by Jessica Long
Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
The moment I won my first gold
The moment I became a Long
The moment I learned to walk with prostheses
The moment I discovered water
The moment I was surrounded by people like me
The moment I became a professional athlete
The moment I won an ESPY
The moment I failed
The moment I claimed my independence
The moment I first spoke to a crowd
The moment I first modeled
The moment I fell in love with swimming all over again
The moment I lost my confidence
The moment I found peace
The moment I returned home
The moment I returned to Russia
The moment I met my Russian family
The moment I finally won gold in Rio
The moment I accepted me
Acknowledgments
Photo Credits
Photo Gallery
About the Authors
Connect with HMH on Social Media
Footnotes
Copyright © 2018 by Jessica Long
All rights reserved.
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
hmhco.com
Cover photograph © Sean Scheidt; Olympic medals photograph © Roy Cox, Photographer; Back photograph © BOB MARTIN FOR OIS/IOC/AFP/Getty Images
Cover design by Andrea Miller
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-328-70725-3
eISBN 978-1-328-47670-8
v1.0518
For my hero; my dad, Steve Long. You were the first person who said I should have a book one day. Thanks for always, always believing in me.
Introduction
LIFE-CHANGING MOMENTS. Many people can point to a time when they had one of these moments . . . or maybe two or three. They’re faced with an event that shifts their whole world and makes them look at things differently. I can’t say for sure how many of these most people have in a lifetime, but my life has definitely been filled with them. As a double amputee who was born in Siberia, was adopted by an American family, and spent more than a decade as a competitive swimmer, I can point to any number of moments that have altered the course of my life. Some of those moments have been obvious ones, broadcasted to the world by media outlets. Some were small, quiet ones that I struggled through. But all had an impact on my life, shaping who I am today. When I thought about writing a book about my story, it made sense to talk about all of them. I hope that in sharing my journey, I can show that we don’t have to let our circumstances define us. I certainly could never have planned—or even imagined—the way in which my life has unfolded so far, but I wouldn’t change my unique experiences. We never know which moments are the ones that will lead to a new opportunity or will touch someone else’s life.
So here they are, my life-changing moments . . .
1
The moment I won my first gold
I did not come here to be second. The water blocks out every sound, and I feel my heartbeat pulsing with each stroke of my arms. I glance over again to see the feet of my competitor, which means I’m still behind her. I did not come here to be second! This is my last thought before throwing every ounce of energy into flying toward the other end of the pool, slicing through the water, and reaching for the wall at the same moment she does. I turn to the scoreboard to see who won, but I can’t fully make out the names through my fogged-up goggles. I briefly process that my competitor doesn’t look very celebratory, and then I see it. Next to the number 1, “Jessica Long” is listed at the top. I hesitantly throw my arm in the air and smile as cameras go off. I can’t believe it. That’s me. I’m gasping for air, gripping the wall to keep myself above the surface because I’m too exhausted to tread water, but that’s MY NAME on the board!
I am Jessica Long, and that was the moment I won my first gold medal in the hundred-meter freestyle at the Paralympic Games in Athens, Greece.
I’ve never been good at listening to people. They always seem to tell me what I can’t do, which I see as merely an opinion until I’ve tried it to my full capacity. I want to hear what I can do. I remember sitting in the hotel room at the Paralympic Trials, my dad preparing me for the possibility of my not making the team. He was laying out some facts about how young I was, and how new I was to the world of competitive swimming, telling me there was plenty of time to train for the next round of games. I was twelve years old, and I looked him dead in the eye and said, “I’m going to make the team. I know I am.” Sure enough, they called my name, making me the youngest athlete on the U.S. Paralympic team in any sport.
Listening to my national anthem play on the podium at the Athens Games. Nothing can fully describe this moment.
When I was growing up, even if my parents were giving me a rule for my own benefit and protection, I immediately wanted to go against it. I’m sure it was frustrating for them, but that’s the way I needed to live my life—to face everything I was up against. That’s the determination that got me to Athens.
FAVORITE QUOTES:
“NO ONE IS YOU, AND THAT IS YOUR POWER.”
“BE SO GOOD THEY CAN’T IGNORE YOU.”
Everything surrounding my time in Athens excited me. Rolling into the Olympic Village with the rest of the U.S. swim team, I was amazed by what I saw. I became best friends with three of the girls living in my building. Kelly, Casey, Elizabeth, and I dubbed ourselves the Four Mousekateers, and I was known as the housekeeper of the group because I was constantly tidying our suite. I was in awe of everything all the older swimmers did. I watched the seventeen-year-olds put on makeup, thinking they were the absolute coolest. I didn’t have any makeup, as I wasn’t allowed to wear it yet, so I may have used one of their eyeliners when they weren’t around . . .
I loved the freedom I had on that trip. Since I was homeschooled and constantly with my family, it was as if I were having my first college experience. I grew up a bit in those three weeks, finding my independence, having the time of my life, feeling like a little adult. And on top of that, I was there to swim!
Waking up in the village on the day of my first race, I was a bundle of nerves. All I could manage to eat for breakfast was a banana. I boarded the bus to head over to the pool, did my pre-race warm-up, got on my tiny racing suit, and waited. Waiting was the worst part. As a twelve-year-old, I just wanted to race. Finally it was my turn. I walked to the call room, showed them my credentials, and proceeded to line up. Suddenly the nerves were gone. I was ready. My first race in competition was the hundred-meter freestyle preliminaries, for which several heats would race and the fastest eight swimmers would advance to the finals later that night. When I touched the wall in the prelims and the coach told me my time, I knew that put me first in the world. I didn’t get too excited, because I knew that the seasoned athletes hold back in order to qualify in the prelims and then up their game for the finals. I was seeded first for that evening, so I was lined up to swim in the fourth lane (the fastest swimmers are in lanes four and five—the center lanes). With my strong finish in the preliminaries, my coach and my family thought I might be able to win the bronze medal, but I had this crazy desire to win gold. The gun went off, I dove in, and 1:08.86 minutes later, I won my first gold medal in the Paralympics!
Sitting in the stands with my dad after winning my first Paralympic gold medal.
/> Lining up for the medal ceremony, I didn’t fully grasp the significance of what was happening. It was finally settling into my mind that I had won. My USA gear was too big for my frame, and I had thrown my wet hair into a haphazard ponytail. I wasn’t wearing makeup or thinking about the photographs; I was busy taking in the moment. We walked out to the podium, and I thought Don’t trip as I walked forward to receive the gold medal. I threw my hand up in a fist and smiled. As our national anthem started to play and the flags were raised, I took a second to remind myself which hand was my right one, pulled the wreath from my hair, and placed it over my heart. I honestly didn’t even know the entire national anthem, but I mouthed pieces of it and grinned through the rest, completely amazed by the moment. My place on that podium was proof to me that I could do anything I put my mind to. I had said I would be up there, and there I was, my national anthem playing and my face up on the screen. I could hear Team USA close by in the stands, and I was so proud to be representing my country and my fellow athletes.
This was the moment when I knew there was absolutely nothing stopping me from being the best. Swimming was a wonderful outlet for channeling all my emotions. The pool was my home, I knew that, but this was different. Here I was, the youngest Paralympian on the U.S. team, and I just received a gold medal. I still didn’t fully comprehend the impact of what I had just done, but I knew that I liked it, and I wanted to repeat it. I went on to win two more gold medals in Athens. I was overjoyed! I loved swimming. I loved competing. And as it turned out, I loved winning.
In swimming, classifications are divided into three groups: S1 through S10 competitors are those with physical impairment. An S1 will have the most severe impairment and an S10 a lesser impairment. Athletes are judged on their muscle strength, joint range of motion, limb length, and movement coordination. S11 through S13 swimmers are those with visual impairment. S14 is for athletes with learning difficulties. Depending on their disability and how it fluctuates (e.g., some paralysis and injuries can heal, while other conditions are degenerative), some competitors have to be continuously reclassified. I compete as an S8 in freestyle, backstroke, and butterfly, and as an SB7 in breaststroke (the B literally just stands for breaststroke). Swimmers in this classification are described as having “full use of their arms and trunk with some leg function; swimmers with coordination problems mainly in the lower limbs; both legs amputated just above or just below the knee; single above elbow amputation.” I am a below-the-knee, bilateral amputee. I will forever remain an S8, without reclassification, as obviously my legs can’t grow back.
2
The moment I became a Long
My home for the first thirteen months of my life.
Secondary infertility. That’s what the doctors said it was called. My parents, with two healthy children, were told they could never biologically have more. They walked out of that office and immediately looked to adoption, something they had discussed already, to add to their family. They started taking classes offered by Associated Catholic Charities, where they learned all about adoption and what the possibilities were, and they were connected with helpful agencies and social workers. My soon-to-be mom heard about a little girl in Russia who had problems with her legs and was up for adoption. My parents say they didn’t set out specifically to adopt children with special needs, but they hadn’t ruled it out, either. They knew that a lot of overseas orphans had physical disabilities, and they had checked to make sure their health insurance covered any surgeries, hospital visits, and so on that might be necessary. They were prepared to open their home and help however they could. So, following this lead, they got in touch with a group of people who had helped some families adopt children from Russia and were putting together another group to adopt from the same orphanage. My parents learned more about this little girl with malformed legs and were shown their first picture.
My mom says she knew right away that this was the child God wanted them to adopt. My parents always wanted a total of four children, including the two they already had, so they decided to adopt a second child from the same orphanage. In December 1992, Steve and Beth Long made plans to adopt a little boy, Dennis Alekseevich Tumashoff, along with the little girl, Tatiana Olegovna Kirillova.
They began the journey with paperwork and background checks, collecting letters of reference, and answering questions about how they grew up and what future plans they had for their family. Multiple visits to their home were required, too. These home studies are an in-depth examination of the house and surroundings in which an adoptee would grow up. In order to raise funds, the Longs sold a number of items, including the twelve-passenger van they had used for a daycare center they formerly operated. They requested more information on their Russian children in an attempt to prepare for what surgeries would be needed, but they were provided with no medical history. The only information my future parents had was a picture of me and my legs, along with the knowledge that Dennis had a cleft lip and palate. Desperate for more information about us, they even took the picture of me to a specialist at Johns Hopkins Hospital to see if he could tell them anything more, but nothing could be determined without x-rays and a medical history. Incredibly, it took less than three months from the moment they decided to adopt us to the moment my dad boarded the plane for Russia. Because they already had two kids, my mom stayed home in Baltimore to care for them. My dad would take the long trip solo, during two weeks away from his job, to bring us to our new home.
The very first photo of me that was shown to my parents when they were looking to adopt.
The door to the orphanage Josh and I were in. The building was decrepit, and the windows and doors let in a draft.
Steve Long’s first trip outside the United States took him halfway around the world to meet the newest members of his family. He flew out of Dulles International Airport with a group of other parents who were adopting, and after a layover in Shannon, Ireland, they landed in Moscow. From there, he flew to Irkutsk, where the orphanage was located. I can’t imagine what he must have been feeling, walking into that orphanage, knowing his daughter was inside, seeing me amid all the other children, locking eyes with me—his little girl—for the first time. He. Chose. Me!
It took me the longest time to understand this, though my parents told me about it frequently. Some parents are introduced to their new child on a sonogram screen and then meet her in a hospital room after nine months of careful preparation. But my remarkable parents were introduced to their new child through a photograph, and, moved by her story, they agreed to meet her for the first time in a foreign country, surrounded by strangers who did not speak their language. Still, I was their child, loved wholly and beyond reason. I get it now. He was there for me. Yeah, he was there for my brother*, too . . . but right now we are talking about my story, okay?
Josh and me.
My dad tells some of the best stories about the return trip from Russia with the two newest additions of his family in tow. Little did he know, a blizzard dubbed the “storm of the century” was blowing in and would cause our plane to land in Canada, where we would be stranded overnight. Suddenly, taking care of a three-year-old and a thirteen-month-old in a different country seemed daunting. Between my brother puking on the plane, me continuously rolling over the pillow fortress my dad had built and falling off the hotel bed, and running out of diapers . . . we definitely had some great bonding time. To me, that trip symbolizes the craziness these two little Russian orphans continuously brought to our parents’ lives, but I’m told we were worth it.
Once in the U.S., I met the requirements for citizenship and nothing else technically had to be done. But my parents decided to go through the formal process and get me an official Certificate of Citizenship.
My family never treated me differently because I was adopted. My new older sister was ecstatic to have another girl around (before she realized I would grow up to steal her things), and my brother was always my protector (he’s a police officer now). My name was chan
ged from Tatiana Olegovna Kirillova to Jessica Tatiana Long, and my parents’ perfect family of six was complete . . . or so they thought. My mom miraculously got pregnant again three years later . . . and then again two years after that, giving me two little sisters and a total of five siblings.
Stranded in Canada for the night.
Taking a quick nap on my mom while on family vacation, about one month after being adopted.
All smiles with my two oldest siblings, Amanda and Steven.
Holding my new little sister, Hannah.
Two Russians in the woods, a year after our adoption.
3
The moment I learned to walk with prostheses
Just a few months after we got back from Russia, the hospital visits started. I was born with fibular hemimelia, a birth defect in which all or part of the fibular bone is missing. I didn’t have ankles, heels, or most of the bones in my lower legs. One in forty thousand babies are born with this defect every year. The cause is unclear. The defect usually occurs in only one leg—the right fibula more often than the left—but both of mine were compromised. It looked like my bones didn’t continue to grow beyond a few inches below my knee, though I did have a small foot, with three toes on each leg. After consulting several specialists, my parents were advised that the best choice for someone with my severity of fibular hemimelia was amputation, just below the knee. This would allow me to be fitted with prosthetics and eventually learn to walk.