This text was written as I learn to live with Long Covid and attempt to regain my creativity. All the posts and some more info can be found here.
I stand of the edge of the lake by the stairs that lead down into the water. A couple of women are hovering by the escape route, seemingly still. My friend M. walks in. I am glad to be here with her. This is both a momentous event and nothing at all. I have not been at the lake for months. My physical health plummeted under the toll of long covid, then my mental health followed into depths I never thought I’d see. But here I am. Safe. As healthy as I can expect to be at the moment, back at the lake.
The last time I was here, the whole perimeter was open. I dodged folks training for triathlon, escaped from careless paddleboarder, tangled my legs in ticklish weeds, and once jerked as I touched the hard metal of an unexpected anchor with my foot. I have missed the transition from warm to cold, the one I was hoping would mean more time spent in the water now. I am not afraid of this cold. I cherish it, longed for it all summer when the water was warm and silky and gulls kept a watchful eyes from their patch of the lake. They are not here today, only a distant cormorant bobs on the waves we swimmers create in the rush to keep warm.
‘You coming?’ M. asks as I teeter on the edge still.
‘Yes.’ I beam in reply.
I dip my toes, my new thermal shoes untested since I purchased them after my grandma’s funeral in October. I don’t feel the cold at all. I go down to the next step, my bare legs now submerged. The tingle of cold instantly grips me and my smile widen. I remind myself to take my time. It is not wise to rush headfirst into this water, not in January.
I go slow, step by step, douse my arms and neck with the clear thin water, and as soon as I can, I launch my whole body into the lake. My chest burns and I almost laugh out of cheer joy. Only I am surrounded by other swimmers and I don’t want to become the centre of attention. Instead I keep on smiling.
‘You’re okay?’
‘Yeah...’ I breath. ‘I’ve missed this so much.’
My chest prickles but I know I am safe. My hands are wrapped in gloves purchased along the shoes and remain warm. I use to judge my ability to remain in the water by the freedom of movements in my fingers. This is of no use right now when the skin there is safe from the bite of the cold. On this day, I do not care. I am cocky, stupid. A voice in my head tells me to be careful but I shut it down easily. M. is here and I have stayed longer than this in colder water than this. I am safe, joyous, held.
We swim around the small loop of yellow squat buoys, my eyes holding the tall red ones further along, longing to swim around them again. In time, I know I will. Today was just about meeting an old friend, rekindling a relationship I broke both unwillingly and willingly. It is good to be back, to feel the touch of water and cold on my skin. I have not been here in over three months and yet it is like I have never stopped coming. The conversation of water and skin continues, unhindered by my lack of presence in the last few months.
After three minutes, we get out and rush to the changing room. My chest contains a deep cold that vibrates and pulsates, a deep cold that soothes and heals.