The Swimmers
Text from the back cover of The Swimmers by Julie Otsuka:
The swimmers are unknown to one another except through their private routines (slow lane, medium lane, fast lane) and the solace each takes in their morning or afternoon laps. But when a crack appears at the bottom of the pool, they are cast out into an unforgiving world without comfort or relief.
One of these swimmers is Alice, who is slowly losing her memory. For Alice, the pool was a final stand against the darkness of her encroaching dementia. Without the fellowship of other swimmers and the routine of her daily laps she is plunged into dislocation and chaos, swept into memories of her childhood and the Japanese American incarceration camp in which she spent the war. Alice’s estranged daughter, reentering her mother’s life too late, witnesses her stark and devastating decline.
_ _ _
Last year while I was working at a Continuing Care Retirement Community (CCRC), a friend of mine who was a resident there recommended a book to me. This wasn't unusual; we talked regularly about what we were reading, constantly jotting down eachother's suggestions and promising to check if the library had a copy. This particular day, she didn't even wait for me to cross the threshold of her apartment before thrusting a book into my hands. "Here, you have to read this," she insisted, handing me The Swimmers by Julie Otsuka.
I read it that night and it immediately became one of my all time favorite books; one of those times that you borrow a book from a friend or the library then immediately go purchase a copy to own because you must have this book permanently in your collection at home. I raved about the book on my Goodreads account and told anyone who would listen that they, too, had to read it.
My sisters and mom gave in to my incessant pleading and all read the book. After everyone had finished, I opened up our family text thread to ask what everyone thought. The consensus was that, while they loved the second half of the book, they didn't really understand the first half — what it was about or how it related to what followed. See, The Swimmers is broken into two distinct parts: the first half details the pool and the individuals who swim at a community pool. The second follows one of those swimmers, Alice, as her dementia progresses. They may at first seem like two separate stories, but I see Otsuka's profound thread weaving through it all.
The first part of the book — the part that is solely about the swimmers and their pool — is written entirely in plural first person, with the narrator using "us" throughout. We know immediately that this is about a collective we, a community. We also meet Alice, who the second part of the book focuses on. We learn she's a regular at the underground pool, that the daily swim is a cemented part of her routine.
"One of us — Alice, a retired lab technician now in the early stages of dementia — comes here because she always has. And even though she may not remember the combination to her locker or where she put her towel, the moment she slips into the water she knows what to do. Her stroke is long and fluid, her kick is strong, her mind clear. 'Up there,' she says, 'I’m just another little old lady. But down here, at the pool, I’m myself.'" (pg. 4)
Alice's memory is declining, but in the safety of the underground pool and the surrounding, steadfast "us", no one is all that concerned about Alice's dementia — including Alice. She is herself, she is present, she is a swimmer. Among the collective we, her belonging is unquestioned, her presence valued. She and the others feel safe at the pool.
Not to say that the swimmers don't have baggage or turmoil in their "above ground" lives. But "the pool is their sanctuary, their refuge, the one place on earth, they can go to escape from their pain…" (pg. 10). The pool will always "provide us with a sense of comfort and order that is missing from our above ground lives” (pg.17).
Alice has dementia, another swimmer has Parkinson's. Some swimmers are fast, some are slow. Every swimmer is different, but in the water the differences – and diagnoses – cease to have power. The pool is the great equalizer; each person is “nothing more than a blur in goggles” (pg 11). The pool is a safe space, a comforting constant. The swimmers are free from the threat of the unknown. "Down below, at the pool, it is always a comfortable 81°. The humidity is 65%. The visibility is clear. The lanes are orderly and calm." (pg. 5) The conditions at the pool are always the same and predictably safe and comfortable. This consistency means comfort.
Unlike the dry world above, the pool is a place of rules that are always followed: “Be nice to Alice” is one of the rules (pg. 7). Kindness is required; assumptions not tolerated. "The slow lane people tend to be older men who have recently retired, women over the age of 49, water walkers, aqua, joggers… And the occasional patient in rehab. Be kind to them. Make no assumptions." (pg. 9) What the reader comes to understand is that these swimmers have unconsciously created a dementia inclusive community.
It's "us". And Alice, as well as every other swimmer, is unconditionally included in "us." And Alice remembers things while she swims. She may not remember them — or even the swim itself — as soon as she steps out of the water, but she feels alive during the swim. Included, safe, happy, and alive.
Everything takes a turn when a crack is discovered in the pool. All the swimmers are distraught — "Where did it come from? How deep is it? Is there anything in there? Who is to blame for it? Can we reverse it? And, most importantly, why us?" (Pg 39). It's unknown, it's scary, and all the swimmers react differently. Some swimmers say "not our problem," while "several of us worried that the crack might somehow be our own fault. We feel ashamed of it, as though it were a blemish, a defect, and indelible flaw, a moral stain up on our soul that we have brought upon ourselves."( Pg 41).
To me, the crack represents a dementia diagnosis.
Unknown, scary.
A sign of imperfection.
A potential chasm.
The beginning of the end.
Imagine the questions the swimmers ask when the crack appears as thoughts after receiving a dementia diagnosis: "Where did our dementia come from? How deep is it?... Who is to blame for it? Can we reverse it? And, most importantly, why us?" (Pg 39). "Several of us worried that the dementia might somehow be our own fault. We feel ashamed of it, as though it were a blemish, a defect, and indelible flaw, a moral stain up on our soul that we have brought upon ourselves."( Pg 41).
The reactions to the crack (and to a diagnosis) also include denial. And a lot of questions. The swimmers facing the crack, like people facing a dementia diagnosis, feel completely untethered, totally adrift, and are desperately searching for someone who can give them answers. "We wake up in a cold sweat, cheeks flushed, teeth clenched, heart pounding, wondering: how many more laps do we have left? 100? 1000? Six? 94? Isn’t there somebody out there who can give us a clue?" (pg. 62) With dementia, how many days do we have left? Who can help us make sense of this? Somebody, help!
The swimmers turn to "the expert" — the aquatics director — who dismisses them, literally. "Thank you and goodbye," he says. A dismissal those living with dementia know all too well.
After the crack itself is diagnosed as a fatal flaw forcing the closure of the pool, some swimmers are devastated but “others of us however feel strangely relieved — the terrible thing we’ve been waiting for has finally happened."
But, ultimately:
The pool is a community.
But the crack casts them out.
Dementia casts you out.
_ _ _
Closing:
The second part of the book follows Alice and her eventual transition into a memory care facility. She's not a swimmer anymore, there is no "us." “Because the only thing that matters at Belavista is who you are now.” (pg. 105) And who you are now is someone with dementia.
At the pool, the commonality among "us" is that everyone's a swimmer; individual identities are respected and acknowledged but there's an inclusivity in "us" that's empowering. In Memory Care, there's still a shared identity, but it's not "us"... it's "them" – there's an assumed homogeneity that's dangerous. It doesn't matter who you were before, now you're a patient, and only a patient.
At the pool, we agree to make no assumptions. In Memory Care, assumptions are the norm.
The book left me with some questions about our own societal norms and how we treat people with dementia.
Even with dementia, Alice felt like herself below ground at the pool. How can we foster that feeling in our "above ground" communities?
When the crack appeared, panic ensued. How can we temper the fear caused by the "crack" that is a dementia diagnosis?
The swimmers are a collective "us" while also maintaining individuality. How can the "us"ness of the pool be replicated in our communities? How can we unite while also respecting each other's unique identities?
Head to your library or local bookstore and grab a copy of The Swimmers. We can't wait to hear what you think.