surroundings for an easy escape if need be, but I wanted to see where this was going–color me curious.

“Oh, well, I grew up non-practicing catholic. And now I’d say I’m spiritual to an extent but couldn’t tell you the specifics.”

“So, back to our first question: if we all were to end up in heaven or hell, where do you think you would end up?” [Once again, shocked. I’m pretty sure most of my sentences started with oh’s and um’s every time they surprised me.]

“Well, I don’t think I’d end up in hell exactly, but I also don’t think I’ve done anything exemplary to end up in heaven, you know what I mean?”

We continued, or should I say one of the pair of Christians resumed with metaphors and religious speech. I was allowed to ask questions about their beliefs/relationship to religion in addition to some overarching queries. I was enthralled; I had never been approached (and slightly cornered) to converse about religion. I’ve seen the evangelicals [is this the correct term?] picketing or seemingly trapping others in one-way conversations. Yet, these two boys weren’t giving off those vibes (at first), and I wanted to know what they believed in too. 

I find it liberating to approach a conversation with the mindset of ‘Oh, I wonder where they are coming from’ or ‘What will this conversation reveal about each party’--Instead of reacting, acting in fear, and/or shutting down.

Again, with the pandemic and concussion isolation(s), I tend to not put myself out there to talk to people around my age. So, it was a pleasant surprise to hold my own in a conversation that had no outline. And the resulting giddiness of shock propelled me on my walk home as I debriefed my cousin.

There was a point in the conversation where [let’s call the more outgoing student Craig] Craig said: “You know, you never know when you’re going to die…so the question is: when are you going to accept Christ into your life?” We had been discussing atonement, and from someone who has little to no knowledge of Christianity, this statement came out of left field.

I replied matter of factly, “Oh, I know I’m going to die.” My acceptance of death without knowing where I’m going to be in the afterlife–or my acceptance of “going to hell”—took Craig off guard and made the other repress a smile.

Is it weird to accept death though I am only 20–especially when I have yet to experience it up close? Even so, is it uncommon to accept death after concussion(s)? 

I didn’t tell Craig and his classmate why I’ve accepted that I’m going to die. Frankly, we are humans–we are going to die. 

However, on a more sincere note, I feel like I have died. Right on the softball field of my alma mater, the summer going into my sophomore year of high school [2nd concussion]. I knew right when the ball made contact with my temple at over 40 mph, less than 60 feet away. I knew it, and my coach knew it, as I somehow made eye contact with him as I fell to the ground.

The version of me who had dreams of playing college ball; the version of me who had been fated to play softball prior to birth; and the version of me that found her confidence in her knowledge and ability to play–died, abruptly. 

I knew as my dad pulled me away from third base I wasn’t crying because the contact hurt. I was crying because I had to go through surviving another concussion. I was crying because concussions are cumulative. I was crying because I knew that that was the last time I’d pick up a softball in that capacity. 

So when I say I’ve accepted death, I have grieved what I had known to be everything to me. I understand now that nothing is permanent [though this insane ringing in my ear feels like it wants to prove me wrong].

…

At 15, I spent a whole summer (from what I can recollect) in dark rooms–giving me time and space to heal not only my brain but also my heart and mind. Ex-elite endurance athlete Paul Suter, in his book Flat Out in Pieces, renders the advice I had never been given and learned on my own:

I’m not sure what the future has in store; I only know that I have to move on. I am not the same Paul I once was and I needed to let go of the idea of being an athlete to accept the person I am now, and to understand that maybe I am more than an athlete. I have so much to be thankful for. (230) 

Suter, the writers of Impact, and I have gone/are going through the stages of grief for the death of our old selves, athlete or not. Whether we are trying to find the right healthcare advocate, expanding our ability to go on a 5-minute walk down the block, or being comforted by childhood passions–hope seeps through the cracks of shut blinds, and life keeps moving forward. 

In the last 5 years, it feels as if this cycle of grief is never-ending. Is it never ending? It’s gotten easier over the years, but when the wave of sadness and anger hits me as I watch 11 to 14-year-olds get reps in on the ball field, I can’t help but feel like I will never get over the death of my athlete. [Am I unjustly punishing myself or experiencing exposure therapy in this transition to Coach?]

I think I have accepted death because it will only hurt to have never lived. Yet, I think I am more afraid of living. [I am afraid of being seen living–seen trying. And I am working on that.] I don’t want to die, let’s get that straight. But my acceptance of death is the acceptance of pain (physical and emotional). It’s inevitable. It’s annoying, but inevitable. And it’s needed; I wouldn’t have it any other way (though when I was in the thick of it, I may have said differently…).

This takes us back to my Relearning How to Swim. As I (full of gratitude) try to figure out the big ole’ answer to how I wish to spend my time, I return to what I yearned for in my childhood [storytelling, art, swimming, connection].

I was never taught how to swim (there must have been attempts) and have always wanted to be a part of the brotherhood of beach-birds. This cyclical, never-ending wonder that I do find joy in things I never knew I’d find joy in proves that I won’t be ‘stuck’ grieving my childhood…I have goals now, finally. And I will achieve them in some capacity. And that requires being seen and asking for help. So I’ve asked the due in-part cause of my fear of water–my brother–to teach me the correct technique.

I say “finally” because the last five years have consisted of me battling with my identity–my relationship and attachment to anything and everything. For some reason, I have this need to pick something and make it concrete to me. On the other hand, as Suter mentioned, attaching to an identity fueled by the ability to achieve may only hinder my “recovery.” Especially as every year passes, I can tell you just how what I wanted to be “me” was indeed hiding what I really needed.

So a flow state it is…

I’ll leave you with a passage from Anna Swanson in Impact:

Many illness narratives frame recovery as reward for hard personal work, and fall into the circular logic of recovery as proof of that work and worthiness. I too have worked hard to heal, to help my body, to work through trauma. But frankly I am bored with the ubiquity of the narrative where a person works hard, finds an epiphany and is healed. Bored and offended.

What does this narrative make of people who live with illness or disability and aren’t “cured?”

Recovery is too often seen as the middle, against the foil of “cure” as the end. But there are other kinds of journeys in chronic illness. Looking back at these poems [A project of hers called “In which skinny dipping temporarily fixes a life.”] I see that many of them have a beginning, middle and end that do not orbit around the idea of cure. Each time, I fight my way to joy, even briefly. Each time, I dive into a cold pond and surface with a sense of calm burning embodiment. So much happens within the space of an hour. And then I do it all again the next day. That doesn’t mean I don’t get a beginning, middle and end. But the end isn’t a place I can stay, and the middle is never truly behind me. (184-185)