Читать книгу Living Beyond My Circumstances - Deborah L Willows - Страница 8

1. Go for the Gold

“See what my daughter won?”

The patrons looked up from their Big Macs and McNuggets to see what all the fuss was about. We were in New York, and earlier that day I’d set a world record swimming the 25-metre freestyle. My dad was grinning from ear to ear. And while my cheeks were burning, I was grinning too. Even the cashier got in on the fun.

“Would it be OK if I took the medal to the kitchen so the rest of the staff can see it?”

“Sure,” I said.

When I’d graduated from high school, I prayed, “God, please don’t let me lead a boring life.” Was I in for an amazing adventure!

I participated in sports such as floor hockey in school but didn’t know I was on the road to becoming a Paralympic gold medalist. On June 1, 1984, I could hardly sit still. My transportation was arranged. My bags were packed. And my swimming gear was stowed, everything including extra towels for me to sit on so I wouldn’t slide out of my wheelchair when I was wet. Family and friends stopped by to wish me well.

The excitement was too much. Come 6:00 a.m., I was still wide awake, wondering what the next month would be like. In the morning I left for a week of training at the University of Windsor in preparation for the Games.

A couple of hours later, Doug, Canada’s head coach, handed me a package. “Your uniform, Willows.”

This is really happening.

Pretty much exhausted, I slept well that night. And it’s a good thing too. The organizers had prepared a full schedule. Two hours of swimming before breakfast. An hour of slalom, an hour of field events and an hour or two of soccer before supper.

“I think you should take Friday off,” Vicki, my coach, suggested.

I frowned at her and shook my head.

“Debbie...”

“Fine.”

It was probably for the best. Having cerebral palsy (CP) meant I tired easily at the best of times. (Cerebral palsy is a neurological disorder caused by damage to the motor control centres of the developing brain either before or during birth. It neither worsens with time nor is contagious.)

On Saturday the athletes and their coaches boarded one bus while the other was filled with our equipment: two wheelchairs for each athlete, one everyday chair and another sports specific chair; spare parts; etc. We drove to Detroit so we could catch a plane to Newark. When we exited the airport, my heart began to pump faster. My eyes widened. The Paralympic Games bus was waiting for us.

After making our way through the congested New York streets, we arrived on Long Island. Immediately, the athletes went through an accreditation process. An official photographer took our pictures. After the day of travel, I looked like the dog’s breakfast.

“Wear your ID at all times.”

I sighed. Just one more thing to take in stride.

The thrill of practicing at the venues where the Games would take place was offset by the intimidation of being examined by a therapist and two doctors I’d never met before. This was part of the classification process. My muscles tensed and my mind raced, but I knew it was necessary. Each athlete’s disability is different, and the Paralympic Committee wanted to ensure the playing field was as fair as possible. Talk about sensory overload.

“President Reagan is coming to the opening ceremonies. We’re going to have to frisk those in wheelchairs and have those of you who can walk pass through a metal detector.”

Are you kidding me?

Though I understood the importance of tight security, because I have spastic limbs that don’t always do what I want them to it was very difficult to co-operate while being frisked. It was quite the process, but after approximately four hours, the 1,750 Paralympians and their coaches were cleared. The Games could begin.

“And now the team from Canada.”

What a thrill to enter Olympic Stadium with my teammates, 14,000 spectators in the stands! It was a good thing I was sitting down or I might have collapsed.

“Are you Debbie Willows?” asked a member of the British men’s team. He pointed toward the fence. “Your parents are over there.”

I don’t think he heard my thanks as Vicki propelled my wheelchair in their direction.

“Everything’s all right,” I said to the member of SWAT who stepped in front of me. (As I mentioned, there was security everywhere.)

“I didn’t think you were coming until the 18th,” I said to my mom and dad.

“They let me start my vacation early,” Dad said. “It isn’t every high school teacher who has a daughter in the Paralympic Games.”

After hugging my parents, I rejoined my fellow athletes.

Over the following 12 days, records would be broken, some dreams fulfilled and others shattered. Undoubtedly, people’s lives would be changed forever.

My heart began to race as the flags were raised and the torch was lit. Breathless, I realized I was representing my country. But even more importantly, as a Christian, I was also representing my God. What a show! What a day! What a dream come true!

The next day, I rolled up to the starting position, took the boccia ball, and tossed it toward the jack. Boccia is played by those with CP and other similar disabilities. Athletes throw a red or blue leather ball as close as possible to a white ball or “jack” on the court of a gym floor. My arms don’t always co-operate; the ball doesn’t always go where I want it to. That day, however, was a good day—a very good day. I sat as tall as I could and thrust my shoulders back as they placed the bronze medal around my neck.

The course was laid out the following day for the wheelchair slalom. The event is judged on accuracy and speed. This would be difficult at the best of times, but with strangers watching and heart pounding, I had to rein in my racing thoughts and focus on the course. I was the only competitor driving my chair by mouth, and although I didn’t win a medal, I did come in fourth.

“I’d like to relax in the pool,” I said to Vicki later that day.

“I think that’s a good idea.”

My body began to relax, but my mind was uncooperative. What am I doing here? Who do I think I am? I can’t handle it anymore. Then I remembered the truth. I was a Paralympic athlete. I had been selected to represent my country on the international stage. I could finish what I’d started.

The new day brought a new outlook. The turmoil in my stomach was caused by excitement, not fear or uncertainty. Vicki held my feet, and I waited for the gun to go off. I felt so free in the water. No wheelchairs. No restrictions. No limitations. With all the strength and control I could muster, I pushed off and gave it my all. Twenty-five metres and one minute, seventeen seconds later, I set a new world record for the freestyle.

Yahoo!

Wait! What?

The pool was divided in two lengthwise. I needed my father’s and Vicki’s assistance to exit the water. What I expected was their help. What I didn’t expect was to be thrown back into the water on the far side of the divider where there was more room to help me out. After the exhilaration of winning gold, it was a rude awakening, one I look back on with a smile.

On Saturday I participated in two field events. I won second in the precision throw and third in the distance throw, which is something like shot put. Another day and two more medals.

The next day I was waiting for the soccer game to begin. My coach had gone to get us some food, and I realized I needed to use the washroom. What could I do? There was no way I could manage on my own, and Vicki would not be back for a while.

My mom. She could take me. She’d done it thousands of times before, but this was different.

“I’m sorry,” said the police officer, “but your mother doesn’t have the proper clearance.”

“Clearance? To take my daughter to the washroom. I’m her mother.”

“Yes, ma’am, but rules are rules.”

I was becoming very uncomfortable. “Isn’t there something we can do?”

“Well,” the officer said, “I could escort you.”

I looked at my mom and she looked at me. She shrugged.

“If it’s the only way...” I said.

That was the first and only time I’ve had a police escort to use the washroom.

Being a team sport, soccer presents unique challenges. Each wheelchair must meet specific standards so no athlete is at a disadvantage. Wheelchair soccer is a cross between murderball and hot-rodding. It’s crazy, but fun...most of the time.

Crunch!

Those within earshot grimaced as the two chairs collided and Joe’s foot broke. He refused to get it taken care of until he returned home. He didn’t want to miss participating in the men’s swimming events scheduled for later in the week. Such is the determination of a world-class athlete.

Before I’d left for New York, I’d received a new wheelchair.

“Make sure you don’t smash the chair, Deb,” my dad said.

He sure changed his tune. Above the noise of the athletes vying for the ball and the cheers of the fans, my father’s voice rang out. “Go for it!” Concern for the chair was long forgotten!

Though we won against Great Britain, the U.S. team played aggressively and secured the gold medal. Canada won silver and Great Britain bronze.

Between events, I spent time with my parents. We went to Long Island Beach, did some shopping, went out for supper and hung out in their hotel room. The hotel manager even sent flowers when I won gold.

Before the closing ceremonies, my parents packed my power chair in their car and headed home. We hugged goodbye, and I watched them drive away.

As I watched the flame go out at the end of the ceremonies, I sunk further into my chair and sighed. I felt like a deflated balloon. What an emotional rollercoaster ride it had been. And yet, I knew one thing: I wanted to work like crazy in order to qualify for the Games in Seoul four years later.

After a little sightseeing, we made our way to the airport. We flew to Detroit, where we caught a bus for Windsor.

“Hey, Deb,” my brother greeted me when I rolled off the bus. I could almost taste my mom’s homemade cooking as we drove to London.

“It will be good to collapse into my own bed.”

I should have known by his grin that something was up. It seemed my family had no intention of allowing me to quietly slip back into my pre-Paralympics routine. Friends and family swarmed around me when I arrived home.

“Congratulations, Deb...”

“To think I knew you when...”

“Our very own celebrity...”

That night I sank into bed with a grin on my face and a song in my heart. It was an amazing trip, an amazing dream. God gave me the ability each day to compete for Him.

If I ever had the opportunity to participate again, I decided, I would do some things differently. I had been so focused on the competition I hadn’t taken time to make friends. I didn’t give this much thought until I returned home. It isn’t always easy to find the right balance.

In a very real sense, the medals I won are worthless. But when I share my faith with others, now that is pure gold. If back on that June day I did not swim my race, how many opportunities to share God’s love would I have missed?

Receiving a silver medal, 1984

Swimming the backstroke