one week at mile 22

One week before State Meet and I am on my knees on the gym floor helping her put on her shoes because she is in too much pain to lean forward.

One week.

The chiropractor assures us it is a pulled muscle.  Different from the back issues plaguing her.  Different from the overuse injuries.  Different from the lingering hamstring and hip troubles or the pain in her shins.

Different.

But like the rain that keeps falling, it all feels the same.  Ice, heat, ibuprofen, ice, heat, CDB oils, ice, heat, tiger balm, ice, heat, massage, ice, heat, adjustments, ice, heat, roll, ice, heat, lidocaine patches.

Ice. Heat.

And I am stuck between two worlds.

One where I am her mother and I tell her, you don't have to do this. You have already done everything you need to in 9.  You could take the time to heal without competing. There is nothing before you that isn't yours to decide. 

That makes her cry harder so I step into the other world and tell her, it's only a pulled muscle, your back is healing, you have a week, we will do what it takes to get you there.

All around her the crowd of young ladies willing to stay here and do this is thinning.  It is the time of year and age when their bodies and minds begin to break.

This is mile 22.

The moment the promises you made to them the first time you held them in your arms are broken- because it is impossible to always protect them.  You can't keep them safe and you can't always be there.

I raised my children to grow-up but to never stop being young.

This one though, she is raising herself.  For as close as we are, she has always been just out of my reach.  One lap ahead, one branch higher, over to the next field, way out in the sea riding on the blues of the gym.

I knelt on the floor running my hand over her foot trying to knock some of the grit loose before sliding it awkwardly into her shoe.  I haven't done this since she was 3 and she told me I was doing it wrong.  I got so fed up with her and her need for perfection I threw her shoe across the house and I told her she could do it herself from then on.  And she did.

Until now.

One week before State Meet, almost to the hour.  And even then she told me I was doing it wrong...   

What I know: You can't wipe grit off.

It is easy to keep going when you are winning.  It is simple to say I will do this or I will be that- or even I could have.  What isn't easy or simple is finding your way when the lights seem to have all gone out.  Finding your footing when the crowds aren't cheering for you.  Building strength when your courage is bleeding and your body is bruised.

She will heal.  She will rise and go on.
I don't think I ever will.

She will look back at this part of her story and see it was all a playground readying her for life.  She will see her team and her coaches.  She will remember the weight of her work.  She will carry scars. She will leave me the box of medals and take with her the real rewards of what she has learned.  What she has taught herself to do.

One week.
One month.
One year.
One small lifetime.

Ice. Heat. Repeat.
This child was never mine; she has always belonged to herself.
     

Addendum:

Months (and months!) later we got an actual diagnosis: lumbarization of the spine. Her S1 vertebra is what is known as a transitional vertebra.  It is acting more like L6 than S1 and is partially fused on one side.  The 2 compression fractures healed leaving no trace behind (as true compression fracture should do) and a PARS fracture was found in the L6/S1.  With PT she has returned to gymnastics as a Vault and Floor special competing her first year of level 10 for GTC this 2020 season.