10. Look, I’m Surviving

Nora watches her son learn to swim, something he does not seem to want to do. 

Transcripts may not appear in their final version and are subject to change.

INTRO MUSIC

I’m Nora McInerny, and it’s going to be okay.

My very earliest memory is of my cousin’s face. We are one, maybe two years old, so we’re little, and he is being held in his mother’s arms against the backdrop of her torso in a black swimsuit. We are happy, there in the water in our mother’s arms, in the therapeutic pool kept at body temperature, at our very first swim lessons. 

I don’t think we actually learned to swim at that age, but the point was that we were becoming comfortable in the water, that we got the gist of what it meant to be literally in over our heads, immersed in an element that land mammals aren’t accustomed to. Also…it was fun. I instantly loved swimming, and like any good Minnesotan, I would swim in any body of water at any time. A semi-heated indoor pool at a crusty Holiday Inn in rural Minnesota? Hand me my goggles. Lake Superior in late June when the air temperature was barely above 60 and the water felt like icicles stabbing into our flesh? I’m not getting out until I’m hypothermic … literally. Our grandparents had a cabin in Northern Minnesota on a glacial lake so deep that the water looked black. From the dock, my cousins would look like heads floating in the dark, their lips tinged blue. 

Water, my parents taught me, is to be respected. It is both a source of life, and an unfeeling force that can take your life. It is a necessary element for our survival, and you could easily not survive it. 

My children, I hoped, would love to swim as much as I did. I imagined them discovering the magic of realizing that you can float, that you can propel yourself forward, backward, turn somersaults, feel weightless and held by water. 

And so for years and years, starting when he was a baby, I signed my son up for swim lessons. Some where I got in the pool with him, like my mother and my aunt did with me and my cousin. Some where he lined up at the side of the pool with a bunch of other kids and … refused to get in. Just refused. Flat out said no, no thank you. Maybe, sometimes, he’d get in but refuse to let go of the wall. Sometimes he might agree to kick or to blow a bubble but would not float on his back, even with assistance.

And I was bummed out. You’re not *supposed* to put these kinds of expectations on your child but I thought this was a pretty reasonable one. I wasn’t expecting him to be the next Michael Phelps, I just wanted him to be able to swim safely without clinging to my body, and to have as much fun as possible while doing it.

It was time, of course, to give up. These lessons would be the last ones. He would swim when he wanted to, it would come in time, or he would just be a guy who wore a life vest his whole life which is totally fine! Who cares, there are bigger problems for a person to have!

So I sat on the edge of a warm, therapeutic pool and watched his very last lesson. Outside, a Minnesota winter was dumping thick, white snow all over the parking lot. Inside, I sat there, sweating and watching. The final test was for him to paddle from the little plastic stand in the middle of the pool to the edge, where I sat watching. 

The water was shallow enough for him to stand up if he needed to, but he never stood up. He paddled and kicked and inched his way forward, only his face above water. When I say only his face I mean ONLY HIS FACE. His nose, his eyes, his mouth, BARELY out of the water. And his face was pure happiness, even as water splashed into his eyes. He was swimming! Just barely but he was doing it. He made eye contact with me and said:

“Look mom! mom! mom! mom! look! I’m SURVIVING! I’m SURVIVING!”

He was surviving. He survived! He made it to the edge of that pool and into that big, warm towel that was waiting for him. The one other child in his swim class congratulated him on his survival, forgetting their weeks-long rivalry over who would the first be able to swim to the wall unassisted. And you know what? He can actually swim now. This kid can now dive for pennies at the bottom of any pool. But, honestly, who cares? 

Because what he did that day was worthy of all the applause and all the praise in the world. 

When was the last time you shouted for joy just for getting through something? Like have you ever?! As an adult?! Probably not! We have really high standards, and why would you celebrate barely clearing the bar? I’ll tell you why…because survival is no small thing. When things are good, our standards get higher. But when you’re struggling, you know that clearing the bar is the goal. When you’re watching a white blood cell count, when you’re hoping that check clears, when you’re praying for relief of any kind…every time you get to the edge of the metaphorical pool, every time your hands finally grasp at the metaphorical solid edge of safety…it’s suddenly enough.

May we remember that sense of relief when things are good and safe again. 

May we remember that our survival is no small thing, and when we can’t keep our whole head above water, may our face be enough. 

Look at us, we’re surviving! Good job.

OUTRO MUSIC

I’m Nora McInerny, and it’s going to be okay.

CREDITS