Today, I had the gift of feeling terrified. Ok, at the time, I was terrified and in a panic, but it did hold many gifts.
Let me set the scene. Today was my last swim before Women Swimmin' on Saturday (yes, less than two days away!). My husband volunteered to spot me while I swam in open water. I put on my wetsuit, which I have only worn once, because I reasoned that the temperatures are getting colder, and I don't want to be too cold when I swim.
So we set off across the lake, and despite the very wavy, rocking boat, I jumped into the water wearing my wet suit and my fins. I started trying to swim my usual side stroke.
I felt like I wasn't moving, like the water was too deep, like I was drowning, like FEAR FEAR FEAR. Although we had agreed that I would wave at Richard if I needed him to get me, soon after this picture was taken I yelled, "Get me fast! I can't do this!" He put the trimaran in neutral and threw me a line. I swam to the stern where the swim ladder is, and he put down the swim ladder. I climbed on the boat and sat, shaking and struggling to catch my breath. Fear is a full blown body reaction for me.
Calmly he started up the motor and began heading to the other side of the lake for me to swim in calmer waters along the shore, rather than across the lake.
Richard shouted over the motor, "Honey, the other side is calmer. How about half a mile to the Yacht Club?"
I shook my head. "I don't wanna do this at all. I'm done. I'm too afraid. I can't do this."
"I didn't ask if you wanted to do this. You need to swim. You can swim 1.5 miles. You can swim half a mile. You have to do this."
He was right, but I couldn't agree. Everything in my body wanted to go down below deck in the cabin and curl up; the tiny voice inside said that Richard was right. I needed to do this, or there was no way that I'd get into the water on Saturday. I took a deep breath and jumped again, this time into calmer waters.
Again I began with the sidestroke. My face away from the incoming waves. I tried to breathe slower, prayed for help, and searched the clouds for some comfort. (I love finding pictures in the clouds when I swim!) At least I could see the shore and the houses. I began to relax, but realized that the wetsuit felt like I was dragging a dead man's body.
I unzipped the wetsuit and slipped my shoulder and upper torso out of the terrible weight. Now I sighed. I felt the water. I felt the cool comforting support of the lake. That was better. The problem was that I couldn't take off the wetsuit in the deep water, especially with my fins on my feet. It was a burden to drag it. I put it back on without zipping it to make it less of a burden.
Determined that I was so close to that swim ladder, I swam harder, anxious to finish this journey as quickly as possible.
I did finish that short swim, but it was hard work, and I was shaking as if I'd gone two miles, rather than just a half of a mile.
In some ways, I felt like a failure, and yet, I found so many gifts that I am grateful for.
First, my husband's support brings tears to my eyes. He not only took time off of work to spot me on our sailboat, but he also held my hand when I was afraid to jump because the boat was rocking so much. He took pictures of me swimming. He stopped the boat immediately and got me up safely onto the boat. He found a safer place for me to swim. Again, he held my hand as I stood on the side of the boat, and he encouraged me to swim, reminding me that I can swim a greater distance. He offered to help me out of my wetsuit when I complained about it. He praised me for swimming so strongly, and he coached me to slow down because there was no rush. My fear brought me the gift of support from my husband.
I'm aware of the parallels that my journey today must share with people who need the support of Hospicare. Many terminally ill patients feel the physical burdens and the overwhelming fear of the harsh waves, and they must rely on the mercy of others to comfort them and encourage them when they probably feel like curling up into a ball and crying. Their family and loved ones who are also afraid and who also rely on the support of others to comfort and encourage them.
The support didn't stop there for me. I chatted with the lifeguards, who have watched me swim every day for the last several weeks; they said that open water swimming was scary. It reminded me that we're all human. When I got home, my sister Katie asked what was wrong, and then held me while I cried, saying that I was safe and that I just needed to breathe. Her hug and support opened my heart even more to the generous and loving people in our lives--angels who walk among us. My son Pete gave me a big hug, and then he explained to his cousin why I was crying. ("You'd be scared too if you were out in the middle of a lake 400 feet deep." Hmmm... not exactly what I wanted to be reminded of.) His words reminded me of how deeply I was impacting other people. Then tonight at sailing class, the women were filled with positive encouragement. They reminded me that when we support one another, we create a loving community.
I believe that the burdens, fears, and gifts that I faced today were simply tiny windows into what Hospicare is truly all about--love and support when people are terrified. When my fears return on Saturday morning, I am going to jump off of that boat. I am not going to wear the burdensome wetsuit. Instead, I am going to feel the loving, cool support of the water. I am going to be brave because I am swimming in honor of people who have greater fears and burdens and in order to support the people who offer love and encouragement in the face of hopelessness.
The Hospicare motto is "It's about how you live." I am adapting it for the swim on Saturday: "It's about how I swim." I am not swimming simply to get to the other side. I am swimming to support others, to receive their support, and to swim as far as I'm supposed to swim. I trust that there's a greater plan that I'm part of.
Namaste,
L
