Physical Therapy: Part 2

Where were we? Oh, I know--it was so Africa hot that I knew I couldn't maintain my trips around the block. So. I went looking for alternatives to being fried to a crisp like an egg on the pavement, and the only alternatives to that were the local Rec Center and mall-walking. I had just gotten off my walker, so there was no way I was going to be shown up by anyone with a senior coffee discount walking circles around me and feeling smug that they didn't have to have a cane, which might make me snap at them that they only get a tiny cup of coffee anyway, and I will CUT YOU.

The obvious choice was Rec Center, which was totally convenient as it is three blocks from my house. The day I went to get my pass, my husband accompanied me. While I was doing the paperwork, he noticed that taped to the front desk was a notice about "Stroke School," and he interrupted me and pointed it out, the glee in his face so obvious I paused a moment to let him enjoy it, and then I said "Stroke school is part of swimming lessons--see?"and I motioned to the text I was covering up, which said "Swim Lessons and Stroke School." And he saw and was red with embarrassment, (not, he assured me, in anger because I would be underfoot and a general pain in the ass when I could have been in Stroke School.) And he walked outside, and I could hear how humiliated he was as he swore and cursed the Rec Center. Bless it.

Lo and behold, once I started walking, it became a treat to swim in the leisure pool after churning around the indoor track for, say, 19 laps. The whole equation of "1 mile = 15 laps, so 19 laps must be... I don't know, x/140?" made my strokosaurus brain hurt, so I just walked for 30 minutes and called it good and made for the pool.

Thus began my struggle with swimming. I swam and swam until I could swim a mile in 7.24 minutes, and I made the Olympic team and got the gold medal and thanked Jesus right there on the podium.

Not really. I mean 7.24 minutes? That would take Michael Phelps in for an ass-whooping. The real story is this: I started with the leisure pool. It allowed a sense of weightlessness that I had heretofore not fully appreciated. I loved the sense that I could walk around in the pool and could not--for a moment--tell you which leg usually crumpled like an empty bag of potato chips. My arm moved freely. I didn't need to talk. I could pretend that I was normal.

I took to swimming in the lap pool with the Grownups. The lifeguards were wonderful, patient with my stuttering speech, allowing me to swim with my son, giving me "high five" looks (they saw me carrying a cane and rightly observed that I would cherish a look rather than an actual high five). They took me into their family--albeit a family who had retainment issues and a fleeting love affair with whistles. I started with 10 laps a day which at point was like climbing a mountain, and I stayed with it until I could swim 30 laps.

There was even a moment that was After School Special worthy. I had to share a lap lane (which I hated, because I always felt like I had to explain that I'd had a stroke, and swam willy-nilly all over the lane and I'm sorry if that bothers you--except with my speech impediment which made it 10x more awkward--and they would look at me like, "Uhhh, just trying to get my swim on, lady." NOTE TO SELF: NO ONE CARES). I explained to the woman I shared the lane with the whole awkward story, and she said "I didn't notice anything; you must be really strong," and I took that as an invitation to tell her my whole life story, and she hugged my neck and said "Thank you for sharing that. I needed that today." And I felt a tiny bit like shit because I hadn't asked her about her day, and she said "I was mad when I got to the pool today. After your story and a few laps in the pool, I feel like I got a grip." And we cried (well, I did) and said farewell.

And that's when it got too cold, and I decided to try yoga.