The Waterfall

Part 2 — The Waterfall

Wailua Falls was high on the priority list of things to do. My kids and I had just arrived on our first vacation of this magnitude, and we weren't wasting any time. The air was tropical and humid and lovely in the low 80s. When we got to the trailhead, I did a 360 degree turn in slow motion to take it all in. Beautiful lush green everywhere. Blossoms of bright red flowers exploded on vines that grew throughout the trees. You could hear the waterfall making contact with the earth in the distance. It was paradise. I was so happy to be here and share this with my kids!

The hike to the falls was a third of a mile vertical, vines and ropes to get down. You could only go one at a time. My friend and the other three kids were already at the bottom. My oldest son had gone just before me, stopped about thirty feet down, and braced himself against a log to wait. He turned around and looked up.

Come on down Mom.

I took one step. The earth felt like grease under my foot.

That's it.

I slid and tumbled thirty feet straight toward him. Somehow he caught me without either of us going down. I ended up in a twisted ball, sandwiched into something close to fetal position with my back against my son's shins. I took inventory. Nothing was signaling pain anywhere in my body. I put my left hand down to push myself up.

There it was.

Oh shit.

I glanced down at my hand. Blood was emerging through the mud on my middle finger. Oh. Ok. A cut. Not a huge deal.

I gathered myself and nodded to my son. Everyone else was already at the bottom. We had to keep moving.

As we made our way down my mind was racing. Am I that person that gets hurt on vacation?

With every step the pulse in my hand grew more intense.

Water.

We made it to the bottom of the trail, and before me was the glorious waterfall we were chasing.

I rushed over to the river without thinking and began washing away the thick mud.

Half my fingernail and the quick had been ripped clean off.

Oh thank god. It's just a nail. That fucking hurts -- but it's just a nail.

We stayed at the falls longer than we should have. I wasn't about to stop the fun over a broken nail.

When it was time to head back up, I grabbed the rope with my left hand to pull myself up.

It screamed no.

That's when I thought -- okay. Maybe it's broken.

The hike back up was brutal with one hand. My kids knew I had hurt myself. I think by the time we made it back up they understood it was probably more than a fingernail. Nobody said much about it.

My job was on my mind. Not this tropical vacation. For twenty years I had been fiercely protective of my hands. I needed them more than my legs. I was the sole provider for these kids. Everything ran through those hands.

That night I didn't sleep.

I laid there silently negotiating with the facts I had. I had never broken a bone in my life. It was a bad fall -- this would buff out. If the swelling got too bad I'd go. And hey, kids -- mom's going to interrupt the vacation to go to the doctor, but don't worry, we're still having a good time.

As a hairstylist, these were not optional body parts.

How was I going to work? How was I going to train?

Morning arrived. The day was going to start with a visit to urgent care.

X-ray, no breaks. That should have been enough to keep my mind at ease. I'd be back home in a couple of days with more resources. If it still wasn't right, I'd deal with it then.

*

What I was coming home to was something I had built entirely by hand. High end clients. Hair extensions. Michael -- my business partner at the salon -- and I had doubled down during COVID when everyone else stepped back. We stacked our books deep. Multiple twelve hour days. Staying until 9pm. I had created every bit of that demand.

And now I couldn't meet it.

My pride took a hit. I was frustrated. My clients  needed me to figure it out -- and they weren't wrong to expect that. I had always figured it out.

*

Back home, six weeks passed.

The hand stayed wrong.

I was in agony. Not mild discomfort. Agony. Every single day. It was what finally pushed me to go see the hand and wrist specialist in town.

What a joke. This was the most pathetic version of a doctor's appointment I have ever had. I gave birth to a basketball team -- that comes with a few doctor visits over the years to check out all kinds of injuries. I was in the office all of fifteen minutes. He grabbed my hand as if to shake it in greeting, but grasped my fingers in his clutch and gave them a good shake. It nearly sent me off the table. He just kind of shrugged and said 'it just looks a little banged up, it should turn the corner in a few weeks.'

He never offered any other interventions, including imaging. I didn't have insurance -- maybe he was making decisions based on that. Whatever the reason, he left me hanging without help or care.

So I did what I always do. I kept moving forward.

My logic was simple: if I could stand behind a chair for twelve hours, I could train. But it was more than logic. I was in pain and I needed the physical outlet. I needed the time to disassociate. The gym was the one place I didn't have to pretend I was fine for anyone. I could just show up, do the work, and let everything else go quiet.

It was a reality check. I had always double booked my days. Staggered clients, two at a time, maximizing every minute. I was an efficient machine behind that chair and I knew it. That machine was temporarily out of service. Everything took longer. Every movement cost more than it should have. I couldn't hold onto anything well. I dropped plates of food. At the salon I was throwing brushes and blow dryers. Michael bedazzled my blow dryer -- not only was it fabulous, but it made it easier to hold onto. You find solutions where you can.

I didn't take a single narcotic painkiller the entire time.

I tried to pull back. Reduce my hours. Give myself room to heal. Enough clients responded with entitlement, crankiness, zero empathy -- and I leaned into the anger I was feeling and pulled the rip cord.

I couldn't eject the plane. But I remembered I was the pilot.

I had no choice but to survive. So I let go of a third of my client load.

*

Eventually I got a second opinion. I contacted the sports medicine department at UW specifically. I wanted someone who worked with athletes, or at least understood what being an athlete meant. I'm glad I trusted that instinct.

The doctor I found was kind. She listened. She understood not just what was happening physically but what it meant emotionally to be going through it. After months of pretending I was fine for everyone around me, someone I had just met actually saw what I was carrying.

I found a helper.

No insurance meant limited options, but she referred me outside their network to an imaging center with lower rates for out of pocket patients. I paid a thousand dollars for an MRI I really needed.

Then I waited for the results. When the voicemail came, she wanted me at UW right away for IV antibiotics.

We were already on our way to Oregon.

*

We left for a meet in Bend, Oregon a day or two after the imaging.

This wasn't just any meet. It was my coaching debut. I had started working with two junior lifters -- Lilli and Silas -- right before I got hurt. They were brand new to the sport, teenagers, Roxy's friends. I had committed to giving them the best first experience I could. They were the reason I had kept training as hard as I did through all of it. When you have kids watching you -- and they were essentially kids -- you lead from the front. You don't get to fall apart.

I needed to be strong for more than myself. To this day I am so glad that is the choice I made.

Emily was driving. Allison was in the front seat. Lilli and Roxy were in the back seat with me.

Everyone in that car knew I was waiting on a call from UW.

The reception through the mountains was infuriating -- in and out, dropping calls, phone tag that felt endless. When the voicemail finally came through clearly enough to hear, it was the doctor herself.

Bone infection. At the very least a collection of fluid that had no business still being there four months later. She wanted me at UW right away for IV antibiotics.

I sat in the back seat between two teenage girls and listened to that voicemail.

The car kept going.

We had a meet to get to. I had two kids counting on me to show them what this sport looked like when it was done right. Whatever came next was going to have to wait until we got home.

I still coach Lilli today.

*

I started the IV antibiotics immediately upon returning home. The doctor explained the risk clearly -- deep bone infections can form barriers that trap bacteria inside. If the antibiotics didn't work, they would have to go in surgically to remove it. If they did work, we'd follow up with a cortisone injection if needed once the infection cleared.

I held onto the hope that antibiotics would be enough. That this would be the thing that fixed everything. That I would come out the other side of this whole.

*

Six more weeks. Nationals was still in sight. I had gone this far. I was going to make it to that platform no matter what.

The antibiotics made a huge difference. Symptoms I hadn't even fully registered started to disappear -- the breast tenderness, the low grade fever, the chronic inflammation. It wasn't until they were gone that I understood that I had a systemic infection from a broken nail.

But my hand and forearm were still swollen around the clock. My mobility hadn't improved. Grabbing things and holding onto them was still incredibly challenging.

While we were still in Hawaii I had ordered a deadlift strap so it would be on my doorstep when I got home. My subconscious was clearly in reality while my conscious wrestled with it. What a cool invention. I'm so grateful someone actually made one so I didn't have to come up with some cockamamie contraption myself.

For squat and bench I built what I started calling the gauntlet -- a meter long wrist wrap wound from my wrist all the way up to my elbow. It locked everything in place and let me keep my hands on the bar without the joint having to hold itself together on its own.

The pain was constant and sharp. Every lift was a decision I had to make in real time. Sleep was brutal. I started to develop sleep anxiety -- I didn't want to go to sleep because I knew at some point in the night the pain would pull me awake, and it could take hours to get on top of it. So I'd lie there dreading the thing I needed most.

What I didn't know yet was how much it was costing me to hold it together for everyone else. Smile in the gym. Nod when people talk. Keep the answers short so no one asks a second question. Stay positive. Don't show any weakness or this will all come crashing down.

People are counting on you.

Everyday my goal was just to hold it together until I could go home and be a sloth in private.

No one was going to tell me to stop. Partially because I wasn't going to let on just how miserable I was. I was this close to just following through with what I said I was going to do. I had made it to the end of my prep, pasted together with neoprene and leather. My peaking singles were strong.

I was going to Vegas. I was going to pull 400 pounds again. This time for real.

*

On the way to the airport Dave got sick. He was throwing up on the drive there.

Friends had traveled to Vegas specifically to watch us compete. My teammate from the Bremerton meet was on day one. She had a perfect day -- every lift, every attempt, won her category. The energy in the room for her was everything you want to see. I couldn't have been happier for her.

And I couldn't believe I couldn't pull it together.

By the time I got to the platform I had the chills. I was surely coming down with what Dave had on the way there. Between events I kept leaving the venue to go stand outside in the July heat just to warm up. The friends who had traveled all that way to watch looked as drained as I felt. I had patched my body together for months to make it to that platform. And then this.

The day went to shit in a way that felt almost cosmically unfair.

I made my opening squat -- smoked 325. I thought we were going to be okay. 347 was my second attempt. No lift. We rewound it back and took 347 again. Another complete miss.

"Mother fucker."

I yelled it loud enough for the entire platform to hear and stormed off. The ref -- who turned out to be a central figure in the USPA scandal, fitting -- told me to watch my mouth.

I was just racking up the embarrassment for myself on the day.

Bench. Opener at 181 -- smoked it. Okay. I'm still in the game. I might have a fight left in me... nope. Two more total misses off the chest. I told myself -- no crying. Hold it together.

By deadlifts I was just hanging on.

First attempt. Good.

Second attempt. Good.

Here we go. Best record of the day so far.

Third attempt. I pulled 400. I pulled it with everything I had left, and six months of managed pain and pure stubborn refusal to quit.

Two red lights.

For a long time I was furious about it. I watched the video over and over trying to justify it to myself. It wasn't hitching. It wasn't ramping. I convinced myself it should have passed.

Now when I watch it back I just laugh.

It's clearly not there. I never got my shoulders back. I was holding onto that bar for dear life trying to will it into a good lift through sheer wanting. It's honestly kind of comical what time does to your perspective.

I will never forget turning around to see those two red lights. For one completely still moment -- the most still moment of the entire day -- I let out the breath I'd been holding and said out loud, mostly to myself:

"So that's what that feels like."

I had watched it happen to other lifters more times than I could count. Third attempt deadlift. I had felt it for them. But this was different. I could walk away knowing I had lived it.

I shuffled off the platform, walked behind the curtain, and completely fell apart. Face buried in Dave's armpit, ugly crying, the kind of crying that doesn't care who hears it. It was like a dam broke. Six months of pain and managing and performing and holding it together for everyone else came out all at once and it was loud and it was undignified and I didn't care.

I had turned into the puddle of a human I never wanted to be.

I felt weak. I felt like I failed.

I still won my division.

National Masters Champion. 4 for 9. It is genuinely one of the most continuous jokes in my life -- remember the time you went 4 for 9 and won Nationals? The medal from that day is the biggest most impressive looking one I own. It's also the one I like the least.

*

It was late, the dinner party split up and went their separate ways. It was just Dave and I about to unpack the day's events. Depleted, feeling the effects of illness, and yet I still had the energy to face it. I could feel it coming, bubbling up in my chest, it felt unavoidable. I needed to get it out. I had been replaying that 400 pull in my mind on repeat for hours now. I blurted out my distaste for that call. That seemed to break the ice. I was defending my lift, and just could not accept it. All that anguish, all that pain, all the frustration, all the mental mind-fuck it took to convince myself to push through EVERYDAY!!! The sacrifice I felt came rolling through my mind like a highlight reel. The regrets. The shame I felt was real. The embarrassment was tangible. Would my new lifters be proud of me? Would my kids get it? Have I turned this into a bigger deal than I should have? I feel foolish. Dave, standing across the island in the kitchen from me, put his palms down on the counter, and leaned forward to lower his eye level to mine, his head tilted slightly to the side and said softly, "How could that have gone differently?"

I looked down at my throbbing hand, and thought I didn't really have an answer for that. I couldn't find anything to say at first that didn't feel like an excuse. The truth was, I was realizing I may have pushed it too far. Here we are in Vegas post meet, in this skyscraper overlooking the entire Vegas strip, and I didn't feel I earned being here. It should have been a celebratory moment with this huge medal hanging around my neck, but it felt false. We weren't celebrating, I certainly didn't feel like a champion. I felt beat down, broken, and unsure. I felt embarrassed, and didn't want to meet Dave's eyes. I could see his head in my peripheral moving to gain access to mine. I looked up, and felt shame. I began to cry as I told him I felt like I talked him and everyone into this big thing for nothing, and I felt embarrassed, and didn't want to represent him that way. I was so embarrassed by how I handled my performance, and never wanted to do that again.

He interrupted me to layer in all the great things that happened because it pushed us all into this big thing. It allowed the team to elevate, and go do bigger things! It gave my teammate a stellar opportunity to shine and make her mark, which never would have happened if I hadn't pushed for this. It gave Dave the opportunity to coach one of his lifters from the east coast. It allowed his best friend from college to drive up from LA for the weekend and be a part of the fun. That is what this sport is about. He reminded me of all the reasons I love this sport, this community. It just so happens to run parallel to real life.

Real life is I am really injured. We may have really pushed it to my actual limit. We knew that the cortisone injection was right around the corner, and would open up the opportunity to readdress the rehab. There he was, intense, present, and he cared. Just watching the stream of emotion on his face as he was delivering this empowering message to me, all I could think was: how could he look at this trainwreck of a human and care as he does. I felt like I was coming to terms with myself in this moment of self-contempt. I had spent years being looked through. I am a stereotype -- hairstylist, single mom of five. People ask, with a particular kind of smile, whether they all have the same father. They do. They all came from the same abuser. I stopped being hurt by that question a long time ago. I just got angry. And I built everything -- the business, the house, the clients, the platform, this armor -- daring anyone to look through me again.

Dave saw me. He disarmed me.

In this moment, I felt like someone that didn't need to love me did. I wasn't familiar with it. Most people that "loved" me, wanted something from me, or loved a part of me. I just fell on my face, and he was right there to help me back up.

*

I woke up at 3am.

My erector was locked. My body was wrecked and dried out from the heat and the exertion and whatever COVID was doing to me that I was still refusing to fully acknowledge. I ran a bath in the giant tub and sat on the edge waiting for it to fill.

I picked up my phone.

Dave had posted on Instagram after we said goodnight. A recap of the day. I hit the speaker button and unmuted it.

His face filled the screen. Moving with emotion as he told the story of what he had watched that day. His voice the way it gets when something has actually gotten to him. And there in the dark, sitting on the edge of a bathtub in Las Vegas at 3am, I started crying again.

Because he saw something in that day that I couldn't see yet.

While I was cataloguing every failure, every red light, every moment of embarrassment -- he was telling anyone who would listen that I had taken every hit and gotten back up and never complained once. That the growth of the entire team that weekend had started with my decision to push forward. That we won. That we won.

I cried until the tub was full.

Then I got in.

And somewhere in the quiet of that water, something shifted.

I didn't have words for it yet. I wouldn't for a while.

But the version of me that got into that bathtub was not quite the same one who got out.

To be continued.