T

he first time I fell in love with water was the first 
time I almost drowned. I was 2 years old and 
running around my second home: The Valley Swim 

Club. My dad noticed I wasn’t eating lunch at the picnic 
table, so he went looking for me by the pool. There I was: 
submerged like a rock at the bottom of the shallow end. 
My dad, the hero in this story, claims that he yanked me 
out of the water by my arm as I coughed hard to get the 
water out of my throat. The funny thing is, I would be 
taking swim lessons in that same shallow end three years 
later.

After swim lessons I was immediately signed up 

for competitive swimming at the age of 6. It was the 
Delaware Valley Summer Swim League, and my team, 
the Valley Sharks, was the smallest and worst team in 
the conference. I remember wanting to swim butterfly, 
the most awkward and physically challenging stroke in 
the sport of swimming (bless my ambitious, six-year-old 
soul). Circling my arms as fast as I could, I felt so powerful 
going through the water as I swam that one, 25-meter lap. 
Little did I know, I would continue swimming for the 
next 13 years.

As strange as it sounds, swimming comes more 

naturally to me than walking. I never feel out of place 
in the water — my body immediately adapts with each 
stroke. I had only swum in the summers, but when I got 
to high school, my senior sister convinced freshman me 
to join the swim team instead of the basketball team. I 
had loved swimming, but I knew it would be tough: two 
(and sometimes three) practices a day, late nights and 
super early mornings, Saturday practices, and in general, 
extremely difficult workouts. But for some reason, 
something was calling out to me to do this … to continue 
swimming. So, I reluctantly obliged.

Soon enough, I was racing my sister in the 100 Butterfly, 

something I had never done before due to our separate age 
groups. It was always Lauren first, Erika second, and that 
only made me want to do better every race (Shevcheks live 

off of competition). The pool was the second home for my 
sister and me: We both grew up swimmers and became 
lifeguards, we both chose swimming over any other sport, 
and we both felt that we were most dominant in water. 
But in June of 2013, the pool changed for us completely.

A dive into a black-bottom pool made Lauren paralyzed 

from the nose down. The one person who knew water 
better than I did was now struggling to move, let alone 
swim. I asked her what it felt like to be in that pool, losing 
all the feeling and function in her body. She told me, “With 
every kick back to the surface, I lost more sensation. Then 
my legs just stopped working. I felt like a mermaid.”

It’s been a tough journey of recovery for Lauren since 

then. But, despite the catastrophic accident, my sister 
is still the same person she was before. The doctors had 
told her that even though the impact of the dive was so 
crucial, the water pressure saved her brain. The water 
saved my sister.

I have not looked at a pool the same way since. There 

will always be a scar of pain when I see the water and 
when I dive in for my own races. Yet, Lauren’s brain 
wasn’t the only one that was saved by water.

My senior year of high school I was diagnosed with 

severe anxiety. There were days when I genuinely could 
not handle the world, including myself and my own 
thoughts. However, I had a volleyball and swim team to 
lead, colleges to apply to, records to break. I concealed 
my anxiety with a façade of smiles and confidence. 
Truthfully, the one thing that got me through that period 
of time was the power of the pool.

That season I had set enormous goals for myself. With 

two torn rotator cuffs and a mental illness, I planned to 
break school records, go to districts (for 50 freestyle and 
the 200 free relay) and overall, have my team win as many 
league meets as possible. I channeled all of my energy, 
my stress and my deteriorating thoughts into the sport. 
And somehow, my anxiety turned into accomplishment. I 
stood at the top of the podium with my relay, holding our 

gold medals and knowing that our names and the record-
breaking time would be up on the board.

As any swimmer knows, the physical act of swimming 

is meditative. You can’t hear anything but the rippling 
motion of the water and your own thoughts. You somehow 
think of everything and nothing — it’s being mindful and 
mindless at the same time. It’s pure magic.

The water gets sucked into my skin; it runs down my 

hair, through my teeth. I can feel my heart thriving as if 
the water has entered my bloodstream. When I couldn’t 
tell others about my issues, the pool was all ears. When 
I had to cry, the goggles caught my tears. Personally, I 
believe water to be the most damaging and powerful 
force, but here I am also feeling so safe and content when 
I am in it.

Those who are close to me will know that when I am 

sad, I swim. When I am angry, I swim. When I make 
a huge mistake, I swim. When I need to dissect my 
thoughts, I swim. When I need to leave the world for a 
while, I swim. My body doesn’t have to think about the 
motions — it acts on its own. It knows when to flip, when 
to breathe, when to change from fly kick to flutter kick, 
when to break out of streamline and all the in between. 
Even though I almost died in the water when I was two, 
having the outlet of swimming and having my body react 
the way it does when it is in the pool has been my biggest 
blessing.

Though water is my safe haven, there still remains 

that slight touch of fear. However, even my sister’s injury 
did not stop her. By summer of 2015, she was back in the 
pool with my mom, trying to do strokes and float on her 
back (a form of hydrotherapy/rehabilitation). I slipped 
into the water next to Lauren, who sat in this cute, adult 
floaty. I looked at her, I looked at the water: “You know, 
we haven’t been in a pool together in four years,” I told 
her. The water still had its binds, and regardless of our 
rough journeys, it had brought my sister and I back home.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016 // The Statement
6B

Water: My Sister’s Savior, My Best Friend

by Erika Shevchek, Daily Arts Writer

ILLUSTRATION BY ELISE HAADSMA

