Sports Are Not Life

I haven't swum competitively in twenty years, but every four years I get sucked into the Olympics. I've spent the last few days thinking about Michael Phelps, trying to see if there are any lessons I can learn and apply to my own life. To my own situation. Frankly, I wanted to find lessons to apply. Like many Americans, I grew up with an absolute faith in sports as a metaphor for life.

So in his first race at the Olympics, Phelps finished 4th. In his first relay his team got 2nd. Then he got outtouched in the 200 fly. I was really curious to see how he would respond. After all, he doesn't lose at the Olympics. He almost never loses anywhere. Would he be able to shake it off, or would he fall apart?

That guy's mental toughness is second to none. He took responsibility for the result, admitting that his conditioning was a little less than optimal, that he'd been lazy on some walls in practice. He also acknowledged how much luck played a role in Beijing, where the stars aligned for him and he was on the winning side of some miraculous touches. But he didn't beat himself up. His confidence wasn't rattled. And then...he rocked his last four races, getting gold in all of them. What a satisfying narrative that is. Even more satisfying, maybe, than winning eight golds.

The problem is, a baby dying is not a botched 200 fly. How can I take responsibility for what happened when I don't know what went wrong, and when I did everything I could? I took my folic acid. I exercised, but not too much. I gave up drinking alcohol and coffee and eating raw cheese and raw fish. I was healthy. I had all of the tests. None of it helped.

I can recognize that I got very, very unlucky. 1 in 200 pregnancies end in stillbirth in the U.S. Not that many. But enough that there are a lot of heartbroken families out there. But there's not another race, another Olympics. Most likely there won't be another baby for me, and even if there is, it won't be this one.

I've always been a hard worker. To the extent that I succeeded in swimming it was my work ethic and my determination that got me there, not my talent. At Lakeside Swim Club I was Most Improved four years in a row. But I never made the Olympics. I never even made Junior Nationals. You'd think that would have clued me into the fact that all of this sports hoohah that we think says so very much about the human spirit, about anything being possible if you work hard and dream big and give it your all is complete bullshit. But it hadn't. Which is why, on April 5, two days after my son died, I was ready to get back out there and have another baby. A bigger, better baby than before! It would be a triumphant return to top reproductive form for a once-great performer! You can almost hear Bob Costas narrating.

In sports, this is where you redouble your efforts. Cut carbs from your diet, increase your yardage, add pilates and massage to your regimen. And that's what I wanted. I wanted to fight. I wanted to do anything but be with my own sadness and loss. I wanted my baby to have a terrible disease, so that I could fight against it and he could beat it. The truth is, I can't stand to lose. And the game was over before I even knew I was playing. Before I had a chance to fight. That's cheating, and I want a fucking rematch.

Some things are impossible, no matter what NBC says. My child will not come back to life, no matter how hard I work, how determined I am, how steadfast my will. I have to do something other than fight, something I've never done before: I have to accept. I hate the very word, but it doesn't matter if I hate it. There's no other word for it.