It’s now been almost 13 months since my injury, and 10 months since my surgery. I struggle to describe it, other than this has been so very humbling. Anyone, the healthiest, strongest of all of us, is one slip and twist and fracture away from having a complete life change. After surgery, the surgeon laid out a basic timeline of when I could start different exercises. Biking at 3 months, running at 4, swimming at 6. Ridiculous. I was carefully riding an indoor exercise bike at 3 months, but I was not about to try to clip into my road bike with my brand new tendon still working to fuse to my bones. I was walking several miles, but I was not about to attempt to jog on my still swollen knee. Also let’s just mention, after not running for 7 months, I had a) gained 15 lbs and b) lost the very little athleticism I had. I already was a slow, wheezy runner at the best of times. Also, running has a bit of a bounce and almost like a mini jump to it. That was not happening at 4 months, and maybe not ever. To summarize, I was not doing any of this, I was angry at my body and frustrated with the world

Then the six month mark came, and I got to get back into the pool. I was so excited because swimming is something I loved before my injury. Floating, no impact, the rhythmic strokes almost like a mantra, getting into the zen zone, just me and the water; but alas, this was not that. It felt as though I had forgotten how to swim. Nothing came easy, I couldn’t find a rhythm, I felt nauseous because I had forgotten that I needed to take meclizine, a medication for motion sickness, before I swim. I struggled to make it 700 yards, less than half the distance I was swimming before the surgery. It was awful. I had lost my last hold out, even swimming had been taken away from me. To add to the insult, that night my knee was angry. Sore and swollen, I had to ice it and take an anti-inflammatory. It turns out my surgeon actually knew what he was talking about, even the mild instability of the knee in water was enough to piss off everything in there. I was ready to give up and stop exercising and let my body turn to mush.

But memories are strong, tricky things. The pull of the water, the memory of how good it used to feel after a nice swim, made me keep coming back. The next swim was better. I was slow, but the rhythm came back, I remembered my medicine, and I made it significantly farther, and faster. Bit by bit it came back. Now I’m up to swimming 1600 yards, just over 0.9 miles, and I’m faster than I was even before the injury. It’s the only workout I enjoy, the only thing I feel like I can actually do semi-well. Like all sports, I’ve never actually been trained. I’m sure my arms are too floppy and my kick is wonky, my fish-like gasping looks ridiculous and let’s not even talk about how I look in a bathing suit. When I’m in the water I feel like I’m part of the water, like it could pull me under and absorb me, in all my imperfections, and one day I’ll just be part of it, a selkie watching from the water, no longer human. In that same way all my worries and stresses soak into the water for that period of time.

I wish I could swim every day. I wish I didn’t have to squeeze it in between my children’s activities, and I wish it didn’t mean more work for my husband or waking up early on Saturday morning. It makes me feel selfish and guilty. But I think it’s important that our children see their parents taking care of themselves, and exercise is crucial for my physical and mental health. For now I swim twice a week and do what I can, allowing the water to absorb my struggles and lift my burden, two times a week.