A pool of courageous women

SHARON MELNICER SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH BULLETIN

Three times a week I go to a pool in Winnipeg's South End. There, I take aquasize classes with a lot of other Jewish women, some of whom are my age, but most of whom are older. The pool is at a community centre not far from where I live, which makes it handy. But more than that, it's also a friendly, welcoming place – heimish as my bubbe would say – where the water is kept at the buttery temperature of 27 degrees or more, and is a clear, cerulean blue. Although I primarily go there to exercise, I wouldn't be telling the whole truth if I didn't confess that I also go there for the stories and for the divine women who share them with me. This story is about these women, these Jewish matrons, who share the pool with me. All have their own tales of bravery, but some are more reticent than others to speak of their quiet heroism. A number of them are widows but they have survived much more than the loss of their husbands. As a group, they possess wit, grace and elegance, but above all, they are strong. They are a practical bunch who have had to go on, who have had to make lives for themselves despite the tragedies that have befallen them. Golf, bridge and Mah Jongg bind them together, and then there are the tri-weekly aquasize classes that bring them to the pool and connect them to me.

After we have finished our workouts on each of the mornings, we chat sociably in the steamy, colorful locker-room while we struggle to pull ourselves out of our dripping, wet bathing suits and climb into our street-clothes once again, not easy since we're still sticky and only partly dry. Then we trundle up to the restaurant where we gather ourselves around a table, order something to drink and settle down to visit. The coffee is hot, rich and fragrant, and we go back for refills, time after time.

Friends who understand

The stories begin to surface slowly at first, and then, as the narrator is sure that she has our attention, she warms to her tale and the words start to flow. Shirley begins this week and we are all sympathetically silent. Her husband, Moe, has just died after a two-year bout with cancer. Shirley has been his chief caregiver, although her four children, to whom she is devoted, and about whom she always speaks with loving pride, have provided her with their constant support. We find out that Moe has been an invalid since his retirement some 14 years ago. It's a choice he made after a heart attack struck him a couple of weeks after he sold his business. He became afraid, so afraid that he stopped driving his car, stopped going out for walks, stopped going to synagogue, stopped curling, stopped doing the shopping and the banking; in short, stopped doing all of the things he had customarily done before the attack. By default, Shirley became responsible for all the jobs he used to do.

She mentions that the load has been heavy. It seems that Moe was bitter and angry much of the time, and became verbally abusive. Shirley takes pride in her self-control and says she stopped herself from "arguing back," telling us that she understood Moe's frustration, and although it was hurtful, she knows that he didn't mean it. She says this with tear-filled eyes, and goes on to whisper almost inaudibly that she wishes she could have helped him rather than stand by powerlessly and watch. His death is a relief, Shirley sobs, hoping that we won't interpret this to mean that she doesn't miss him. After all, they were married nearly 45 years. We don't misunderstand.

Similar experiences

Faye, a trim, attractive woman probably 20 years Shirley's junior, nods in commiseration. Meanwhile, she is playing with her coffee mug, twisting it round and round in lazy, wet circles. Abruptly, she raises her eyes and clears her throat. Her daughter is an invalid too and, recently, she has had to move back in with Faye because she can't care for herself. Faye's daughter is only 32 and has multiple sclerosis. Because of this illness, her marriage has broken up, her "excuse-of-a-husband" has taken off and she has inherited the job of "nursemaid." There are no grandchildren. Like Shirley, Faye is often the target of her afflicted daughter's rage and she speaks of her resentment at this unfair treatment. She feels that she doesn't deserve it and, like Shirley, it is difficult for her not to reply in kind.

Once again, it is a question of compassion and self-control. Though Faye is in the pool with the rest of us three times a week, she wonders if we've noticed that she never ventures into the deep end. It's true that we've all observed this, but we've assumed that she just doesn't swim. Faye corrects our misapprehension. She is actually a very good swimmer but has only entered the water again after a 10-year hiatus. During the 1980s, she and her husband lived six months of the year at their winterized cottage out at Sandy Hook. They were out on Lake Winnipeg one day, companionably fishing together in their boat, when her husband accidently slipped and fell overboard. He drowned in front of Faye's eyes as she struggled to help him but she was not strong enough to rescue him herself and was too far from shore to get someone to hear her frightened calls. She moved into the city after that, unable to make herself get into a pool or a lake until just a year ago. It was only by forcing herself to join our aquasize class that she finally began to conquer her numbing terror of the water. We are astounded by her gutsy determination.

The conversation moves on to other things, and as one of the ladies gushes about her newest ainikel (grandchild), Faye offers up her last tragic bit of information. As well as her daughter, she had a son but he was killed in a terrible car accident in the mid-'70s. Her voice breaking, Faye states that he would have turned 19 on his next birthday. Every year, on his birthday, she recites Kaddish instead of singing "Happy Birthday."

Some funny stories, too

Other stories have yet to emerge. Minnie will only take off her bathing suit when her back is turned to the rest of us, and she prefers to shower at home. Quick, unobtrusive glances as she reaches for a towel confirm that her right breast has been removed, leaving thick, coarse scars criss-crossing her emaciated chest. Pearl remarks casually on her bladder cancer a few years ago as we're bicycling across the length of the pool, sitting astride our pool-noodles, and then smilingly looks up to wave at her daughter and her two small grandchildren who will be joining her for a swim as soon as our class is over.

Their stories are not just sad ones, of course. There are the humorous, richly detailed accounts of the "girls' " gambling trips to the Shooting Star Casino and about gatherings of the entire mishpachah (family) at holidays that have gone awry. One is about a drunken neighbor who volunteered to help Bertha fix her leaky roof and then charged her $4,000 for the job. The upshot to the story, recounted to us only a couple of weeks ago, is that the roof is leaking again but the neighbor is now in rehab "drying out" and can't be recalled to make the necessary repairs until he's completed his 12-step program. She's calling a professional roofer next week.

Then there is the story about a golf tournament where an award was given out for best lady golfer by the children of a woman who had golfed with the group for years but had recently passed away. The award was a large portrait of the deceased golfer, elaborately done in oils. The trouble was, the deceased was also very unpopular with the ladies because she fudged her golf scores, altering the number of strokes she played on each hole. Taking home her portrait as a reward for excellence simply pushed the envelope too far. Myra, the reluctant recipient, has diplomatically suggested that the portrait be left at the Glendale Golf and Country Club where all the members may appreciate it and honor the golfer's memory.

These are powerful, funny, wonderful women, these aquasize ladies. They are members of a divine sisterhood, full of courage and compassion and charm. Their tenacity to survive and to do it with style speaks volumes about their feistiness. Their triumphs over adversity and their ability to come out laughing fill me with awe. These are my heroines, these grey-haired "bubbes," and everytime I meet them, I unfailingly go home encouraged and inspired. They teach me by example that to age is not to become old.

Sharon Melnicer is a freelance writer living in Winnipeg.

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