It is over three and a half years since I first felt the pain in my ankle that I chose to ignore, and it's less than three years since I went to the doctors. It's less than three years since the first training session in which I realised that I would have to get out early due to the pain, and in which I didn't realise that that was going to become a long-term trend. This year marks the second year I have been unable to compete in the club championships, and it is the second of a number that will span as long as my life. It is over six months since I had my last ankle appointment. That makes it over six months since a part of my world caved in, and I sat sobbing next to the hospital lifts, realising that I would no longer be a swimmer. Lastly, today is yet another day where I have had to face that fact: I am no longer a swimmer.
To give more context. Sundays are swim teaching days. I teach a Stage 6 (ages 7-12, roughly) and a Stage 4 (generally ages 4-8ish). It's hard work, and there are bad days, but on the whole I love it, and feel honoured to spend my Sunday afternoons in such a way, with such a fantastic bunch of swimmers. Today, however, was even more of a swimming day. After the hour and a half of teaching, I headed to another pool to announce at the club championships- the yearly club 'house' gala. It was a good gala- announcing went smoothly, I caught up with a friend and I got the teacherly delight of watching my old students do well.
However, it being a good gala has become relative. A good gala, two years ago, meant one in which I'd raced, one where we- as a team, including myself- had done well. For me, there aren't galas like that anymore. Most of the time, that's okay. I'm not a swimmer anymore, which is difficult, but not one of my main thoughts. Then there are times like this, where everything is a trigger, bringing back the millions of memories of all I've lost.
Today, it was the kids coming up to the table to ask where they'd come in their races. I was one of those kids, once, not always keen to put the work in, but ever eager to do well in competition. It was watching my friend collect her gold medal, and thinking 'I have some of those at home'. I'd always just assumed that my collection would grow, falling numbers making it more and more likely to achieve golds the older you get. I didn't ever think I'd be one of those falling numbers. It was the person who asked me when I was coming back, then seemed to assume that I wouldn't be coming back out of choice. Yes, to some degree it was a choice. But it was necessitated by circumstance, and that wasn't a choice. Most of all, it was watching the start of a backstroke race, and being able to feel the undulation of the water beneath my dolphin kick. Suddenly I remembered exactly what it was like to slice through the water, arms moving not quite like windmills, but almost. I was filled with the excitement and adrenaline that is racing. I was back there, for a few moments.
Later on, I thought again of all the time I wasted. I spent so many of my training sessions wasting time, chatting, trying to get out of the actual swimming. Whenever I see someone doing that now, I want to shake them. 'You will regret it someday!' I want to tell them. After all, I do. I would give so much to have those days back, to change how I used them, to have determination and focus- and most of all, the ability to swim without the constant discomfort in my left ankle.
I miss it. I miss it so, so much. Days like today I still cycle through those stages of grief, reverting back to denial, wondering whether there's any way I could return to the world I once knew. There's not, and that hurts. Today, thinking 'I'm not a swimmer anymore' leaves a lump in my throat and an ache of emptiness in both my stomach and my heart.
I will be okay. By tomorrow life will have moved on, and there will be no time for grief. But I will never be a swimmer again- even as I write that, I can feel my ankle objecting to the position I'm sat in- and tonight, that's hard to bear.