Chapter 44 Twenty-five years old Kath
Twenty-five years old
Kath
Every time I open my phone, there seems to be a photo of Sam.
He’s all over social media, and highlights of his races play on TV in the evenings and even appear on the news.
I couldn’t have avoided his races if I wanted to.
My lips turn up in amusement as I read an article referring to him as ‘Golden Boy’. Old nicknames die hard, I guess.
“I’ve always admired the team,” Charlie, who swum the backstroke, had said. “I remember being fourteen and watching Sam win a gold at Rio. Getting to swim with him now is amazing.”
“How does that sound, Sam?” Mel asked, and he laughed, looking the most relaxed I’d ever seen him in an interview.
“It makes me feel older than I am, Mel.” He patted Charlie on the shoulder.
“Truthfully, it’s fantastic. We have such a talented team.
So many young swimmers coming through our programme.
Charlie swam amazingly, and I can’t wait to see what the next few years have in store for him.
” He faced Charlie with a smile. “You’re one to watch, mate. ”
“What do the next few years have in store for you, Sam?” Mel asked. “You’re only twenty-five. You’re our most decorated swimmer. Are you excited for the next Olympics?”
There was a long pause. A pause I’d spent analysing every inch of his face. The set of his shoulders, the way the water from his hair was dripping down his forehead.
“I think I need to spend a bit of time working out what I want to do next, if I’m honest,” he’d said. “I’m going to take a few weeks to just let this all sink in. I might come back home. I need to work out what my future holds and whether that future involves swimming.”
They’d all look at him shocked. It wasn’t a retirement announcement. But it wasn’t exactly far off.
“Well, swimming will miss you, if you leave,” Mel told him, and the others on the team nodded along.
I was left thinking about what that might mean for him.
The next Olympics is in London. A home Olympics, in the city where we grew up.
It would be incredible. But if he no longer enjoys swimming, I don’t want him to put himself through all that stress.
He’s achieved what he wanted, and if he stops, he can do it with his head held high.
Sam calls me as I’m just about to go on a walk.
“I’m free.” He heaves out a sigh.
“You survived the six days, well done.” I fish around for my keys and grab my sunglasses.
We chat idly as I leave the flat. It’s a beautiful day and Hampstead Heath is full of other walkers. A breeze stirs some of the trees as I walk.
“How was the hospital?” Sam asks. He always asks.
“Fine. Busy.” A dog rushes past me, distracting me from my otherwise negative thoughts. I don’t want to talk about work. “So, retiring?” I ask him instead.
There’s a pause before he accepts my change in the direction of the conversation.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I think I just need a break and to work out what I want to do. And I need to deal with this anxiety. I can’t just call you every time I start panicking, you have a job and a life.”
“Not much of a life at the moment,” I joke.
But it falls flat. I’ve been struggling with my mental health recently, and witnessing Sam’s panic attack has made me realise that.
Realise that the difficulty sleeping, the fact that I don’t want to see anyone and that I don’t have energy to do things might actually add up to more than just being a bit drained.
I don’t want to ignore it until it becomes a bigger problem, but I just don’t know how to talk to my friends about my experiences.
Does that make me the same as Sam? Shutting people out?
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Soon, maybe.” I swallow. “So what’s your plan?”
“I think I should talk to a sports psychologist. And I need distance from swimming to work out whether I still love it. At the moment, swimming is tangled with guilt and selfishness and anxiety, and I need to deal with it sooner rather than later. I regret not putting in the work earlier.” He sighs. “It’s just a bit of a mess.”
“Taking the first step with a psychologist makes a lot of sense. I can’t remember when you last took a break.”
“Yeah. It must have been Rio,” he says quietly.
There’s a breath where I’m sure we’re both thinking about the aftermath of that ‘break’. The ensuing fight, the years of silence. I try not to dwell on it too much. I don’t want to start unpacking those thoughts yet. Someday soon I’m going to have to work out whether I can really forgive him.
“So, back to London?” I ask. “When are you coming home?”
“I think maybe two weeks. I need to chat with my dad. And also the coaches in Florida.”
He pauses.
“Can I— um, would you be open to meeting up with me when I’m back?”
I suck in a breath. We’ve been talking on the phone for a week, but other than talking about his panic attack, it’s mainly been surface level. Seeing him in person feels different. It feels more real. It feels like something I need to be ready for, and I’m not sure if I am yet.
“Maybe,” I hedge. At least I have a few weeks to analyse my decision.
“I need to apologise,” he says. “Again. In person.”
He apologises every time we talk and though I understand a bit more about why he pushed me away, I just wish he had spoken to me about it rather than making the decision for both of us.
Or maybe not done it in a way that felt so cruel.
In a way that made a mockery of my feelings and left scars it took me years to learn to see past.
“Well, let me know when you land,” is all I say in response.