Watching the Olympics makes me think of the vulnerability of spinal cords. Thirty feet over the surface of the water, synchronized divers rise up on their toes before flinging themselves backwards into space. I wince at the thought of their heads cracking the diving platform as they somersault and imagine them “missing their dives,” smacking into the water at the oft mentioned speed of thirty-five miles per hour. In a different arena, gymnasts whirl and flip. I know they have practiced daily for decades, yet as they tumble, I dread a slip, a misjudged distance that could shatter the fragile stem linking their skulls to their bodies.
Perhaps I have been reading too much Daniel Gottlieb, a columnist, writer, and practicing psychotherapist who was inducted into the world of quadriplegia thirty years ago by an errant tractor-trailer tire. Recently, I also picked up Caroline Adderson’s novel, Sitting Practice, in which the protagonist’s wife becomes a paraplegic when she unbuckles to reach for a loose tennis ball rolling around by her feet. Her husband, the driver, glances down at her, and in that moment, a truck strikes their car. And today, the sports section featured Sang Lan, a former gymnast who became a quadriplegic at a competition in 1998 due to an assistant’s mistaken adjustment of her springboard as Lan was already dashing down the runway for her vault.
All of these stories remind me that we might wake up in the morning whole but find ourselves irreparably fractured by nightfall. I mount my bike these days as a soldier enters battle, with prayer and trepidation. Each afternoon as I pull around the corner that marks my last possible brush with risk, I breathe my thanks and feel reprieved.
Gottlieb, Adderson’s fictional wife, and Sang Lan all learned to thrive despite their accidents. I admire them, yet am terrified to pass through similar territory. None of us want to be a poster child for overcoming loss. And yet, we cannot let our fears limit our engagement with the world, an engagement inextricably entwined with risk.
I used to believe that I could practice giving up things in preparation for some future loss. Perhaps I can prepare, but not in the way I was going about it, for things that I choose to forgo are not the same as things taken from me against my will. Making do without some possession or activity in preparation for potential lack isn’t the same as losing my mobility, autonomy, or pain-free existence.
In an essay on prayer, Nevada Barr writes, “Accepting that the material world runs itself and God is of the spirit, (…) the question of why God lets bad things happen to good people even when we expressly ask Him not to became moot. Things of the world are by, for and of the world. Those of us in the world, coupled with the law of physics and meteorology make things happen…[God’s] is the realm of the spirit…Now I pray for things of the spirit: compassion, strength, guidance. I pray for the spirit to sustain me when the world sucks….”
How could I believe that I could train to become a paraplegic, debilitated, or chronically ill? Even though I might give lip service to accepting the losses of old age, in my heart I hope to be fully functional until I die in my centenarian sleep. But perhaps Barr’s insights on prayer can point the way to a method of practice related to developing my character. Perhaps I can foster a habit of prayer in which I petition for equanimity, determination, humor, fortitude, and creativity—all traits I would need were my physical limitations to shrink. Barr also mentions compassion. Usually I think of directing this quality outward towards others, but I often require it from myself. I need it as I endlessly fall short of my expectations, and of course I would need it were the abilities I take for granted cut away.
These days, then, I am hyper aware of bodies—those of the Olympians, my children, my students, and even my own. The Olympians’ bodies are marvels, and the risks they take with them underscore their fragility. However, we all are poised for physical losses. We should not morbidly dwell on loss—yet at the same time, we wouldn’t be remiss to practice growing a character that could meet it. Although we hope to be blessed with good health and safety, we should pray for qualities that would equip us for their absence.
It may be that even this level of preparation is wishful thinking. Perhaps the only thing we can do is keep our channel to the Divine Ear open, so that when we need to cry out, we are well acquainted with the One who listens.
