Routine

On those work days when I'm not on the road traveling to Frankfort or some other place in Kentucky, I work out of my home office.  On those days, around 5:00 pm I change into swim trunks, sandals and a t-shirt, wrap my goggles and a pair of short pants up in a beach towel, and my wife and I head to the YMCA.  Her Zumba class starts at 5:30, and while she does that, I swim.  I was on the road yesterday, but Tuesday I worked at home.

She likes to get to her class a little early to make sure she gets a good spot, so I went to the pool and watched the YMCA swim team finish up practice at 5:30.  Watching them brought back memories of when my daughter and son were young.  They both started swimming on the Y team when they were six, and continued through high school, also swimming on their high school team.   They were both talented and athletic, and were competitive on the state level, but neither of them had the competitive fire that you have to have to continue swimming after high school.  Swimming is an ultra-competitive sport, with even small colleges bringing in swimmers from all over the world.

At 5:30 practice ended, and I got in.  We have a very nice Y for a small town, and the pool is large.  They keep half the pool for free swim, and reserve three lanes for lap swimmers.  Sometines you have to share a lane, but Tuesday I had one to myself.  Because of the spasticity, I don't swim nearly as well as I used to.  But I manage to get a few laps in even if I do have to stop and rest occasionally.  I get out at 6:00 because I have to go slowly and cautiously getting out of the pool, negotiating the pool deck, and getting into the shower.  Tuesday, this journey was made harder because of a family that was camped out on the steps at the shallow end.  I imagine I could get out using one of the ladders at the deep end, but I feel safer using the steps with the handrail.  The young lifeguard on duty didn't tell them to move and I didn't ask them to, although I probably should have.  I managed to maneuver around them and get into the locker room without incident.  By the time I showered, got dressed, and got out to the lobby, it was 6:30 and Polly was waiting for me.  Sometimes we stop and get a salad, usually at Zaxby's, but Tuesday we had a great supper at home of ribs, fried apples, and garden squash and zuchinni.

As we ate, I complained that it took me so long to shower and dress that I could only swim for thirty minutes.  Polly said, "At least you can get in and out of the pool by yourself, and I don't have to be with you the whole time."  I had to agree with her about that.  In the first few months after my hemorrhagic stroke, I was in such bad shape that Polly envisioned her future as being my constant caregiver, so while I sometimes complain about my abilities compared to pre-stroke, Polly usually calls me on it and reminds me of what might have been.  She helps me keep things in perspective, and helps me realize that our routine, mundane though it may be, is something that many stroke survivors and their caregivers would be very grateful to have.