January 2003

January 1-4, 2003
Skating through the Phlegm

Whenever my husband accompanies me to the rink the conditions are never ideal. Usually the session is packed due to a holiday or a Saturday afternoon crowd. However, I expected excellent ice time after the official end of winter vacation. We were literally alone in the rink while I stretched and laced my skates. Then it became apparent that some schools would not reopen until Monday when numerous parents with their little ones entered the arena and shoved stocking feet into plastic rental boots. This would not have been the death of the session ordinarily because young children who cannot skate accompanied by adults who cannot skate tend to cling to the walls hand-in-hand causing only minimal obstruction.

Unfortunately, the aftereffects of last week’s cold had not cleared my system. For a couple of days, a severe case of cabin fever motivated me to leave the house, since I felt well enough to do so. We had enjoyed delicious restaurant lunches and shopping excursions. In spite of lingering phlegm, I wanted to skate. I had been off the ice for nearly two weeks primarily in response to holiday crowds and had missed aerobics classes due to illness. Following my usual warm up laps of basic stroking and alternating forward crossovers, I approached my husband, who had set up video equipment in the players’ box. The virus had significantly reduced my lung capacity and my muscles had not entirely purged its toxins. My legs ached, and I gasped for air. In general, I am physically fit and have good stamina. Three laps do not make me tired. I can ice dance for two hours with little more than a snotrag break.

I skated two rounds of the Dutch Waltz, which is the very first of the beginner dances. Ordinarily I can perform this dance for a good five minutes without stopping, or for as long as an individual waltz plays over the speakers. On this sad occasion, my quivering leg muscles could not bear the strain of the deep edgework required for swing rolls. Too dramatic a swing would rattle my feeble thighs causing my blade to slip out from under me. A pitiful, slow sight; this was not the graceful ice dancer image I wanted to portray after weeks of bragging about how competent I have become with these simple but lovely patterns.

“What do you expect?” my husband consoled. “You hacked the whole way over here.”

True; I had a nasty, tenacious cold. Regardless, someday I would like him to see me at my skating best, especially when he brings the video camera. In spite of my malady, I was not disappointed with most of the elements he captured on film. My forward camel is enviable and my layback fast. My backspin, though slow under these conditions, centered nicely and carried decent flow through the exit edge. I landed an acceptable flying camel but could not invert due to sinus pressure and disorientation. My legs would not permit even a fundamental loop jump. We left the rink after about ninety minutes, an unusually short workout for me.

Additional photos from this session may be viewed in my photo gallery.

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January 8-12, 2003
When a Quad Becomes a Triple

At 6:30 in the evening the telephone rang, drawing my attention away from the television. My husband’s doctor was on the line. I had dropped him off at the hospital that afternoon for an angiogram. A recent physical examination uncovered adult-onset diabetes and related problems that sent my husband to a cardiologist. Subsequent tests were inconclusive leading to the next step, the angiogram. An angiogram is a minimally invasive technique that allows exploration of coronary arteries via a probe inserted into the patient’s groin. If the doctor finds a build up of plaque, an angioplasty is performed to reopen the partially clogged arteries.

“He’s fine, but…” the doctor began.

I immediately thought he had the angioplasty and would be spending the night in the hospital rather than returning home that evening.

“…your husband needs a quadruple bypass.”

Open-heart surgery does not conform to my definition of ‘fine’. I stumbled around our tiny house that evening bewildered and frightened. I talked to my husband on the phone as soon as he arrived in his pre-op room. Wasted on Valium, he was not especially concerned about the procedure. Someone should have prescribed a few calming drugs for his wife. I was up all night trembling, turning up the heat, and marching back and forth to the bathroom. The next morning, I went to my father-in-law’s house where we spent the day with my husband’s brother. His brother and I went to the hospital and waited until the surgery concluded.

During that night and day of waiting, I experienced a bizarre array of emotions and fears. Everything I felt was distorted, as though I was looking at my emotions reflected in fun house mirrors. Time passed very slowly, as I tried to peer into the future seeking a premonition that everything would be okay. I found no such comfort and tried to avoid the horrible scenarios that lurked in the dark recesses of possibility.

Finally a nurse came to the waiting room. I had controlled myself for most of the day, but when this person arrived, I began to cry. The nurse assured me my husband was all right and a surgeon would be coming to escort us the post-operative ward. Again, I waited, but this time I had some reassurance that our lives might be normal again someday.

The surgeon took my husband’s brother and me into the hall and summarized the outcome of the surgery in general terms. “We did a triple bypass…” the doctor explained.

“Only a triple?” I asked in astonishment. He was supposed to have a quadruple. Only a triple? The question sounded as absurd in this context as during a skating competition when a babbling commentator rebukes a skater for landing an easy triple instead of a more valuable quad, as though a triple is a remedial jump. As though a triple bypass is a simple operation.

I saw my husband minutes after he left the operating room. His eyes were open, though he was consumed by anesthesia, and riddled with I.V.s and tubes. He made faces at his brother and me, though he only remembers seeing us from a dreamlike perspective. He looked good. I was genuinely surprised.

The surgery took place on Thursday, the ninth. By Sunday, my husband barely needed his pain medication. His recovery was miraculous. He is relatively young and his heart is healthy. One evening after I left the hospital, we spoke over the telephone and he sounded so much like himself, joking and laughing. I knew he would be fine. His doctors expect him to recover completely and be able to do all of the things he did at twenty-five. This time, my tears were born of happiness. In the span of a few days, the greatest sorrow I had known was coupled with the greatest joy.

It will certainly be weeks before I can skate again. The importance of skating vanished from my priorities. However, for those who take to the ice, allow me a moment of pontification. Skating as an adult is a triumph of courage and physical fitness. Too often we become obsessed with what we cannot do. Reserve a moment on the ice to cherish what you can do, even if it is only stroking around the rink, for there are many people who cannot do that, whether they lack the emotional fortitude or physical capacity. Do not worry about the jump you cannot land or the three-turn that still seems awkward. For so long as a person can pursue his or her goals, the potential to achieve may be more important than the actual success. Allow the sensation of ice running under your blades to give you happiness. Skating pleasure does not have to come from goals met or tests passed. There is no true failure on the ice for adult skaters. Every moment is a victory, every stroke a joy. Treasure whatever you can do and the positive effects it has on your life.

And may all your quads only be triples.

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