June 2015

 

We’re back with our occasional series Most Important Mile today, and since summer is here, we’ve diverted a bit to head to the pool. Actually, Denise Dollar, founder of Heart Strides, is the one getting wet. We’ll let her take it from here. 

I have my first swimming lesson today.

I have been teary eyed all morning. I don’t have my period; in fact this is my ‘good’ week. Stumped by the surge of tears on this rainy day, I scramble for explanations, but come up with nothing. Aside from wanting to get my house organized and my laundry done, it’s a pretty typical day.

I read the email from my swim instructor over and over, to the point of nausea. “The warmth of your hand will start locker room’s key pad…goggles…bring a towel.” I check my backpack over and over again, planning my strategy, which feels both simple and impossible at the same time: Just show up. Get myself to the pool.

Unable to locate the case for my contacts, I become teary again. “It’s just a case, it’s okay,” I tell myself, “Plus, you can explain that you don’t typically wear contacts because your eyes get dry, you don’t wear goggles, you don’t open your eyes under water…”

I realize I am already over-explaining.

I grab my backpack and jump in the car. I’m about a block away from my house when I go over my checklist again. Towel. I forgot my towel. I turn around in a panic. I will be late for my first swimming lesson. I can’t be late.

Back on the road I think about how much I actually love the water. I love to be on it, near it…and in the shallow end of it. Ironically water gives me strength and brings me great peace.

I tear up again. Why? I still don’t know why. It’s raining out, I’ve been super busy. Just a good day to cry, I guess.

My lesson takes place about 14 minutes from my house. I know exactly where the pool is; there is no chance of me getting lost. Still, I find comfort in plugging the address into Google Maps. I check the distance, 6.2 miles, 4.3 miles, make sure I don’t missed my turn.

I wonder about how many adult learners skip their first swimming lesson.

I arrive and see two people coming out of the building. Do they know I can’t swim? Is it obvious? I’m pretty sure they know. I squeeze my towel under my arm and enter the building.

I find my way to the locker room and wipe away a few rogue tears as I wrestle with my swimsuit. Not a real swimmers swimsuit, I tell myself, just an I’m-a-mom-on-the-beach-who-wants-to-hide-her-hips kind.

I’m so out of my element.

Plus, I’m upset with the way my legs look in my suit. So stupid. You are here for a swim lesson, I tell myself. You are not here for a beauty pageant.

I enter the pool area. The chlorine smells intoxicating, the humid air, welcoming. I scan for someone who looks like an instructor. I think I spot her.

There are also two older men in the pool. Maybe in their 70’s? I’m envious. Not of their courage to wear a Speedo, but of their comfort in the water.

I scramble over to where my instructor is, stand on the pool deck, and talk really fast. I can’t stop myself. She seems a bit puzzled, but at the same time familiar with my behavior.

She quietly says, “Well…why don’t you come in?” and points to the stairs along the side of the pool. I climb down the ladder, holding on to the railings so I don’t kerplunk into the water.

We stand there for a minute, face to face. She doesn’t prompt me, but my nerves kick in and I am suddenly talking about how excited I am to learn how to swim, how I really want to do a triathlon, how I really want to be confident in the water, how I really want to be there for my kids. I tell her that when my kids were born, learning to swim was always something that I wanted to do. I didn’t want be afraid of them going out to far, unable for me to reach them, to save them from harm.

Save them from harm. The words stick to my heart like glue.

I see her looking at me, her eyes searching for a calm connection. Then she says something to me, which I can’t recall now, but it prompts me to share about my two near drowning experiences.

The first one happened when, on a road trip, we stopped in Texas to visit my aunt and uncle. We were playing in the hotel swimming pool, a large kidney-shaped pool with a bridge going across the middle, dividing the shallow and deep ends. I was 11 years old.

I didn’t know how to swim then, but my uncle said  he would help me learn. Next thing I knew we were standing on the diving board. He stood there with me, convincing me he would hold on to me and we would jump in together. He would be with me if I needed him. I still remember the weight of his arm resting around my waist. I never doubted he would follow me in.  “I won’t let go,” he said, “I promise.”

I jumped.

He didn’t.

I remember feeling panicked by the time I hit the water. I remember willing myself up to the top, crying and coughing. He came to the side of the pool to help me out, I think—or I want to remember it that way.

After that I don’t remember much, other than my Mom being completely furious with him.

That was more than 30 years ago.

“It’s okay to cry,” my instructor says, “It’s actually really good for you to let it out…a lot of people cry at their first lesson. Some people don’t even show up.”

I take a deep breath, apologize, wipe away the tears and tell her I’m ready.

We do a couple of simple exercises, and she suggests we walk to the deeper end of the pool, reassuring me I will still be able to touch the bottom. As we walk she asks if it was difficult to get to the lesson. I start rambling off about forgetting my towel and hitting every red light.

She waits until I finish and she says, “No, I meant was it difficult emotionally to get here today.”

I want to look at her with dry eyes and a strong heart and say, “Piece of cake…” but instead I tear up again and explain I was teary all morning over the oddest of happenings.

Now it’s starting to make sense. Fear of the deep end; fear of not being able to touch the bottom; fear of getting pushed in.

I share the second experience. I was in my early teens, with a friend who had invited me and some other friends to the lake. I remember being nervous, praying that there would be no rough housing in the canoe or sudden swim opportunities. I remember being on a raft; we had taken a small boat to a raft and we were all on it, soaking up the sun.

The driver of the boat left and I started to panic about how we would get off of the raft. I kept it to myself, too embarrassed to tell my friend that I couldn’t swim.

They all jumped in and started swimming to shore. I sat on the edge of the raft trying to figure out how I could just ‘drop in’ and somehow get to the shore. It didn’t seem that far. People were yelling at me to Hurry up! Jump in! Come on! So I jumped.

I sank to the bottom and got stuck in the muck for what seemed like forever. The top of the water seemed unreachable. By then my friend realized I was in trouble and she came out to help me back to shore.

My instructor looks at me with gentle eyes. “Such appropriate behavior for a teenager to not want to be embarrassed,” she says.

We do a few more exercises. I make an appointment for another lesson. I feel good.

On the way home I think about trauma. How it can’t be measured, how quickly the body absorbs it, and how long very, very, long it can hold on to it. I’ve held onto this trauma long enough.

I think about how empowering it will be to feel confident in the water. The deep water.

I also wonder why I didn’t take lessons earlier. I cry again.

Mostly though, I think about how learning to swim isn’t really about learning the strokes.

It’s about showing up and getting in the deep water when I’d really rather be on the shore.

What was (or will be) the most important mile? Share it with us! Best way to submit is to email us your story with a picture: runmother {at} gmail {dot} com with “Most Important Mile” in the subject line. Please try to keep your mile stories around 400 words. Thank you!