The Adventures of Bruno Chan: Swimming

Tonight, I was supposed to be hanging out with SF at a fund-raising ball in aid of cancer research and horse welfare in London. Instead, I've given our tickets away, and as night approached, I felt myself drawn towards water.

I think there are 5 stages of grief. I'm not sure what they are exactly. But I think pain and fear are all tossed in that same bowl.

I waited for darkness.

I would prefer solitude for facing the new challenge I have given myself.

Initial obstacles of slipping my arm into long sleeves and being strung up in my swimsuit were thankfully overcome!

My objective is to introduce water for strength and resistance training, because I need to spice up the recovery process. During Wednesday's review, my doctor showed me "fluffy bits" on his computer screen. Those fluffy bits are evidence of new bone growing in an unexpected region.

"For now, we will just monitor it... it doesn't seem to be growing within the elbow joints, which is a good thing. But, it could prevent a full extension of the arm".

*Disclaimer- Please note that neither my doctors nor my therapist recommended what I am about to do next. I take full responsibility for my over-active imagination and all action. Please also note that I document my injury so that I can chart progress/lack of, and because writing calms me. And while I hope my stories shared may inspire, please do not emulate my antics- I am drawn to adrenaline and the untested, and I come from years of serious dance training. Thank you, and kindly read on at your own discretion.

Long before I began to dance, the water was like a best friend. Slicing my arms through the cold before sunrise at the Singapore Chinese Swimming Club, was my paltry attempt at some conversation with my father. My father would pick me up from Popo's house, and proudly wait with soya bean milk by the side of the adult pool, as my coach yelled, Sharper, Faster, Again, Again, Another Lap!

In the beginning, I would always feel a sharpness down the side of my belly. But I hid it because my father was so proud of me, and my coach relentless. Later the pain ceased, but at that point, I started to dance, and then I became a teenager and my father was left without a task. And then I became a woman, and my father became simply bewildered, of her, of me.

Tonight however, the water frightened me.

I stepped into the pool, and felt the immediate sensation of losing my balance. The memory of my arm dislodging away, my legs curled up, my head so heavy and the mud pressed close, came rushing back. I wondered about the reality of drowning. I could not trust my arms to support me now. I didn't dare push off my feet.

I was still determined to do something, anything. So I did what I could.

With my good arm, I clung onto the edge of the pool, and then balancing on the tips of my toes, simply tip-toed along, holding onto core for added support. As I inched along, I focused on breathing, and forcing my broken arm to stretch as much forward, pull back at an angle, and stretch again.

Baby, are you ok? I'll go get you a drink ok?

I can't swim! I'm just bouree-ing along! I'm fighting to stay balanced!

Ok, never mind, just do what you can and I will be right back.

I tell myself, just walk or bouree about, working the arm in some semblance of a breast stroke, at least five times around the pool.

How's your arm? Does it hurt?

Yes!

Ok, never mind, you are doing great! Here's your drink; I've bought you some banana bread as well. Just come up and eat, ok? I'm going to lie down...

The water is dark. The water has weight.

Each time I push against it, I think I am working through, heartache. Popo, please go.

Each tiny step I make, I think, I am recovering, recovering myself. Popo, I'm going to be ok.

Some things don't come naturally. Healing takes time, and effort. Sometimes the only way forward is by determined force. On my 5th lap, I kick off my feet, throw my good arm forward. My bad arm flaps about, my strokes are without grace, but I am kicking hard.