Locked In: The Will to Survive and the Resolve to Live

by Victoria Arlen

  Stay hungry.

  Swim faster.

  Eyes on the prize.

  Later in the meet, I break an additional world record in the 400 free, and I break American and Pan-American records in the 50 freestyle and 100 breaststroke.

  But John keeps saying the same thing, “You could’ve gone faster.” And I do go faster with each race, but we never stop pushing. I haven’t yet qualified for the team, so I can’t sit back and relish my victory, assuming I will make the team. In fact, I am nervous and worried that I won’t make the team. Even after breaking three records, I refuse to believe that I have made the team until my name is announced.

  John and I focus on every meet and race as it comes up. For the first time in my life, I am ahead, but I swim and train like I am behind. “Don’t focus on making the team,” John says. “Just race and go fast. That is all I want you to do. The rest will come.” One race after another, faster times, breaking records and earning respect.

  “Victoria Arlen, welcome to the two thousand twelve US Paralympic Swim Team!”

  That’s me!

  My name, me, the girl who was told just three years ago that she’ll never amount to anything is named to the US Paralympic Swim Team.

  I did it.

  I’m going to London.

  • • •

  At the time trials, I sit in an auditorium in the middle of Bismarck, North Dakota, and wait as they continue to call out the swimmers’ names. I’m grasping the backpack in my lap that says, “Team USA, 2012.” Several names are called, and many are not. I watch as swimmers who have trained so hard and so long leave in tears while others jump for joy. My heart breaks for the swimmers who did not make the team.

  The auditorium is filled with a mixture of emotions. I feel bad for the swimmers who didn’t make the team. I have come to know quite a few of them throughout the meets, and they deserve a chance, too. But that’s just not how it works. You have to swim fast, and if you don’t, then that’s it. Swimming can be a cutthroat sport, and if you do well, your heart is full, and if you don’t do as well, you can be heartbroken.

  The team is escorted out of the auditorium and into meetings. I get to briefly hug my mummy and thank her, as tears run down her face. John has left for another meet, but I text him with the news. I should have known what he’d say: “Great. Time to get back to work. Need to get faster.”

  Holy moly.

  I’m going to London.

  In the meetings, we are each handed folders with paragraph after paragraph of team rules, flag and anthem etiquette, and Olympic and Paralympic history. This is real; I’m not dreaming! I don’t realize at the time that there’s a media firestorm going on outside.

  As soon as I touch down in Boston, my phone begins to ring. Major news networks are calling and requesting my time for interviews. With headlines such as “Swimmer from New Hampshire Breaks Swimming Star Ellie Simmonds’s Record” and “It Will Be the Battle of the Teenagers in London.”

  All of a sudden, I have to start dealing with the media. This is the first time I’ve been asked to share my story …

  I don’t want to share my story.

  I’m not a fan of hoopla and people making a big deal. I just like to do my thing and make my family and God proud. I don’t like showboating or boasting. This journey has cemented a humbleness within me. But the “media” world is relentless about my story. And I know that as soon as I share details, they won’t leave me alone. So, I keep my story as vague as I can and try to brush over the whole vegetative state/unresponsive period of my life. I want to keep the story about swimming and London. But they keep digging, and before I know it, I am an “international inspiration.” Balancing media appearances and training is incredibly difficult and leaves little to no time for “fun.” It is work, work, and more work. And if I don’t work “hard enough” for John’s standards, I get extra work.

  On top of that, I soon discover that there is another firestorm going on behind the scenes. Not only did I break Ellie’s records, but I awoke a dragon overseas.

  In the Paralympics, each participant must be “classified” by the International Paralympic Committee (IPC) before they can compete in any Paralympic-sanctioned meet. For swimmers, a classification session consists of a bench test and a swim test. During the bench test, they check out your body using a point system that ranks your abilities. They go through every limb and muscle group and extensively test it. Then they calculate the numbers.

  Then comes the swim test, which has a whole separate point system for your swimming. After that, they watch a race and make their final classification conclusion. With every classification appointment, I was an S6 across the board. The S indicates the event (freestyle, butterfly, and backstroke) and the classes range from 1 (most impaired) to 10 (least impaired).

  But a couple of individuals are not convinced of my classification since I broke two world records at trials. So, I receive an email stating that my classification is being “questioned.” When I was seventy-fifth in the world, no one questioned my classification, but as soon as I am number one, everything changes.

  Apparently, people in the past have faked being disabled so they could go to the Games. When I first heard that, I couldn’t help but laugh.

  You’d have to be pretty messed up in the head to do that.

  Trust me, if I had a choice, I would NOT want to be disabled.

  I hate being in a wheelchair.

  Because this is an Olympic year and because I virtually came out of nowhere, they are suspicious. Understandably so, but they don’t realize that during the last six years I have been fighting for my life; coming out of a vegetative state; learning how to move, eat, and function normally; and learning how to swim using just my arms.

  I’m not “secretly” plotting to fake my way to the Paralympics. Nonetheless, I have to gather a significant amount of documentation to verify my disability and be reevaluated at the Games. I am devastated. I just want to focus on my training and plan out my competition schedule. My family is buying tickets and making plans to come to the Games. If I am moved into a different classification, my whole schedule would be thrown off and my family couldn’t watch me. We have quite the crew going over to London, and I don’t want them to miss my races.

  But Coach John doesn’t let it derail me. “Channel this into your training. Regardless of what they do or say, we will be ready. You will be ready.” As hard as Coach John is on me, I understand that he knows what I am capable of, and he wants to help me get into a “better, stronger, and faster” mind-set. Sometimes he and I are like oil and water. He pushes me sometimes close to the edge. And he knows the right things to say to piss me off, and it always gets me to go faster. He knows my potential and expects excellence every minute that we train. If I’m not breaking records in practice or coming close to breaking them, there are consequences and harder sets. And the occasional cold hose spraying me. Sometimes after a two-hour practice I stay behind and have “impossible” times I have to make. If I don’t make the times John sets for me, then I keep going and going and going until I make the times. Sometimes practices are over three hours. As much as I’m tired and at times frustrated, I secretly love training this way. But John is always the voice of reason. Each meet, I get faster and more confident in my abilities. I am on a crash course for the international stage.

  Eat.

  Breathe.

  Swim.

  Sleep.

  Over and over again.

  Until … time to go.

  Before I know it, I am on a flight to Germany to begin training camp. I have become friends with most of the swimmers, and we very quickly become a family. I have never been overseas or traveled such a distance in my wheelchair. I honestly have no expectations other than to enjoy this adventure. I have yet to master the art of sleeping on an airplane, so by the time we touch down in Stuttgart, I have been up for almost twenty-four hours. Deliriously tired, we arrive at the US army base and are introduced to our “host
families,” who are various military families that live on the base.

  I am blessed to be paired with an incredible family who take me to downtown Stuttgart and to church. They give me that family feeling that I am desperately missing. My host family is a blessing from God. They show me the country and allow me to feel less homesick.

  Because I have to be reevaluated, I—along with a few other swimmers—have to leave Germany and go to London. We are very disappointed, because we miss out on the US team arrival festivities.

  Two of the top classifiers are assigned to classify me, and my meeting with them is bright and early in the morning. They have been given page after page of documentation, which confirms my spinal cord injury from TM and details my various upper-body impairments, including the spasticity in my hands and arms—which is still present and causing me issues.

  The evaluation room is underneath the stands of the pool and has concrete white walls and no windows. I am with my Team USA liaison Erin, whom I initially met when I was classified a year ago. The experts walk in, look at my hands—which of course, are spastic—and walk out. For two more hours, Erin and I wait and wait and wait. Nobody enters the room.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure,” Erin says with a concerned look. “This shouldn’t be taking so long.” In my experience this past year, classification appointments are usually less than an hour from start to finish.

  Knock, knock.

  The classifiers finally reenter the room and walk toward Erin and me. I immediately get a sick feeling in my stomach. At first, they look at each other and then at Erin, but they don’t look me in the eye. And then they say the words I will never forget.

  “Clearly, you’re disabled, but we cannot classify you.”

  “What?”

  My heart sinks. I know at that very moment that this is about way more than my classification. Tears run down my face uncontrollably; the classifiers look down and still don’t make eye contact. They nod their heads and walk out. Erin chases after them, demanding an explanation, but they refuse. Julie (another classifier expert with Team USA) rushes in and asks what’s wrong. Erin explains, and Julie immediately leaves to speak with the classifiers. I am numb, absolutely numb, and the next few minutes are a complete blur. Erin wheels me into the locker room, and I fall into her arms, crying.

  “Why is this happening? What did I do wrong? This makes no sense.”

  “This is not right, Victoria, and we are going to get to the bottom of this.” We both know that this is beyond wrong, but it is out of our hands. The classifiers had refused to give us an explanation, and so we just pray that there will be answers. In any kind of crisis or problem, I’m okay when I know why and how. I’m not okay when there is no explanation or reason. We are in the blind. I manage to call my parents, who have just touched down in London, and I can barely talk.

  “They won’t let me swim.”

  “Why?”

  “I, I, I, don’t know.”

  Click.

  I hang up the call, and my phone slips from my hands. I’ve been through so much, I have beaten the odds thrown against me, and now these two experts who won’t even look me in the eye refuse to do their jobs and classify me, and they refuse to offer an explanation.

  Fortunately, the US delegation is all over it. Julie is a strong-willed and determined woman, and she does not stand for injustice. Lawyers are brought in, and the fight begins. I am numb. The rest of the US team arrived earlier that afternoon, and they quickly learn of the news. I don’t want to talk to anyone; I just want to be alone. My coaches bring my parents into the village, and all I can do is cry, cry, and cry. My heart is cut in half and blown into smithereens. I am absolutely heartbroken.

  I had dreamed of this moment and of being here representing my country on a world stage … the world stage. And yet, here I sit in a locker room bathroom, gutted, confused, and beyond upset. When my parents call me back, I can’t even speak to them.

  This is humiliating.

  I have done nothing wrong.

  I think about the time when I was little and was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. All I could think of was a shiny gold medal, like the one my swimming idol, Jenny Thompson, won at the Olympics. I remember a picture I had drawn then. I had a sparkly medal around my neck and a smile that was far too big for the stick figure. I think about little Victoria who idolized the Olympics and dreamed of the day she’d be here. This pool, the village, the Team USA swag, and the chance to go for gold. I thought that this would be my dream coming true, that the past two years of fighting back from the pain and the vegetative state would all pay off here. But instead of a dream come true, I’m living in a horrible nightmare. And the worst thing about it is that I hadn’t done anything to deserve this, except work hard and swim fast. Which is kind of what you’re supposed to do to get to this level. I worked my butt off to get here and now … for what?

  Was it over?

  Too good to be true?

  It’s not fair.

  None of this is fair.

  While my teammates enjoy the festivities of the village and prepare for opening ceremonies, I spiral into the despair of the unknown.

  Will I be able to swim?

  Will they send me home?

  I don’t want to let everyone down.

  To top it off, the media catch wind of the “news” and have a field day. Everywhere I go, my face is spread across tabloids, newspapers, and television news shows. I refuse to comment or speak to anyone. I just want to be left alone.

  Please leave me alone.

  And so, I pray … and trust. It is out of my hands and in God’s.

  God, please.

  I really, really, really need you.

  In Germany during training camp, my friend and teammate Courtney and I started a prayer group. It turned out that there are quite a few strong men and women of God on our team. I learned a lot about the power of prayer, but even more about praying together. Having a network of believers during one of the craziest times of my life is beyond a blessing.

  When I finally leave that locker room and come back to the village, Courtney is waiting with open arms, along with my friend and teammate Brad. The two of them sit with me, hug me, and provide the words of comfort and optimism that I need to hear. I try to keep things on the down-low. I usually keep a close-knit circle. Though we are like family, a few of my teammates are not big fans of mine. I had come out of nowhere, and I was young and fast. And to be honest, I don’t want to give them any fuel for disliking me.

  Hold it in.

  Take a breath.

  You’re okay.

  Bury the pain.

  Just bury it.

  It’s what you do best.

  “Do you want to go to the hotel and be with your family?” Queenie, who is the USA team manager, kindly asks.

  “Thank you, Queenie, but no thanks.”

  I want to be here for my team and keep things as normal as possible for them. I love my roommates, and I don’t want to throw them off their game. As much as I want to be with my family, I know I should stay. I’ve always tried to be a team player, so I’m not leaving now. Although, once my mummy arrives at the village, I spend much of my time curled up in the fetal position crying in her lap. I know that I need to stay here, despite my sadness.

  I need to be here.

  Though my world has come to a standstill, the Games are still in full swing. The joy, excitement, and pride of all the athletes from all the countries fill the air. Each athlete here has “made it,” has achieved the dream, and is enjoying the event, as they should. They deserve it. I desperately want to share that joy, but each time I feel a hint of excitement, tears quickly follow.

  I can’t let my guard down.

  So, I return to the coping method I’ve used so often in the past years. I go numb, no emotions, just blank. It’s easier to take the pain when you’re numb. Is it good to be numb? Probably not. Do I care at this moment? No, I don’t real
ly care about anything except justice, fairness, and being given a fair shot at swimming.

  I just want to swim.

  It’s August 29, 2012, and opening ceremonies are under way. As I march with my team, tears are running down my face, but I do the best I can to put on a smile.

  Be proud.

  Put on your game face.

  Tom, one of our team coaches, pushes my wheelchair through the stadium for the march. Tom is in my close circle: he believes in me and has prayed with me and for me. Tom, Courtney, and Brad remind me to keep trusting God and to stay strong.

  Remember.

  Terrible beginnings often have incredible endings.

  After what seems like an eternity and a lot of sleepless nights and hard work from the US delegation, my case is presented to an appeals court. The USA team has gathered an immense amount of medical records and paperwork, all proving that I am eligible to swim. In addition to this overwhelming evidence and the fact that the classifiers did not abide by the rules in refusing to classify me, the British prime minister, David Cameron, actually makes a public statement, “This is about athleticism not politics,” referring to the competition between Ellie and me. The politics are out of my control and are unfortunately a downside. But, after all this, an independent group of arbitrators rules in my favor and I am granted classification reevaluation.

  Thank you, God.

  I can now shift my focus, get classified, and prepare. Except for one little issue: the classifiers are nowhere to be found. After two more days, a classification appointment is scheduled on the eve of my first race: the 400 freestyle.

  Julie accompanies me to the appointment, and right away we see that they are going around in circles. Thoughts race through my head.

  This shouldn’t be taking this long.

  I already did that test.

  It’s been over two hours.

  This isn’t fair.

  As previously mentioned, classification appointments are usually an hour at most. But almost four hours have passed. Julie is not happy, and I am exhausted. The classifiers are reviewing my medical records and recalculating the scores from the tests they’ve already conducted. I am asked to do additional tests I had never been required to do in previous classifications, and I am relentlessly questioned about my condition.