Learning to Swim

The summer of 1978, when I was three, my mother decided it was high time I learned to swim. We lived in Allen, Texas (World renowned known for its pristine white sugar-sand beaches and bathwater warm turquoise waters. Please Google the town.), where the owner of Allen Meadows Day School, my pre-school, had fantastical realization that if he built it, they would come. In other words, if he, Joe, added a pool, his students’ parents would pay their hard earned Texas Black Gold for their babies to learn to swim. My parents needn’t shell out a dime, though, because Momma worked at Allen Meadows part-time, and she was determined I would reap the benefits of that pool. I was less than enthused. I had seen Jaws and was positive that when he wasn’t filming, he lived in the deep end of the Allen Meadows pool.

Going through the basics (i.e. face into water, kicking, dog paddle, floating, etc.), failed to send my heart into arrythmia.  We pretty much stayed on the shallow end steps or the very shallow water directly in front.  So, I reasoned that I had a decent chance of clearing said steps should a dorsal fin approach.  (I’d yet to discover that most shark attacks occur in less than three feet of water.).  Then, to the apprehension and loathing of the handful of we wee ones in the class, we ‘graduated’ to the pool’s deep end and the diving board.  For me, well, what had been a mostly neutral exercise revealed a sinister dimension.

So, the diving board process looked something like this: Joe would tread water a few feet in front of the board, smiling benignly as one by one, we little ones launched ourselves from the relative safety of the board into midair.  Feet-first we plunged down into the icy depths of water three times deeper than we were tall.  Then, we’d kick our chubby little legs with all our might until, by God’s almighty grace, we broke through to the surface, gasping and gulping in as much chlorinated water as we did air.  Frantically, we’d paddle to the side of the pool and cling to that aluminum ladder until our toddler brains convincingly processed that we were still alive.  Finally, we’d climb out of the pool, kneel down on our little dimpled thighs, kiss the solid ground, give the suspiciously smiling instructor the finger, waddle inside to crack open cold ones then collapse in our Barkaloungers.  That last part, not so much.  Nope. Instead, we lined up by the diving board and repeated the whole process. Again and again and again. The word “lemming” comes to mind.

One afternoon that sun shone down from the wide open Texas prairie blue skies, I could feel the hint of change carried on that prairie wind.  Probably because it was the last week of the eight-week paid session, but that just might be cynicism.  Anyway, we lemmings lined up by the board patiently waiting to play our assigned role.  Somehow, this time, I was first in line.  I cannot explain that phenomena, but there you have it.  The blonde teenage assistant instructor waved me forward to step up onto the diving board.  If you know me, you know I’m pretty darn good at following instructions.  So, hop on up there I did.  And I stood and waited.  

And waited.  And waited.  Because as willing as I was to brave Jaws with Joe two feet in front of me, I WAS NOT jumping into the murky depths without an alternative shark snack available.  Joe equaled safety, but guess what.  Joe, benign smile, and all, was sitting way, way, way far down on the steps in the shallow end.  Uhm, no. No, I was not playing that game.

“Rachael, go ahead and jump.  I need to see that you can swim from the diving board to the ladder all by yourself,” the man said.  

Uhm, nope.

“Rachael, I need to be able to tell your mommy you can do this.” His voice had that long suffering patient tone adults who work with miniature, unreasonable people adopt.

Now, I know I was three, but I was not a stupid three. I knew I could swim to the ladder. Joe knew I could swim to the ladder. He’d been watching me swim to the ladder for four weeks. So, uhm, he could just tell my mother that. Who did he think he was kidding? So, there I I stood on the end of the board and gave him my best three-year-old stare down

“Rachael, come on now. Everyone wants a turn,” he cajoled.

I turned a disbelieving eye to the little faces behind me, and I can promise you that not a single one of them longed to trade places with me.  In fact, could they have managed to superglue themselves to the fence, I’m pretty sure they’d all still be there.  Not a one of us wanted to plunge into Jaws’ lair without Joe dangling there in front of us as bait.  You know that saying, You don’t have to outrun the bear…

I heard my little voice say, “Can you please come closer?”  I saw my little finger point to the place the Joe was SUPPOSED to be.  Yes, for the love of all that was good and holy, I was bargaining with the man to become shark bait so that he, the bait, could then tell my mother something both the bait and I – and quite probably my mother as well – already knew: I could freaking swim to the stupid ladder.  But the bait wouldn’t budge.  So, instead I resigned myself to a tragic shark-related fate, and I jumped.

I didn’t drown.  Jaws didn’t eat me.  And I have a point.  Please read on.

Life terrifies me. Most of the time I get through the day by not thinking, not feeling, now wanting, not hoping.  And, really, that’s why my keyboard has remained untouched for weeks at a time.  I live a life that I don’t understand and, much of the time, do not want.  I live a life I do not know how to live.

When I was injured more than 20 years ago, I never imagined how different my life would look from what I had planned.  (Man plans; God laughs.).  I wanted a husband, a law degree, and more than anything else, a house full of babies.  I have none of those things.  Instead, I live mostly alone with an illness that almost no one, including myself, understands.  Isolation equals insulation because when my brain, for lack of a better word, spasms, it can appear to mimic anything from drug use to seizures.  When people have described what they see when my neurological system stops playing nicely, my heart breaks for the witnesses because they were absolutely terrified.  But for me, my heart dies just a bit because no matter how close I am to that person, fear whispers until it roars, and then, they, too, leave.  

I treasure the friends who have passed through these years of this nightmare, even tiny portions, but I’m guessing it wouldn’t surprise you to know that I allow almost no one closer than arm’s length.  I simply can’t stand the thought of more loss.  My parents come the closest, but even our road hasn’t been straight or easy.  Humanity makes us frail, vulnerable, mortal.  Eventually, they’ll not be here, and selfishly, I can’t imagine a world without them.  Besides loving them, what, then, happens to me?

There are days I can’t even imagine opening my eyes one more time.  Days I can’t fathom why I’m still here.  And yes, there are discreet moments I feel extraordinarily sorry for myself – not often, but moments.  And the only reason I’m telling you this now is that I know there is someone out there this very minute who feels this very thing.  And I picture you standing staring into the wind screaming, “Why? Why? WHY?”

Some days I feel like I’m three again perched on the end of the diving board bargaining: please no more pain; please, no more loss; please, help me.  

Then something beautifully, mystically amazing happened.  I reread the 23^rd Psalm: “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”

Please, close your eyes.  Take a deep breath and savor the image of the King of Kings laying platters of gold and goblets of crystal, folding silk napkins, and setting the chairs just so.  Hear the lions roar, shudder as the wolves howl, feel the winds buffet and fires swirling ever nearer.  And know deep through every breath and heartbeat that regardless of the havoc, you are safe.  No harm can come to a single hair upon your head because Abba has summoned you here, prepared this feast for you, His Beloved.  He will sit with you, hold you, talk with you, laugh with you, simply enjoy you – everything about you.  He delights in you.  All you must do is be present and focus on Him.  He takes care of the rest.  Remember, too, that He brought you here to this very moment with great deliberation. 

So, Beloved, standing on the end of that diving board, bemusedly focusing on where you thought safety lay, turn those eyes to Him and jump.