Flowing with the Go (14 page)

I must have stayed for the next class after competition team, because somehow on this particular day, I was rolling with a gal who had never done the competition class. She was big and strong and a good opponent for me. Class was nearly over, and I was basically riding out the clock, to be completely honest. She had gotten me in side control (or maybe it was a mount) and was holding me down pretty well. I was exhausted. I had that tight-throat feeling and didn't want to struggle anymore. Coach and Jeff were on the periphery, and I remember saying, “I'm done,” hoping it was just loud enough to have her hear me, but not so loud that Coach could hear me. I'd wanted to tap because I wanted to stop, not because she had submitted me. And then I heard Coach say, “You can stop when you get out. You have to escape.”

No! Why? My spirit was in conflict. I don't consider myself a quitter, but I felt beaten, and at that moment, I was willing to relinquish my pride and quit. It felt disgraceful to think that way: part of me thinking
what does it matter if I stop?
and part of me feeling like I shouldn't stop. It's hard to do in-depth soul-searching, however, when you are in the midst of a Jiu-Jitsu sparring session.

The next thing I knew, Jeff was on his belly right by my head so I could see him, and he was calmly giving me instructions. I tried to execute the moves he was telling me to do, but maybe because part of me still wanted to give up or maybe because she was doing a good job, or both, I wasn't very successful. This just frustrated me more.

“I want to stop. I'm done.” Those statements were not acknowledged. Jeff just kept telling me to breathe and where to put my hands and feet. That he was so calm and clear was an indication that I could do it; I just had to keep doing the work. And I got out eventually. It is hard to describe the feeling you get when you escape from under a tough opponent. “Relief” just doesn't cover it.

In the other sports I'd played, I always had a ball or a net between me and my opponents. I always had teammates who could pick up the slack if I was having an off day. In Jiu-Jitsu, the only person who can save you is you. Jiu-Jitsu truly calls you out, challenges you: “Let's see what you got. What are you really made of?”

And this is analogous to experiencing a life trauma. That's when nature calls you out. Anyone can give up—that's definitely the easiest thing to do. I wanted to give up many times after Carly died because healing was too hard. Instead, sleeping, drinking, isolating myself, running away—these behaviors taunted me to just let it all go, give up. But something inside me made me hang on. Some primitive survival instinct helped me chip through that wall of self-doubt. I don't recall ever being conscious of it. That instinct, coupled with the external support of a few key people, kept me from going over the edge. I felt encouraged to make a better effort.

After that spar, I apologized to Jeff. I felt sorry that I hadn't been tougher, that I had wanted to stop. He just shook his head, reminding me that those thoughts were not important. That I didn't stop was what was important. I suppose he's been on that precipice before: the one-on-one combat where giving up can mean injury or death. As an athlete and a coach, like many of the people in the gym, he is incredibly mentally tough. During workout, he is always intensely vocal about how your mind has to take over when your body wants to stop. Sometimes your greatest asset is your ability to stay with something longer than anyone else.

I learned a lot during that practice session. I took many thoughts home with me:

(1) It does not feel good to be trapped on the bottom, so don't get yourself there.

(2) If you do get there, relax and remind yourself that you know what to do.

(3) Listen to the support units around you.

(4) Don't listen to the quitter in your head.

(5) No one else expects you to fall apart, so why should you?

(6) Remember that the feeling you get when you give the second/ third/fourth effort is infinitely more rewarding than the feeling of just “being done.”

29
O Ye of Little Faith

W
e are never trapped in life, and yet it can feel that way. I think one of the side effects of Carly's death, which is painful for my parents, is that now I question my faith. Does that mean I didn't have enough to start with? What I know is that right now I am not comforted by my faith. I went back to church for a while afterwards because my parents thought I should. They are so rock solid in this arena, it is enviable to me. But I can't get to that place, and I feel like I am disappointing them. I didn't get much out of sitting in the back of church by myself, hoping no one would talk to me, or from crying the moment I walked in. I used to leave before Mass was over because I would either run out of tissue or hyperventilate out of fear. I had so much anger at God. Did You take her? Why would You do that? Why did You take a girl who loved the life You gave her? A girl who honored her existence with passion and energy and good will, who loved her parents, her brothers, and her friends.

Every day I work with kids who are throwing their lives away making bad choices. I see parents who ignore and belittle their children. I see crime and violence in the news every day. Those people are alive. Why not them instead of Carly?

My anger at God lessened somewhat when it was obvious that it wasn't getting me anywhere or giving me any answers. So I tried a new approach. I began to believe that death is random. We have no control over it; it can happen at any moment. Scary! And let's just say that God is there waiting for us, ready to comfort us because He has no control over death either—it's part of the life cycle of which we are all a part. This approach didn't make me feel much better either. Instead, it sort of heightened my anxiety. However, it did bring to light the fragility of life and reinforce the need for daily kindnesses.

Lisa once asked me if my outlook on death has changed, and I emphatically responded with a yes. Five years ago, I seldom thought of death and certainly not in the realm of my immediate family. Sure, I worried about Chuck driving home late at night from gigs, but I felt strongly at the time that if something happened to Chuck, I would get through. I would have to be strong for my kids. Never ever had the idea of one of my children dying been given serious thought.

After Carly died, I didn't care if I died. Actually—more accurately—I didn't want to die, but I didn't care if I lived. Sometimes I just wanted to sleep forever. And I would—and still do—tell myself that it would be okay to die because then I will see Carly again. Actually it's more of a concession: I want to live for my boys, but should something happen, the people I leave behind should know that I'm with Carly and that's okay.

Where am I with faith now? Pretty stuck. I do believe that I will see Carly again, that she is happy and in a good place doing good work. I bet she is the best darn guardian angel in the regiment. When Carly had decided what instrument she wanted to play in jazz band, she announced, “I want to play alto sax because it's the main instrument in the band—right in the middle with most of the solos.” Yeah, not a shy kid, definitely liked to be front and center. I'm sure she has all the other angels on a schedule and working to be the best they can be. There is probably a competitive bracket set up keeping track of who touches the most lives. And if God is there, she's probably checking to make sure He can shoot a left-handed layup.

30
My Secret Life

I
've already mentioned that people grieve differently. Chuck and I were also warned that grief can destroy a marriage. And indeed it can really test a relationship. Chuck has always supported my “whimsies” as he calls them. Like when I go crazy, painting the walls of the house different colors or changing the downstairs bathroom to a jungle theme. I have always immersed myself in different projects, and Chuck knows that when I decide to do something, I go all out . . . reading books about the subject, buying all the supplies I need, taking over the dining room table, or taking over the garage and using the ping-pong table as my workbench. Chuck is really laid back—a lovely Libra. He just wants me to be happy, and I love that about him. So it's no surprise to me that he stays out of my Jiu-Jitsu. I like that too—it's my thing. I have tried to show him a couple of moves, but he won't have any of that. He reminds me that when I was taking striking class, I had goaded him into punching the bag (his recollection not mine) and that he hurt his wrist and it ached for several weeks. It would probably kill him if I demonstrated the rear naked choke.

Chuck had this exchange with our good friend Jenny. (Jenny told me about it.)

[Chuck] “My wife has a secret life. She leaves the house three or four times a week at night, and I don't know where she goes or who she is with.”

[Jenny laughing] “Yes you do. She goes to Jiu-Jitsu.”

[Chuck] “No, she goes to (air quotes) ‘roll.'”

Chuck had this exchange with my parents when they were out together, and I was training.

[Chuck] “I don't think Elena is ever going to like golf.” Enough said there.

Chuck had this exchange with me on a rare night we went out together; it was our anniversary, two weeks after Worlds.

[Chuck] “Are those new jeans?”

[Me] “No, I've had them, but you haven't seen them because they haven't fit for a while.”

[Chuck] “Hm.”

[Me] “But I might need some new jeans if I go down a weight class for my next competition.”

[Chuck] “You know, most women want to lose weight to wear a slinky dress. You want to lose weight so you can go beat people up.”