Inspiration
Note: these are all real stories, but I have changed the names. Richard has since passed away.
Sometimes I count them. One person over in lane two with that condition, another over in lane four with another. Yet they both keep going. There’s two more over there in a similar way, never cause anyone trouble. Doc is struggling today, you can tell, but he never gives up. And then there is the rest of us, just muddling through. Sometimes Albert tells me, “Keep up the good work,” even though I haven’t done anything.
Albert is a large man with a full beard and yin yang tattoo on the back of his hand. Recently, Albert chained himself to a tree to stop the MVP pipeline from crossing Brush mountain and is a little sore his church is not helping out more with the legal bills. But mostly he is just trying to get by. Albert is on dialysis. He often closes his eyes in the hot tub and takes slow, deliberative breaths. Sometimes, just to make Luke laugh, he walks upside down on his hands in the shallow end. “Keep up the good work.” Albert tells me this.
John also has a full beard, and mostly keeps to himself, but always keenly observing everything that is going on. He sometimes lets out a great laugh that echoes across the pool. He is not verbal but lately, he has been waving goodbye to me as he gets out of the hot tub. Autism is just another condition humans deal with. We all have something. John’s dad, Jake, is a Vietnam vet who later served in the State Department. He was in Saigon the day the US evacuated the embassy. He’s led a long life and seen a lot, but still he’s still there, bringing his son to the pool each day. He’s a good man.
Doc has MS, had it for decades. His face is hollowed out, his legs dangly, but he gets in the pool every day and does his rounds. When he is done, he pulls himself into the water wheelchair and insists on rolling himself out until the ramp gets too steep. The aide takes him the rest of the way and with some sort of pulley machine, lifts him into his motorized wheelchair. Doc then buzzes around in his chair to air dry like it’s the Indy 500. I swear he is going to hit someone one of these days.
Doc’s not his real name, by the way. He is a Baptist minister with an easy country accent and a doctorate in counseling, so I call him Doc. The first time I said it, he smiled a little bit, and so it stuck. A friend tells me that even when Doc’s with clients, he is constantly shifting in his seat because of the pain. His wife left him decades ago on account of his MS. But he keeps going. His face is hollowed out, his legs are weak, but his eyes are bright with intelligence and an unseen hope. He does not give up.
Richard is 96, a WWII vet and talks with a strong New Hampshire accent as he and Jake walk back and forth in the pool swapping stories. Both are half deaf and shout their stories to one another. We all hear them. We all love them.
Richard’s grandson is Luke, my good friend who is sure to cannonball me each day, keeping careful count of how many times. One time! Three times! A good day is five. Luke has his routine, written down carefully. He’s memorized it, but still squints at the list each time to make sure he is doing the right thing. Butterfly! Backstroke! When I am in the lane next to him, it involves splashing one another, both of us acting surprised and offended. We steal each other’s water bottles, because of course we do. I taught Luke how to do rat tail with our towels, but nowhere near as brutal as they were at day camp. When Luke and I rat tail one another, it does not sting.
What you need to know is that Luke is 35 and has Down’s Syndrome. He is one of my best friends. His joy, his simplicity, his devotion to routine all help keep me going. Luke is the counterargument to every utilitarian thought that enters our brains. His cannonballs are a sacrament of joy, each one a fresh baptism.
There’s others. Carrie going through her second bout with breast cancer, still undergoing chemo, yet showing up each day with her strong, steady strokes. She does not seem to mind being bald. She has an air about her, why would she. Turns out she is a lay preacher in her church.
Then there’s Sean, who is convinced that I am someone named Josh Stevens. When he sees me come in, it’s always, “Hi Josh Stevens. There’s Josh Stevens. Do you know Josh Stevens?” He often has loud conversations with himself. “Yes, she did say that! No, you were wrong about that.” I have no idea what any of it’s about but it’s loud and delightful and part of the liturgy of my day, a set rhythm that helps keep me going.
These are the people that inspire me as I lift my legs to walk in the pool, as I do my laps with my legs near useless behind like a tadpole, and then as I walk to the car to try to do some small good on the day. Sometimes as I am leaving and I see someone else shuffling along to get to their routine, I say to them as I pass, “Keep up the good work.” They look at me funny, wondering what it is I mean. But they know.