Dottir

by Katrin Davidsdottir

  She always spoke as if we were one person.

  “We will miss each other, but we want to be the best in the world, and this is what it takes.”

  Amma had boundless imagination and creativity. She loved fairy-tale creatures and telling me stories about them. She had a collection of Finnish coffee mugs called Moomin mugs. They feature cute little elves and creatures hugging, playing, or having fun. The light and colorful images perfectly matched Amma’s personality: young at heart. She had ten or fifteen that she would rotate through when we had our morning coffee. The day I moved to Boston in January, she slipped one into my bag on the way to the airport. Inside was a handwritten note:

  To you, my Katrín

  Look …

  … Back at what you have already accomplished,

  … Up and believe the sky will become clear.

  … Down, to be sure that you are always going the right way

  … Ahead & conquer every challenge you face.

  A little note from Grandma.

  She drew a perfect smiley face next to her name. This scrap of paper became a prized possession. I keep it with me and still read it often, sometimes reciting it out loud. I live by the wisdom in those four guiding principles. It’s more than a note to me, it’s a manifesto.

  I was embarking on the biggest adventure I had ever faced and I was overcome with fear. Amma’s note forced me to recognize how much I had accomplished as an athlete over the past three years. Her words also gave me perspective on Event 5 from Regionals. I considered why I was drawn to Boston and if it was the right path for me. Sometimes I would read her words about conquering every challenge when I needed motivation in place of a pregame speech. I got excited to take on the challenges that surely awaited me in this new chapter in my life.

  I had bought a one-way ticket to Boston and taken a leap of faith. There was no one there to hold my hand, or wave a wand and say, “Okay, you’re ready to be the best in the world.” I had to make my own way. Nothing was lined up for me. I ate at the gym, bummed rides to training, and relied on the good graces of other people. I felt a huge sense of purpose.

  After I won the CrossFit Games, it felt like time was vanishing. Being the champion is time intensive, it turns out. In addition to frequent visits to Reebok’s headquarters in Canton, Massachusetts, I had dozens of travel obligations: an Open announcement in Colorado, a training camp in Tennessee, and a bottomless vortex of photo shoots, interviews, and TV appearances.

  Before I knew it, it was March. I was homesick for Iceland. I couldn’t believe it had been three whole months since I had been back. With Regionals rapidly approaching in May, it was clear that if I didn’t go now, I wouldn’t have another opportunity until after the Games.

  It would be my first year competing in the United States for Regionals—in the East Regional—and my entire family was coming to watch. My mom was bringing my grandparents, which excited me beyond words. I was also nervous because Amma was having health issues and the cause was unclear. She had complained of headaches for months. In January, her blood work indicated elevated levels of red blood cells. Back then, she had explained that her doctor was prescribing a new medication.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Katrin,” she said. “It’s cancer medicine. He says that one dose could help me.”

  I felt my heart thudding in my skull. I was buried by a wave of anxiety. She assured me she didn’t have cancer.

  I had spoken with her nearly every day since. Now, four months later, she told me she was feeling so much better and appeared to be making great progress. When I upgraded my iPhone, I left her my old one so we could FaceTime. I laughed every time she wrestled with the technology, making me motion sick as she swerved the phone around before finally framing herself.

  “Guð geymi þig” is how she would end every conversation we had—“God keep you.”

  April was about to hit when I had another realization. It was go home now, or don’t go until after Regionals. I am a planner, and I hate spur-of-the-moment activities, but I had to get home. I would normally run travel plans past Ben so they didn’t interfere with training. This time I didn’t consult anyone. Instead, I let him know at the gym that day.

  I was so excited to tell my family I was coming home. I called Amma to tell her I was coming, but she didn’t pick up. Next I called my mom and told her.

  “When will you come?” she asked.

  “I’m looking at flights right now.”

  I booked a red-eye to arrive in Iceland the next day.

  I started writing a text to Amma to let her know I was coming, but was interrupted by a text from my mom.

  “Don’t tell her,” she wrote. “It should be a surprise.”

  I loved the idea, but now I was the one dodging Amma’s calls for the rest of the day. I’m a terrible liar. I would’ve spoiled the whole thing.

  It’s four hours later in Iceland than in Boston, making it far enough away to throw you off your clock but not far enough to require a total readjustment. I touched down at 4:30 a.m.—long before sunrise at that time of year. My mom picked me up and took me home to rest until the sun came up.

  She invited my grandparents over for breakfast and the big surprise. I was giddy with excitement. I was standing in the living room when my grandfather walked in the house. He had poor eyesight that would later require surgery and although he stared directly at me, he couldn’t identify the blond-haired girl in front of him. In his mind, I was in Boston and there was no way it could be me. After Amma walked through the house passing out hugs to my siblings, I caught her eyes. She started crying immediately. It was the perfect surprise.

  We spent an amazing week together, but my usually unstoppable Amma was uncharacteristically tired. By that point, she had left her job and had stepped down from the various boards on which she served. She was keeping busy as a nanny to a friend’s four-year-old daughter. The girl had a medical condition that prevented her from attending playschool. It could be exhausting work. Still, Amma wanted to do it and she loved the little girl. She would recount stories of playing pirates with Lilja. At the time, I attributed her fatigue to running around chasing this little one all day.

  On April 4, while I was visiting, she left a note for me on the nightstand while I slept.

  Dear Katrin,

  Stars are born, but Champions are made. This is a long and hard way that not a lot of people want to go. But practice makes perfect.

  Love,

  Amma

  When I asked about it, she told me that Lilja had wanted Amma to play with her.

  “Amma, let’s go jump on the trampoline,” she pleaded.

  “I can’t,” Amma replied. “I’ve never jumped on a trampoline.”

  In seven decades on the planet, she had somehow missed the simple pleasure of bouncing.

  “Well, you’ll never be able to if you don’t practice,” Lilja countered.

  That day, my seventy-four-year-old grandmother jumped on a trampoline for the first time. She lit up when she told me about it.

  I lit up, too, because she had not been herself lately. Something was off. Amma wasn’t fidgety like me, but she normally stayed on the move. This trip she habitually fell asleep in her chair. Whereas she used to pick up a book or go for a chat in the brightness of our sitting room, now she sought refuge in the darkest corners of the house. She used to like to fuss around the house, doing chores and keeping busy. Now she was visibly exhausted.

  “I’m so tired,” she would whisper as she drifted off.

  And there were the nosebleeds. She brushed off the severity when I asked her to go to the doctor. She told me it was nothing and she would go soon. She didn’t want the embarrassment of going to the doctor for something as minor as a nosebleed.

  Amma’s final note to me came four days later, on April 8:

  Dear Katrin,

  Think to the Sky. Keep your feet on the ground. And your heart in the right place. Remember, light up the day with the rays of appreciation.
>
  Love you Always,

  Grandma

  I returned to Boston after a week in Iceland. I got back on a Friday and didn’t talk to Amma at all that weekend. She had driven five hours to the other side of the country with Afi to attend his family reunion in a place called Akureyri. Despite her exhaustion, Afi told me she attended all the parties, socialized, and looked like a queen in her bright red suit.

  But she knew her situation was serious. She made plans to go to the doctor when she returned on Monday. When I called her on Tuesday to check in, I was surprised when my mom answered the phone. She was fighting back sobs. My heart sank.

  “It’s leukemia, Katrin.”

  The words hit me like ice water.

  I couldn’t stop hyperventilating the rest of the morning. I was shaken to my core, and I couldn’t speak without my eyes filling with tears. I told myself we would overcome this, that it was just another challenge, that Amma wasn’t going to die. But I was scared.

  Amma didn’t want me to know. She thought it was best for me to focus on myself and not worry. It was a beautiful but useless sentiment. She was all I could think about.

  “We can’t come to Regionals” was the first thing Afi said when I called.

  “Of course!” I said.

  I had already taken this for granted. Nothing mattered more than Amma’s care and recovery. My heart warmed inside my chest and I smiled at how great a man my grandfather was. He was trying to comfort me even though he was facing the most difficult time of his life.

  “There are going to be some hard months,” he went on. “We’re just going to face this right now. We have a plan.”

  There was a regimen of chemotherapy that would take nearly a year. They would cycle different types for maximum effect. They knew the doses and when they would occur. It was even on the calendar.

  Suddenly, Boston and Iceland felt like they were a million miles apart. I felt so helpless. I knew if I went home, Amma would feel like she was a burden. I resolved to wait until after Regionals to fly back to Iceland. I felt trapped in this no-man’s-land, unable to be there for her and powerless over the outcome. Waves of emotion would wash over me sporadically, leaving me a panicked, hyperventilating heap. I was a mess—unable to eat or drink anything and crying rivers of tears without any warning. I couldn’t even keep it together in public. When I went to CFNE, I burst into tears as soon as I crossed the threshold. At least there I was not lonely. The Bergerons are like family. I am comfortable being vulnerable with them.

  My fragile emotional state was ever present, and anything could set me off. I would cry when I closed the bathroom stall. It was the feeling of being powerless more than it was actual sadness. I got into the habit of making a motivational poster for Amma every day. It was a small gesture, but it was the only way I could fathom helping. And it kept me focused on a positive outcome. I wrote them every morning and took pictures that I sent my mom so she could show my grandma.

  April 13:

  You are the strongest of anyone in the world, and together we are even stronger than that … can you even imagine?

  The only time I got to speak with Amma, the conversation was brief before she was whisked away for a meeting with the doctor. I did what I could to feel like I was there. At the time, I was working with Reebok to create my own shoe and asked Mom to show Amma the options so I could have her opinion.

  Chemo was set to begin the following day and it would be difficult for everyone. The doctors had been clear that patients undergoing chemo often feel worse when the poison is introduced to their system long before they feel better. Amma needed her strength more than ever. In my heart, I believed we could overcome anything we put our minds to, and I tried to remind her of the same thing in another note:

  The champion’s walk is … one step at a time … all the focus on what’s in front of you … and give 100 percent to whatever you’re doing. Me, you, us.

  At 1 o’clock the next morning, I was jarred from my sleep. I had missed seven calls from my mom. It could only mean one thing.

  “She’s not going to make it, Katrin,” my mom said.

  Amma’s body had been unable to handle the chemotherapy. Her body broke down, and she declined rapidly the moment it entered her body.

  I felt numb.

  There was no more sleep that night. I occupied my brain with the fastest ways I could get to Iceland. I frantically searched, considering any option to be a viable one. I would have connected in China if it meant I could leave right away. But it was useless. My only option was to wait until evening. It was 4 a.m. The thought of waiting a full day made me sick. None of my roommates were home. My loneliness and helplessness made the house feel like a prison. I was the fittest woman in the world and absolutely powerless. I sat on the floor, catatonic, for hours. I didn’t know what to feel or think. I texted Ben to see if he could come over. I needed family and he was the closest I had.

  He came over when he woke up at 6 a.m., and we sat in silence for hours. There was nothing that could be said, really. Life was dealing a harsh blow. After two hours, he forced me back into life.

  “Stand up,” he said gently. “We’ve got to go get you some breakfast.”

  In my head, my life was over. Ben was thinking about breakfast. I was shocked it was even a consideration but unable to verbalize my protest.

  “Okay,” I said, standing at his command.

  His wife, Heather, met us at the restaurant. We remained silent for the whole meal. Afterward, I called the Icelandic airline WOW. A representative told me to come to the airport later and they would figure out a way to get me on the evening’s flight, even if it meant taking one of the stewardesses’ seats.

  I accompanied Ben to Blue Hills that day for the Competitor’s Camp, not knowing what else to do. I concealed my heartache from the attendees, but I was dying inside. I wanted nothing more than to be home. Whitney Gelin and Ben were the only ones who knew my struggle, and her small act of kindness with the mud-sock is something that I will never forget. After the Blue Hills session, we went home to clean up, then headed to the airport.

  When I arrived in Iceland, Afi picked me up. We cried. It was the first time I saw him emotional. His person was gone. It was gut-wrenching to see my grandfather by himself. Amma had been by his side since he was twenty. They had celebrated fifty-three years of marriage. During those years, they loved to dance. It was not uncommon for Afi to pick up Amma and dance in the kitchen if there was music on. Every once in a great while, he would try to teach me. At their last ambassador’s ball, they were asked to dance the way only they could. Those are the memories I hold on to.

  When Amma died, I bought two Icelandic protection angel charms. I put one on her necklace and one on mine. It was buried with her ashes. Having this physical totem I could hold gave me comfort. In moments of weakness or when I am feeling disconnected, I will put on my necklace and feel Amma come into the room.

  Amma died on Chocolate Day—fifty-four years to the day after she met my grandfather.

  It haunts me that I didn’t make it back in time to say goodbye. Amma died surrounded by her family, but I wasn’t there. I know she didn’t want to feel like a burden on me. She didn’t even want me to come home. I guess neither of us really believed this could happen. This wasn’t supposed to be the outcome.

  The only coping mechanism I knew was to dive into training headfirst. And to train harder. I decided I was going to honor her with my efforts. From then on, it was all for Amma. While we waited for my aunts and uncles to return from various corners of the Earth, I buried myself in my training at CrossFit Reykjavik. My body was taking beatings, but I couldn’t shake the dark cloud in my head.

  There were a million details to sort out and decisions to make, but I had a hard time caring about any of them. The color of flowers, the songs we would play, those kinds of things. I felt like nothing in the world mattered anymore. When my family got upset with me for being late to the funeral, I was only partially remorseful
.

  Amma is gone, I thought. Why does it even matter?

  The service was in the church where my grandparents were married. It was beautiful. The standing-room-only crowd that came to honor her dwarfed any service in the staff’s collective memory. Amma had impacted so many people’s lives. She had the ability to lift people up. It came easy to her. If she walked into an elevator, whoever was inside felt better about themselves when she left. She made everyone feel important.

  Today, I feel her presence in everything I do. She loved candles, so I light some every morning over breakfast. She drank her coffee from one of her Finnish Moomin elf mugs, so I do the same—and think of her.

  Amma is always with me. Our farewell tradition on the phone was to remind each other that we are always together, no matter the distance. That will never change. She always had more energy than anyone else. I try to tap into that energy to honor her. In life, I always felt her presence in the stands during competitions, whether she was physically present or not. In death, I would now feel her presence on the competition floor.

  13

  SEIZE THE DAY

  AÐ GRÍPA DAGINN

  The only cure for grief is action.

  —GEORGE HENRY LEWES

  An hour-and-a-half drive southeast of Natick, the world-famous Cape peels off Massachusetts into the Atlantic Ocean. At this time of year Cape Cod is in high-travel season. The beaches and towns are littered with tourists on vacation from all over the world. Our team is here to hunker down for the final month before the Games. We stay off the grid, block out the normal distractions of the outside world, and narrow our focus to a laser beam. This is the final push before competition. We are 100 percent focused on training, eating, and recovering.

  This year of preparation had dwarfed any other in terms of training volume and difficulty. Training harder was the only thing that could console me. So I poured myself into it. More intensely than before. I could only escape the pain when I was buried in my work. Yet even the toughest workouts couldn’t quell my heavy-hearted emotions. It felt impossible to mask my anguish. Everything I did was for Amma now. I was always pushing harder. I knew I couldn’t have her back, but I believed that if I worked harder I could still make her proud.