Christie watched Ian at our home. She had supervision over only one of our children since Franny wanted to watch all of the Ironman compeition with Jeni.
Franny especially wanted to see my Ironman finish since I asked her if she would cross the finish line with me. That was one of the many disappointments that I had delivered that day.
Christie gave Ian everything he requested. Famous for being demanding, our two-year-old son dragged her all over the house trying his hardest to express his demands without the complete use of the English language. A pull of her hand and the point of his finger was enough to give this kind woman the alert to give him full attention. They moved throughout the house from room to room. After he became tired of pulling down pictures or pulling down magazines from tables that rise an inch over his head, they moved onto the next room with the tug and point. Certainly, she thought, the twelve or thirteen hours spent with him would not be so hectic.
The front door's lock clicked a few times and opened to reveal the warm sunny day. Our silhouettes crowded the doorway and she looked at us puzzled.
Franny was certainly happy to be home. Without the inspiration of finishing with me, the entertainment value of the Ironman Wisconsin went to a very low Franny rating. She liked the idea of playing with Ian and Christie much more. Christie would find it easier to handle this day's job when the kids have company.
I changed my clothes and put on a baseball cap. Like the fear of water, it was gut wrenching to think about watching this competition. Feelings of fear and remorse were par for the course in my year of training. It was only appropriate that I finish up this year with yet another internal struggle that makes me physically ache.
January 11, 2007
Amy,
I tried in every way to stay calm during the sixty minutes of swim class. The anxiety I'm experiencing may be difficult to handle because I don't typically have a lot of anxiety. A couple days ago, I tried to recall times when I have been that nervous.
If you read the book I wrote, it has a couple incidents that were the biggest tension-builders in my recent past. It had the story about my infected wisdom tooth that had to be pulled. It was a difficult event for me because I had never gone to a dentist. Incredulous as it may sound, I had never (at that time) been to a dentist. My parents had four kids and only my father worked as a teacher so they didn't have a lot of money. They budget as tightly as they could. For example, up until 1986 our family had my grandfather's 1965 Plymouth Valiant as a second car. Cutting a dentist out of the budget saved them some money. But, it made me fear the mounting pressure of seeing the dentist.
When Dr. O'Brien looked at the infected wisdom tooth, he told me that he would have to remove it that week. Having never worked with dentists, I told him that I needed some buffer time. He told me, in the nicest way possible, "That's not an option."
Not only did he schedule an extraction on that fateful day, but he also told his hygienist to give me a cleaning. I know now that this woman is brutal with the pick. She hacked up my gums like she was cutting a steak to eat bite by bite. My toes were curled the whole time and my eyes were shut. And this was just the beginning.
She took me into Dr. O'Brien's operating area where I lounged in the dentist's chair with bleeding gums and pounding headache. They didn't offer Tylenol and when I asked for it, the hygienist said, "I don't know if we have any. I'll ask around to see if one of the girls has some in their purse." The tears from the agony had dried by that point to create symmetrical salt streams on my left and right temples. I waited.
The Dentist's operating assistant came in to prep the room. At first impression, it was amazing to me how different she was from the hygienist. The hygienist was short, the operating assistant was tall. The hygienist had brown curly hair, the assistant had straight blonde hair. The hygienist: heavy set. The assistant: Very thin. The hygienist: didn't want to take any crap from me. The assistant: very curious about who I was and why I was there.
I had just returned from seeing the hygienist, so I could only fear the operating assistant and I spoke only when spoken to. She pulled the metal tray out and positioned it 6 inches from my face while she placed the operating instruments on it. She politely asked me questions and talked about her fiancé when I talked about my wife. She told me that I was doing a very brave thing by coming to see them. She asked me if I grew up on a farm, "I thought that would be a reason why you've never seen a dentist. Many people around here who haven't been to dentists grew up on farms."
"I grew up in Williamsport."
The dentist arrived and talked really fast, stuck needles into my gums to help numb them with a local anesthetic. I shut my eyes and let some more of those automatic tears fall out of my eyes on trickle down my left and right temples only to create more salt to wipe off later.
I started singing to myself. It wasn't something that I normally did. It wasn't out loud. The song just came to me and as I shut my eyes, all I had in my head was the song. During that operation, the song recall wasn't a song of my choice, but rather something that came to me. The song had a piano intro and a cheap drum kit start in after a few measures and then Ben Folds sings "Mess".
There was a time that I had nothing to explain
Oh, this mess I had made
But then things got complicated
My innocence has all but faded
Oh, this mess I have made
The next part of the song has Ben Folds singing about how he doesn't believe in God. I usually try to skip that part because I do believe in God and I feel strange saying otherwise. As heretic as the song is, it was comforting to me.
I found in events unfolding after that tooth extraction, I had to tap into the 'singing to myself' anecdote for a few more incidents that cause anxiety during that time in my life. Since that point, though, I haven't had a large amount of times where I had to use the songs to get by.
As I drove to last night's swimming lesson, I remembered this method. Franny told me during last year's Ironman that she could help me learn to swim and that's been keeping me going, but it only takes me so far. My personal mental exercises with music are exactly the type of thing that could help me during my masters swim class. Anxiety was slowing down my learning process and I needed to get over that deep water hump. I made a conscious decision to relax and keep music in my head.
I got to the locker room where I tried to keep a different Ben Folds song in my head. Writing these notes now, I see the coincidence between the tooth extraction and the swimming lesson's respective songs. Unfortunately, the gym plays their own music piped through the building. It was hard for me to tune it out and keep Ben Folds' "Bastard" in my head. They were playing Billy Joel's "Pressure". This is NOT a good song to have during such times as these. I know all the words and they only reflect the problems I'm encountering.
You have to learn to pace yourself
Pressure
You're just like everybody else
Pressure
You've only had to run so far
So good
But you will come to a place
Where the only thing you feel
Are loaded guns in your face
And you'll have to deal with
Pressure
Once again, it was a small class where only four of the six students showed up. The instructor Angela told us to swim a lap for warm up. This would mean I would go to the deep end with no floatation device. I listened to Ben Folds' tap out the chords that introduce the song "Bastard" and pulled my goggles onto my eyes. Angela walked up to me and said, "You don't have to go into the deep end if you don't want to."
That was my out. I swam to the blue line and stopped and turned around and swam back to the very shallow end. I sang "Bastard" to myself and tried to build rhythm. Angela continues class and told us to practice kicking with kick boards.
I told myself I had to get into the deep end. I had the kickboard. I had the song. I started and made my way down and decided to hit the deep end and I moved through it effortlessly. The song still strummed through my head, "And his opinions so you wouldn't have to choose. Pretty soon, you'll be an old bastard, too." I grabbed the end of the pool and I was there. My body was relieved. I pushed off and moved through the deep end kicking and reached the other side. This was extremely momentous since I had very little floatation materials with me in the deep end.
The next piece of work she had us have one hand on the kickboard and the other stroked. It was much more difficult and I couldn't make it through the whole deep end. I grabbed onto the side of the pool and tried to relax. I turned back around to head to the shallow end.
Angela asked our class to perform the front crawl and exaggerate the movements, "Steve, I'm going to have you stay on the kickboard." At first thought, it was fine for me. But, I keep watching the other students and see how well they're performing and see myself with my kickboard.
I'm the one who has the biggest aspirations and, yet, I'm the one farthest behind in class. These thoughts only lead to further frustrations that started hurting my form. My breathing was completely off and my legs kept sinking. My back would arch and I would pull my head out of the water and keep my feet on the ground. Billy Joel then started rattling through my head. And I hate Billy Joel. And this was a bad idea. And I don't think I'll ever get to 2.4 miles. And I'll never be able to properly swim because that's what quirks are and I'm sick of paying out the nose for swim lessons that get me nowhere.
"Angela, do I need to go back to swimming 101 or something?" I needed answers in the midst of all this madness.
She smiles and tells me, "You just need to play a little catch up."
"But look at these guys, they're way ahead of me."
"Not that far ahead."
She scheduled me for a Friday lunch appointment for personal swim training. She claims two or three hour long training sessions will get me where they are. I didn't want to fight about how bad I was. There's something wrong about making the case of how bad you suck at something. Sorta like singing about your disbelief in a Higher Power.
I got out of the pool as soon as I could. Confused and angry, I slinked away and changed in the men's locker room that piped more music that disparaged me. I walked out to the windy cold and got into the car. I gritted my teeth and yelled and slammed on the steering wheel.
When I finished, I knew that reaction wouldn't get me anywhere, but it blows a little bit of that steam off. I was tired of being the worst swimmer in the classes. I was tired of being told to grab a floatation device that no one else needs. I can only hope that this feeling goes away.
And maybe it will. I heard my iPod play The Dirtbombs' cover of a Sly & Family Stone song
I know how it feels to expect to get a fair shake
But they won't let you forget
That you're the underdog and you've got to be twice as good
Even if you're never right
They get uptight when you get too bright
Cause you might start thinking too much
I know how it feels when you know you're real
But every other time
You get up and get a raw deal
Say, I'm the underdog
I'm the underdog
Say, I'm the underdog
I'm the underdog
I wouldn't say it took me back to why I signed up for this Ironman, but it reminded me of one reason. When I got home and said good night to Franny, I remembered one of the other reasons why I couldn't give up. I just hope Friday's appointment is more promising than last night's class.
-Steve
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