This is a picture from my grandmother's last swim in Lake Washington, in Seattle. Like many grandmothers in their mid-80s, she had a host of ailments: Parkinson's disease, macular degeneration, stenosis, etc. Swimming, sometimes even just floating, in the cool water relieved all her pains.
Against the advice of her nurses and to the horror of her friends, she would wheel her walker—towel and goggles stuffed in the carrying compartment—to the front stoop of her downtown apartment building. My mother would pick her up, throw the walker in the trunk of the station wagon, and like two bandits getting out of Dodge, they’d tear down to the lake shore, windows down, sunglasses on.
Bringing her to the water was a slow and precarious process, sometimes involving two people on either arm, until she waded deep enough to tip over and be held by the cool waves.
As a self-identified rebel with a hint of traditionalism, my grandmother sought joy and reprieve from her pain in the waves of Lake Washington, against the stricture of her community. During her last summer, she swam more than any other summer. She passed away on Oct. 5, just after the swimming season.
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