A Very Liquid Life: On Lochte and Loss

Sunday night marked the first time in my adult life that I’ve watched the USA Swimming Olympic Trials on television without a drink in my hand and sorrow in my heart. About halfway through the broadcast, I noticed that I was wringing my hands in nervous excitement.

Each one of the competitors wants to go to Rio with every fiber of their being. But only the top two finishers will make the team. The others will have to train for four more years before trying again — if they can hold out that long. The agony of defeat can have lasting psychological implications.

In the first event of the trials in Omaha, swimming legend and Olympic veteran Ryan Lochte came up short in 400-meter individual medley. He finished in third place, battling a pulled groin as well as the competition.

“I did everything I could,” Lochte said afterward. “And it just wasn’t enough.”

I know the feeling, albeit on a smaller scale.

Over the course of seven Summer Olympic Games — Seoul, Barcelona, Atlanta, Sydney, Athens, Beijing and London — I battled a sense of loss despite the fact that my entire youth was defined by winning in the water.

Swimming thousands of yards, twice a day, six days a week, from the age of 8 to 18, stretched my body to its limits. By the time I finished my senior year at the University of South Florida — a career that including making the Olympic Trials cut in the 50-meter freestyle as well as a national championship — my right rotator cuff had all but given up holding my shoulder in place.

The surgery (pre-arthroscopy) tightened my tendons so much that I lost significant range of motion. Besides, there were no professional swimmers in the mid-80s. Being done with school usually meant being done in the pool. And having bad shoulders almost always meant saying farewell to the water.

Even though my identity had come to an end, I continued to define myself as a sprinter. I found ways of turning life into a contest of reflexes and cunning, just like racing two lengths of the pool in less than 24 seconds. I’d race through shopping markets, trying to beat previous splits for getting groceries and getting out.

I did laps around the world: going from one place to another in search of new victories. A few months before the 1988 Summer Olympics, I landed in South Korea with the sole purpose of being in the natatorium when some my former competitors took the starting blocks. If my archrival in college, Angel Myers, took the gold in the 50-meter freestyle, I’d have bragging rights. I’d beaten her in the last race of my career, the one in which I’d qualified for the trials.

But Myers never made it to Seoul, testing positive for performance-enhancing drugs shortly after the Olympic Trials. From the stands, I watched my childhood competitor, Mitzi Kremer, earn a bronze medal for her place on the 4x100-meter freestyle relay.

I tried to outrun thoughts of swimming, and memories of touching the wall first. I immersed myself into subsequent identities as a writer, and, much later, a mother. Holding off feelings of failure was a daily triumph. But whenever I felt ahead of the game, the Olympic Trials reminded me of whom I never came to be.

Right after the London Games, coinciding with my neurologist father’s death from Alzheimer’s disease, I spent the better part of a year on a psychiatrist’s couch. I talked with her, compulsively and obsessively, about a “sea of lonely” raging deep inside of me. An emptiness stemming from two great losses: the pool and a parent.

In fact, it was my father who had taught me to swim. I was drowning in grief until my doctor offered a life raft out of my solitary sea.

Come sit on the shore with me and we’ll watch the water ebb and flow together.

And we did for a good long while; therapy turning into my first-ever distance event. We prevailed, winning out over sorrow, as a team.

Cut to the pool in Omaha Sunday night. With each arm raised in victory, I raised my own in celebration. My right shoulder now stiff from carrying grand babies — not old scars. Qualifying for the Olympic Trials will always be one the great victories of my life, but it no longer defines me. And neither does alcohol.