Ecstasy and Agony

Sunday, Grace went to the Ice Box to skate. We arrived at the rink especially early because Grace wanted to work on her axel before her lesson with Jason. She looked at me before she went on the ice and said, "I know I can do it, Mom. Just watch." It's never wise to doubt Grace when she makes such claims, but I'll admit I wasn't so sure.

The Ice Box is a funny rink. It's located on the State Fairgrounds and in the summer during the fair serves as the horse ring. When the ice is laid down again in the fall, the rink is still full of flies in search of horses to annoy. As the building cools under the onslaught of the refrigeration system, the flies grow slow. They buzz gracelessly about the heads of skaters and their parents, who watch from the sidelines.

I took my seat close by the boards and watched Grace work. She warmed up, working her edges, stroking and doing crossovers. She tried out a few spins and then began working on the axel walk through. She jumped and fell, jumped and fell, jumped and fell. I walked to the rink lobby to stretch my legs, turned and walked back toward the ice just as Grace landed a jump on one foot. I gasped; Grace turned to me and grinned. She jumped again. And landed on one foot again. She stepped off the ice and gave me an enormous hug. "I'm going to show Jason," she said. "Wait," I cautioned. "He's still giving a lesson." Grace nodded. "I'll work on all my jumps."

Back on the ice, Grace meandered, unfocused now that her goal had been accomplished. Head down, she twirled a bit, got in the way of a few other skaters, then started to backstroke in preparation for a jump. Time seemed to slow down. Sometimes you can just tell when a skater is going to fall -- even if you know very little about the technique she ought to be employing. Grace tried for a lutz and her feet tangled. I watched her go down. She rose from the ice slowly, holding her hand, and skated toward me, her face a mask of shock and pain. As she came close, she held her hand out and it was covered with blood. Through the gore I could see her thumb, torn down the middle by a very deep gash: a to-the-bone slice.

I turned to the Club representative acting as Ice Monitor; she'd been sitting in the stands watching her daughter skate. "I need help," I said. She sat. "I NEED HELP RIGHT NOW." By then I was moving with Grace out into the lobby and the changing area. Grace sat quietly holding her hand as the blood drenched the sleeves of her skating dress. I turned and the Ice Monitor was moving in what seemed like slow motion toward me. "I need help," I said again. "I need a first-aid kit now." I ran to the ice and called to Jason. I ran past the ice monitor to the first aid kit in the skate room. A box of band aids and an old dusty eye-wash kit. I ran to the bathroom and got paper towels. I ran back to Grace. Jason told me to get wet towels. I ran back to the bathroom. Grace sat. Quietly. Holding her hand. Jason had taken her skates off for her. Someone said, "You have time. You don't have to race to the hospital." Someone else said, "Go to St. Elizabeth's. If you go to Bryant and there's a huge crisis, you'll have to wait forever."

Somehow, I got Grace's skates and guards into her Zuca bag and shepherded her out to the car. I'm sure we talked on the way to the Hospital, but I can't remember what we said. I called Mike to tell him where we were and what had happened. We agreed that he would stay to watch Dan's football game and cheer him on. There seemed little reason for both of us to sit in the Emergency Room. Lucy was at a birthday party and well taken care of for the moment.

At last, we were able to see a doctor. Grace's wound had exposed the joint cavity in her thumb and sliced into tendon. The doctor numbed her hand, carefully cleaned the cut, then sutured the edges closed. He had X-rays taken to make sure she hadn't broken her hand and those came back negative. "Well, Mom," he said finally. I always find it funny when doctors and teachers refer to me as Mom. "She's sliced into that tendon. We've got a new hand doctor in town. He's great. You'll need to get Grace in to see him tomorrow..." and on and on... "increased risk of infection..." "growth plate..." "could be quite serious..." "can't tell the extent of the damage..."

I took Grace to see Dr. Cullen the next morning. Dr. Cullen, I figure, is from Philadelphia. Maybe upstate New York. Definitely not the midwest. He wasted no time on niceties. "A serious injury. No way to tell how bad until surgery. Must do surgery quickly to prevent infection. How about tomorrow morning."

That night, Grace's friend and her Mom invited Grace and me over for dinner. They had gifts for Grace, to carry her through surgery: a toy monkey, a pair of pajamas, a snuggy blanket, and peace sign shirt from Justice for Girls, Grace's favorite store. They talked with Grace about the surgery, reassured her, and reassured me too. On the way home, Grace said, "it's a terrible tragedy when children die, isn't it?" "Yes," I said. "What will happen if I don't wake up, Mama?" Grace asked. "You'll wake up, Grace," I said. "I promise. And when you wake up, I will be right there with you." "I saw God the other day," Grace said (she's been listening to my Victor Wooten cd). "Really," she affirmed. "I saw God." In the darkness, I cried. I didn't have the words to comfort, to lift the fear away for her. But Grace had them somehow for herself.

The surgery is over now. Grace never lost her composure, never lost her faith. She woke up woozy and a bit dizzy, but quickly recovered. Dr. Cullen came out to speak with us. "Bad gash on that tendon. Surgery went fine though. Cast for three months. See you in two weeks." And he was off to the next case.

Six hours later Grace was dancing around the house, practicing her axel walk-through in our upstairs hallway. Mike and I looked at each other. "When do you think she should skate?" I asked. "FRIDAY," Mike said. "Sunday," I said.

I think we will follow Grace. She just seems to know somehow.

Zen and the Art of Grace

The weather has turned here in Nebraska; the sky today is a bright, light blue and the air is cool and clear. The leaves are turning just about their edges and those that have fallen early blow easily across streets, forming loose piles against curbs and fences.

Two weekends ago, Grace and I traveled to St. Joseph, Missouri for her first competition of the 2009 - 2010 season. We were both excited not only because of the competition, but also because we've finally made rink friends -- not casual acquaintances, but friends who feel like kindred spirits, as Anne of Green Gables would say. We all stayed in the same hotel, ate meals together, and played in-between events.

On the way to St. Joe's, Grace and I talked about her goals for the competition. I asked her to name three goals for the weekend. Grace's response was, "I want to take first place; that's my goal, my only goal." Sigh. I asked her if she thought she could control what place she takes in any competition. Finally, she admitted that maybe she couldn't control what other skaters do on the ice or how judges perceive her performance or those of other skaters. We talked about goals she could make for which she could control the outcome. Finally, Grace said she'd like to skate to the best of her ability, skate two clean programs, and skate with joy and to give joy to the audience. I thought those were pretty great goals and that the conversation was over.

There was a pause...and then Grace said, "Mom, I think I'm going to just get lost out there on the ice." "What do you mean?" I queried. I was worried. Was Grace so nervous, so stressed about skating that she feared forgetting her program? "Mom," she drawled, "getting lost is like when you go for it. But when you get lost you are going with so much joy and you have no idea what the future holds."

In Japan, there is this concept called wabi sabi. Maybe loosely translated the term signifies transience, imperfect beauty, an aesthetic that not only accounts for the unfinished, the temporary, the flawed, but celebrates these qualities in the everyday.

Life with Grace (with grace) might be wabi sabi; while she didn't skate perfectly clean programs, falling once in each, she did skate beautifully, with joy and courage. She took second in the long program. And she showed her coach and me a little glimpse what getting lost might look like when a child who is both tough and tender is nurtured, supported, and taken seriously as a skater.

More soon!

After a Long Silence

I haven't written about skating for ages. In part I've been silent because I've been so busy. But more than this, I've been silent because I didn't know what to say exactly. I'll give the update in brief and then begin to blog from where we are rather than dwelling in the past.

Grace had a disastrous winter and spring. At school, she struggled to find joy in learning in a classroom where enjoyment was read as a sign of disrespect and disobedience (for crying out loud! Maybe I need to write an entry just on this experience!). At the rink, she struggled to find the kind of everyday discipline that skating demands. After a very rough Winter Fest competition, Grace wrestled with herself on and off the ice. She worked and worked and worked, but seemed to gain little ground. She felt herself to be increasingly alienated from other children at her school and blamed skating, which, she felt, took her away from after-school play and made her different from a crew of popular girls with whom she hoped to be friends. We were driving to Omaha (fifty miles or so) four times a week and something had to shift: either Grace needed a breakthrough or she needed to quit.

After several months of soul-searching and agonizing, Mike and I made the decision to make a coaching change. We wanted a coach who would come to Lincoln during the winter when the Lincoln rink is open. And we wanted a coach who would take Grace's dreams of being a competitive skater seriously, who would push her to skate in her "zone of proximal development," at the outside edges of her ability, and who would give her the kind of coaching support she needs to stay at that outside edge. We made the change in late May and it was PAINFUL, but oddly not so much for Grace. I felt terrible (excited for Grace, but unbelievably guilty about what might be perceived as betraying the old coach); Grace seemed to feel exhilarated.

Grace has been working with Jason, then, for three months. She has a new compulsory program, and new freeskate program, and a new attitude. It's not all sunlight and roses. Grace is skating five times a week, still in Omaha because the Lincoln rink hasn't opened yet (it opens this weekend). She and I have been getting up at 5:00 AM or so to get to the rink for morning skates because ice time has been so limited even in Omaha. BUT...

The changes in Grace's skating are pretty incredible. In my next post, I'll describe them more and put up some before and after videos. She'll be competing this weekend in St. Joseph, MO for the first time as Jason's skater. We're not sure what to expect; it seems even more important than usual, given these dramatic changes, for Grace to really focus her competition goals around skating a clean program and having fun rather than winning or placing. And truthfully, whatever she does this weekend, she's a different and much, much stronger skater now.

More soon...