I vividly recall the precise afternoon when my relationship with swimming came to an end. I was 13 years old, tears streaming down my face as my school uniform clung to my damp skin during the car ride home. The memories of the previous hour in the hydrotherapy pool haunted me – the moment when my weak neck gave way, submerging my head underwater and flooding my ears and nose. I hung in the water, supported by colorful floats, overwhelmed by panic and a sense of danger.
Physiotherapists encircled me like synchronized swimmers, assuring me that everything was alright. However, my body no longer felt like my own. I had surrendered control to the water. It was during the journey home that I had to reluctantly admit the truth to myself – my days of swimming were over.
I was born with spinal muscular atrophy, a genetic disability that severely weakens my limbs. Since I was a toddler, I have relied on an electric wheelchair for mobility. Swimming provided a unique sense of weightlessness and freedom that I couldn’t experience in any other setting.
Swimming held immense significance for me. Growing up by the sea and going on family vacations to Menorca, I learned to swim at a young age. Surprisingly, my fondest memories revolve around learning to swim during physical education lessons in school. It was the only sport I could fully participate in, avoiding the roles of referee or adjudicator. As a child, I wanted to be involved in everything.
I may not have been the fastest or the most confident swimmer, but each minute in the pool brought me sheer joy. While doggy-paddling across the local pool with my inflatable ring, I eagerly attempted to surpass my modest records each week. Yet it was in the classroom, with wet hair and chlorine-sore eyes, that I felt equal to my peers.
The pinnacle of my swimming journey arrived when I was nine years old. To my surprise, my mother arranged for the entire family to attend a sports prize-giving event, claiming that someone we knew was receiving an award. Oblivious to her true intentions, I sat through the event until, to my astonishment, my name was called out. I had won a trophy – a special achievement bronze cup for my swimming efforts!
That trophy became a significant marker in my life as I approached adolescence and awaited spinal fusion surgery. It symbolized the gradual weakening of my body and foreshadowed a future with reduced mobility. I knew that my days of swimming were numbered.
After my surgery, a visit to the hydrotherapy pool became a final attempt to reconnect with the water. Despite my apprehensions, my clinical team was eager for me to return to the pool. However, I now required specialized equipment to access the water, rendering the previously inaccessible local pool unusable.
When the day of the session arrived, it proved to be a stressful and terrifying experience, far from the joyful memories I cherished. My tears weren’t solely a result of the loss but also an acceptance of reality. I made a decision that day – I would never enter the water again.
For the first time as a young adult, I found myself advocating for my own needs. Like many other disabled individuals, I often feel societal pressure to push beyond my body’s limits, to ignore signs of pain or exhaustion, and strive for exceptional achievements or to become a Paralympian. Recognizing that swimming was unsafe and uncomfortable taught me a tough lesson in accepting the limitations of my body.
I had to search for alternative ways to connect with the water and cope with my loss. While swimming is now impossible, I still find joy in observing my family and friends enjoying the water. Living by the sea forces me to confront bittersweet memories, but during the summer, I replicate that sensation by placing my feet in a bucket of water and gently kicking them back and forth, reminiscing about the feeling of floating.
Twenty years later, I unexpectedly found myself writing a novel about a young woman trapped on an island, yearning to escape and swim towards a better life. It didn’t occur to me until I finished the novel that the longing my protagonist Esta experiences resonates with my own emotions. Through writing, I can explore lives beyond the limitations of my physical body, and revisiting the past proves to be a cathartic experience.
Swimming marked the first significant physical loss in my life, but I know that as I age, there will be others. Everyday tasks that I can currently perform, such as brushing my teeth or feeding myself, may become increasingly difficult in the coming years. I have learned that it’s acceptable to grieve these changes, to miss what my body could do before, but also to adapt and find enjoyment in what I can still accomplish and accept what I can’t.
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