Open Water
Contest Honorable Mention
Many years ago, when the kids were young, Rory and I took them to the Bay Area. Rather than staying with my parents in Oakland, we decided to stay in San Francisco, in a French-themed hotel off of Union Square. One day, we rode a cable car and ate ice cream sundaes at Ghirardelli Square. Before heading back, we went down to the beach, sat on bleachers, and looked out across the bay to the Golden Gate Bridge.
Off in the distance, we saw something in the water heading toward us. For a long time, I couldn’t figure out what it was. A seal? A sea lion? As it got closer, it took human form — a person was swimming to shore. Rory and the kids were restless and got up to play on the beach, periodically yelling, “Mom, can we go yet?” But I wanted to see the mystery swimmer. Then, a woman in only a swimsuit, at least seventy years old, emerged from the water.
I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, but at the beginning of this year, I suddenly have the desire to swim in the ocean. I call an organization that facilitates open-water swims and they suggest I take swimming lessons for a while first.
I don’t own a useful swimsuit so I order six online — two suits in three different sizes. With menopause, my body is changing so fast I don’t know what will work.
* * *
I’ve been waking up to red, dry, itchy eyes. The doctor at a Quick Care on Shattuck has thick black hair pulled into a ponytail that touches the back of her neck. She’s just a few years older than my girls. She doesn’t think it’s pink eye, but I insist on the medication anyway. Because what else could it be?
A day or two after finishing all the medicine, I wake to small red lines crisscrossing my pupils, white mucus in the tear ducts, dryness around the rims. I throw out all my makeup and buy replacements. I get a new prescription.
At an eye appointment with a LensCrafters optometrist the following week, the doctor shows me an image of my inner eye — an orange web with a bright yellow center and deep green perimeter. I make it my Instagram profile picture. My prescription has changed significantly over the last couple of years, she tells me, and this might be the problem. I have the lenses in my frames updated, but the issue persists.
I meet with an allergist. His nurse does a full battery of tests and finds that I’m not allergic to anything. She wonders if the problem might be due to decreased hormones from menopause. “Have you changed makeup or hair products recently?” she asks. Yes, a few changes. She suggests that I switch entirely to all-natural cleaners, laundry soap, hair products.
… I order six online — two suits in three different sizes. With menopause, my body is changing so fast I don’t know what will work.
* * *
I pull up to the pool, the same place my parents brought me to as a kid, and I feel childlike — apprehensive and vulnerable, my fear close to the surface — as I anticipate my first swim lesson. The front desk assigns me a key and combination for my locker. I descend the stairs to the women’s locker room and fiddle with the lock for a few minutes. I can’t get in, so I ask for help.
My locker is at the back of the dressing area. Women around me roam freely. I’ve never been comfortable being naked in a dressing room, so I put on the blue one-piece swimsuit I found at a sports shop. None of the styles I’d ordered online worked. I wrap a towel around my body and put an extra towel around my neck, like I’ve seen other swimmers do. Then I make my way upstairs.
I walk along the edge of the larger pool, checking for an open swim lane, and pass the window to the weight room. My reflection looks back at me, and I imagine someone in the gym critiquing my body. I stand up straighter.
At the smaller pool, further back from the center patio, I find the first open lane, the lane that will eventually become my favorite. I drop my goggles on the deck next to the water, and sit on a nearby bench to take off my shoes. I stretch my silicone cap over my head and tuck in loose hairs. I move to the edge of the pool, sit down, and slide into the water. Securing my goggles, I take a deep breath. I hold the edge with my right hand, place my feet against the side underneath the water, my right foot above my left, and push off.
* * *
I learn pets can bring in dust mites that irritate the eyes, so I ban Oakey from the bed. She now sleeps on a large tan pillow on the floor. My eyes don’t seem much different at first, then improve a little.
I’ve gone through several rounds of makeup and pink eye medication but little changes. I didn’t realize how much I loved my green eyes until I could hardly see them. I change out our pillows; maybe I’m allergic to something in my pillow, someone suggested. Four or five nights on our new beddings and there’s no radical improvement.
But it’s not just my eyes. My hair has become limp and thin and my eyebrows are disappearing. My back aches after hiking too long. Hot flashes. Skin tabs — one on my thigh that looks like a wart, and two more discrete ones on my face that I can see in the magnifying mirror. One hangs under my right arm. And I snore, a full-fledged, horn-honking snore. It started a month or two into menopause.
Some mornings it’s my mood, too. Missing the continual touch of children — carrying, hugging, needing to be picked up. Life slowing down. Feeling invisible. I wake up flat — not depressed, exactly, but not my usual self. Even in the worst of times, when I was younger, I was cheery.
* * *
Today’s my birthday; I’m 54. I participate in a group swim lesson to celebrate. Though it’s meant for beginners to experts, I’m the only amateur there, pulling up at the end of the lane last every time. “Keep your head down to avoid neck pain and practice breathing on both sides, kicking right below the water,” the coach tells us.
I shower and dress in the locker room afterwards, pausing at the mirror near my locker. I let down my towel. My stomach is the stomach of a mother who grew three beings inside it, and my breasts are the breasts that fed them, one slightly larger than the other. My skin shows the relaxation of age. My legs have small waves and dents, with muscle definition from my walks. As I stand there, I long for the body I saw in the mirror years ago — but I stop myself. If I don’t, I will be doing this all my life — seeing myself in the mirror and wishing for what used to be. Be here, with this body, now, I tell myself.
* * *
Last night was a full moon, so I was up from three until six o’clock and awake for good at 7:45 a.m. It’s like clockwork: full moon equals sleepless night.
This morning, I shower and dry my hair, but can’t cool down. I turn the air conditioning to 68 degrees, pull the cover off the floor vent, and kneel over it, naked. I let the cold air blow on my face, neck, and breasts. Rory walks in, looks at me, and without saying a word, walks back out.
* * *
I misplaced my makeup bag with my eyebrow pencil in it. After I hadn’t used it for a couple of days, my eyes improved, so I decided to stop using it altogether. But two days later, they’re red and itchy again.
I’ve also been using an ice pack for my hot flashes — on my sore back, one on my chest, one on my neck. Sometimes I curl up with one as I fall asleep.
* * *
The pool is quiet on this foggy morning. I claim my favorite lane, the one on the end. Though my arms feel a little heavy at first, I find my rhythm and begin to move effortlessly. My goggles stay airtight, no adjustments needed. My pace is faster than usual and I don’t get that nausea that sometimes hits midway through. Rather than counting my backstrokes to know I’ve reached the edge, I trust my instincts and get it right every time.
It feels primal to be in the water, like a return to origins, to physical beginnings, to my essence. My body responds so naturally, like it’s known this before and has been waiting to return.
* * *
When I was young, I couldn’t handle the pressure of a massage. My repeated requests for the masseuse to lighten up meant I was basically paying for a back rub. But I read that massages are good for menopausal women, so I try it again. I make clear to the masseuse I don’t want to talk. I drink lots of water. I ask for the lights low. When it’s done, the sense of touch I’ve been missing feels restored.
* * *
I woke groggy this morning so I stared out the window for a while, at a branch laced through the mesh of our gate. The branches formed the outline of a woman’s torso: upper body, round of a breast, an arm gracefully extended.
* * *
In swim class, the coach is teaching the butterfly stroke. If I’d known, I’d have stayed home. The class is packed, and I’m sharing a lane with a woman a little younger than me who’s an accomplished swimmer.
For the first lap, she asks us to wave our bodies from head to hips to feet, creating the rhythm of the butterfly. My lane mate gets it right away. The coach has to tutor me through the entire lap. Next lap, she asks us to bring our shoulders and arms out of the water. As she describes it, she only looks at me. Again, I’m coached through the lap. “Now blend the two!” the coach shouts, and on it goes. I never get it. Most of the others do.
At the end of the lesson, as other students lift themselves out of the water, I take off for a lap. I push hard with my feet and move forward in the water. As I slow, I wiggle my body from head to toe to see if it’ll propel me forward. I don’t go far, but I keep playing with it. I start to feel my body in the water as I try to imitate a sea creature. It’s part breaststroke, part deep-sea diver, my body pushing and floating. I try to imagine what it might feel like to do this in open water.
When I reach the other end of the pool, the coach is waiting for me. “That’s it!” she yells to me. “That’s it!”
Cindy Madsen Reid (she/her) is a writer who splits her time between Berkeley and Las Vegas and is always looking for the next good food place (@cindystoryteller). Book Rec: Forgiveness: An Alternative Account by Matthew Ichihashi Potts
Artwork by Sarah Maynard Art:
ABOUT THE ARTWORK
Three Flappers Swimming
Acrylic on canvas, 18 x 18 in.
I paint from vintage photos, many of these photos are black and white. I intuitively use colors, line, and shapes to validate the human experience and make connections to humans of the past and present.
Sarah Maynard Art
sarahmaynardart.com, @sarahmaynardart
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