I love the pool.
When I was a kid, my mom would bring my brother and me swimming. For many years, we’d spend Saturday mornings packing our goggles and road trip essentials (snacks, stuffies, iPod, GameBoy). The nearest warm-water therapeutic pool was in sunny Palo Alto, a town about an hour away. I always looked forward to the drive over there – we’d pop disco albums in the CD player and play ‘I Spy’ out the car window.
The pool wasn’t fancy, but it was warm. My little self would happily float for hours, til I became a tiny prune and the lifeguards were furiously blowing their whistles. I developed a serious infatuation for the buoyancy and comfort of the warm water. My knees didn’t hurt, as long as I was fully submerged and the temperature was above 90 degrees. My swim instructor, Katheryn, showed me different exercises I could do to help with the stiffness. She’d sing ‘Here Comes The Sun’ and gently tug my kick board around the jellyfish zone.
Afterwards, we’d hit the showers and eat the sandwiches we packed. My mom devoted so much time and energy to making these weekly trips to the pool because she knew what a huge difference it made in controlling the Arthritis symptoms, and encouraged me to use the pool as a resource.
Naturally, I became a jellyfish, floating away peacefully every Saturday morning. I loved the way the tension in my body melted away, restoring me to homeostasis. It was as if I was the Tin Man getting an oil change. The beneficial effects of the aquatic exercise lingered with me for days, weeks, months.
In middle school, we discovered a warm-water therapeutic pool in the city, and it became my second home. It was 92 degrees and a convenient drive from my house. When I was flaring and having extreme morning pain, my mom would bring me swimming so I could get a soak in before class. Sometimes, when things got really bad, I’d go multiple times in one week.
I basically grew up at that pool.
Because I’ve spent the past 15 years paddling away my flares, I get ritualistic about swimming. And, now that I’m an adult, I’ve perfected the art of truly luxurious aquatics.
My current swim bag list includes the following:
- Flip flops [for the ladies communal showers]
- Lotion, shampoo, conditioner, body wash
- Big, soft, pink beach towel [and hair towel wrap]
- Makeup remover wipes, pair of glasses
- A protein bar, bottle of water, and mini orange
- Black one-piece speedo
- $10 for the day pass
- A cozy pair of sweats to change into afterwards
I mostly go to the lap swim. They also offer ‘open’ swim, funky fresh water aerobics, and instructor-led swim lessons. The pool is separated into a shallow section, then three lanes: slow, medium, and speed demon.
I’ve been building it back into my routine, ending the workweek with some mermaid activities. Currently, I’m working on improving my shoulder mobility and treading time. I do laps for half an hour, then more focused stretching, then some meditation. The pool is my happy place.
I’m usually the youngest one there. To be honest, most of the pool people are in their sixties. I’ve received strange looks ever since I started going there – I stick out like a sore thumb. It’s okay though – you can’t know someone’s story unless you ask. Invisible illnesses leave most people wondering.
My favorite thing about the pool is the harmonious cohesion of the swimmers. We’re a ragtag bunch of differently-abled people, of all ages, shapes, and sizes. In order to qualify for this particular pool, you must have a doctor’s letter of eligibility, so we all have golden tickets borne of varying difficult circumstances.
Some people are recovering from car accidents, doing intensive rehabilitation one lap at a time. There’s little kids learning to hold their breath underwater. There’s groups of older ladies, the ‘regulars’, gossiping in the deep end. There’s injured triathletes in the speed demon zone, whizzing past people like me who can’t keep up. And then there’s the people like me, doing curated physical therapy routines for chronic conditions.
Military vets, gentlemen in wheelchairs, people with scars. An assortment of beings with uncommon similarities, bound together by the momentary warm-water jubilation. A space in time where we collectively lift the burden of pain; all becoming happy little fish.
We show up every week, and we float on.
Thanks for bringing me to the pool, ma.
Xx
Lily
lilstargirl 
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