Working girl
I still love swimming
TL;DR: I started a new job last month. Scroll to the end if you want to skip all the stuff I've had to come to terms with in order to begin rebuilding my life.
The long version:
I've said it before, but Eric and I would sometimes talk about death and dying and I would tell him that if he died, I'd go back to school and finish my R.N. He thought this was bananas. "You can earn more doing branding, illustration, and web design. And you can work from home. Why would you go back to school?"
It was a complicated question. I really enjoyed graphic and web design. But I'd wanted to be a nurse since I was in preschool. I was able to take a technical program in high school and certify as a medical assistant and went off to college certain I'd graduate with a nursing degree, maybe going on to become a nurse practitioner or certified nurse midwife.
But I ran into some issues along the way.
I joined the high school swim team in ninth grade. I'm still surprised my dad allowed me to join; I was sure he would take issue with the speedos and worried about the extra fees. But he was strangely supportive; maybe because he'd been on the diving team. Maybe because he felt swimming was less competitive (he believed competition led to contention that invited evil spirits) and that you were primarily racing against yourself to improve your own times.
Somehow, my parents found the money and paid the fees and our coach, Larry Swim (yes! really!) was amazing. He wasn't particularly warm, was even kind of scary. But he knew all of us by name and could recall all of our race times and how much we'd improved--even over a period of years--without consulting any charts.
I know it's very Uncle Rico of me, but I was good.
Not at first, of course. At first I was in lane one with the rest of the newbies, many of whom dropped out within the first couple of weeks. But I gradually moved up. I swam freestyle and backstroke, but had the most promise in backstroke. I looked up to an older girl named Debbie who also swam backstroke; she was so fast and had landed a full-ride scholarship to the University of Utah.
Larry pulled me aside when I was a sophomore and told me that my current race times were better than Debbie's had been when she was my age. I was stunned. I knew I had improved, but couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I might end up even faster than Debbie if I kept working hard.
No one in my life really talked about a college education beyond jokes about attending Brigham Young University (BYU) to get a "Mrs. degree" (get married, chortle, chortle) or to have something to fall back on in case your husband died (oh, the irony). I didn't know how much school would cost or how important a potential athletic scholarship might be.
All I knew was that swimming made me feel like the world was full of promise. For an incredibly insecure kid with reverse headgear and an underbite who excelled in mediocrity everywhere else, it was pretty amazing to not suck at something, you know?
Though my parents attended my swim meets and my mom in particular had sacrificed a lot to get me to and from early morning, afternoon, Saturday, and summer practices and drills, halfway through my junior year, dad started pressuring me to quit.
I've been reluctant to open my high school journals and read about it, but I finally did. It's WILD to read my own handwriting but hear my father's voice:
"I have the opportunity to take a test and get my graduation diploma for high school right now. Dad wants me to, then take classes at BYU SLC, then transfer to BYU Provo when I have enough credits. There are a lot of disadvantages that don't mean much. The disadvantages are juvenile and temporal: dances, friends, swimming, etc. I mean, they aren't relevant to my eternal progression and exaltation. Whereas if I do what dad wants me to, I'd have time to develop needed skills. Junior Prom or not, I must have an eternal perspective."
- Me (with obvious influence from my father) December 7, 1992. I am sixteen years old.
A few days later, I write:
"When I got home from school there was more discussion about me getting out of high school. It was stressful and I cried. Dad thinks it's a great opportunity for me to help mom homeschool [my younger siblings]. It's sort of settled now. Dad is going to take me into Mr. Bramble's office (my school counselor) and check me out of swimming. Then I'm going to take a math class at Sylvan Learning Center in place of swimming so I can, at the end of the semester, move out of high school and into BYU. I cried myself to sleep on the couch, now here I am. It's hard to trust in god's plan for me."
-December 10, 1992.
I had undiagnosed dyscalculia and had to work really hard to scrape C's in math. My parents took me for testing at the Sylvan Learning Center where they determined I was behind and needed some tutoring.
Spoiler: I never received any tutoring; it was too expensive. Nor did dad have me sit for any kind of test (I imagine he was talking about the GED?). Nor did I actually leave school and start BYU. I'm not sure if mom went to bat for me or if tuition, even subsidized with tithing, was too great a burden.
"This morning dad came and we transferred me out of swimming. What a huge-a-mungus step to take. We both went in and talked to Mr. Bramble. Dad did most of the talking but made me go talk to Larry (coach). It was really scary. He seemed mad and disappointed in me."
-December 11, 1992.
Dad put me in early morning seminary and enrolled me in a health class during first period since I'd previously had first period free to get ready after practice.
I vividly remember sitting in that health class when they called the swim team down to get on the buses for the state tournament in February. Everyone turned to look at me as I sat there, unmoving. A girl named Megan asked, "Why aren't you going?" I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. I shrugged and told her my dad made me quit--something he would have protested had he been in the room. Dad believed he didn't 'make' us do anything, that we always had a choice. But it never felt like we had a choice. Not with eternal salvation hanging over our heads.
Megan just blinked at me and asked, "But aren't you, like, good?"
I blocked a lot of it out. There were many years where, if high school athletics came up, I'd say I swam all four years in high school. I really thought I had! Even now, it feels like I did. I should have! But I didn't.
By the time I graduated, dad was really on my case about attending BYU. I really, really didn't want to go to a church school with strict rules. I'd had enough of those at home! I reminded dad that President Hinckley had stated there were too many students trying to get into BYU and they couldn't accept them all. He urged us to choose a good school and attend institute (which is the grown-up version of seminary).
My dad insisted I at least apply and promised to pay all of my tuition if I got in (haha, meanwhile our electric bill was late and mom was crying over a turkey the bishop brought over because he heard we didn't have any groceries).
I knew my dad wouldn't relent, so I obtained recommendation letters from my youth leaders and seminary teachers, and had bishop and stake president interviews to secure an ecclesiastical endorsement. I had a good ACT score and had been able to stay on the honor roll despite my struggles with math. I had a medical assisting certificate, almost 300 volunteer hours as a candy striper at the hospital, drama club, and 2.5 years of swimming. I knew I could write a good essay. I started worrying I might get in.
I took matters into my own hands and broke all the rules they'd drilled into us during college prep fairs.
Instead of typing or using black ink, I filled out the application with pink pen and magic markers. Seems like I might have used colored pencils somewhere, too. In my essay, I put in a few jokes about farts and tampons. My hands shook as I sealed the envelope, afraid my dad might want to read it over. I mailed the whole thing off and awaited my rejection letter, which did not disappoint.
It was my one, single youthful rebellion. I wish I had a photo of that masterpiece.
Instead, I went to Weber State, and though I swam laps in their big, beautiful gym, was not on the team and did not have a scholarship. My dad asked me not to work while in school (I can't remember the reason--it might have had to do with not having a car or a bike? Or just the continued micromanaging of my life?). And yet, my parents struggled to pay my school fees. Every trimester I had late fees and had to make embarrassing phone calls to the housing department, bookstore, and registration office.
My sister and I joke about it, but it's true. We ate at school because we were asked out on dates. Pour one out for the boys who bought me burritos at Taco Bell and junior bacon cheeseburgers from Wendy's. Cheers! Thank you for getting some protein into me once in a while. Donating plasma ensured I had enough coin for a jug of Sunny-D and packets of ramen noodles.
By the end of the year, I couldn't handle the money stress any longer. I also wanted to avoid moving home for the summer where I'd be under my dad's thumb again. I met with a nanny agency and landed a job in Pennsylvania. I hoped to send money home to mom, save enough for school, and run away from my college boyfriend who was just about to propose (I was 18! Thanks for the meals, though, Mike!).
After three years in PA wherein I did not save any money for school because my abusive fiancé had control of my finances, I finally moved back to Utah with $600 to my name. (Yes, I was either engaged or almost engaged alarmingly often--Mormon dating is wild.) I had just enough to pay the first month's rent on a shared house while I looked for a job. I still didn't have a car, so I took the bus to Weber State to pick up a copy of my transcript (do they still let you do that? I don't think so!) and enrolled at the University of Utah.
There, I met with the head of the nursing department, and made a plan to finish my RN. I was 22 years old and not lived at home since age 18. And yet. I could not apply for a school loan without my father's cooperation, not unless I was willing to get married or obtain emancipation. I think today you can prove financial independence, but the whole set up is still a sore spot for me.
Dad would not cooperate. He said he did not want to hand over any tax documents. Later I would learn he hadn't filed taxes in decades. I mean, he didn't really have an income, but he'd accepted a lot of 'donations' and 'investments' and the IRS garnished their mostly empty bank account for something like ten years.
Anyway! Without his help, I could not obtain any financial assistance. I struggled through my second year of college paying for tuition and books on a credit card and since I was young with no assets, my credit eventually ran out.
YEARS AND YEARS later, I was helping my own kid apply for scholarships, grants, and FAFSA. It was so overwhelming and I knew so little. As I researched and learned, I began to realize just how many opportunities I'd missed out on.
Eric was still alive and during one "normal not normal game" (a game we played when I needed to compare something from my upbringing to his) he asked, "I can't understand why you didn't get a scholarship from swimming. Didn't you swim all four years?" and echoing Megan of yore, "Weren't you, like, good?"
I nodded, confused. Hadn't I swam all four years? Why didn't I... OH.
Memories came rushing back. I told Eric about dad wanting me to leave high school and start BYU early, how he wanted me to help my mom homeschool my younger siblings, how he'd made me quit swim team.
"Not normal! Not normal!" he cried, before bemoaning the loss of what likely could have developed into a full ride athletic scholarship. We looked up the teammates I was most on par with, skill-wise, and oh how depressing it was. Broken 4A records. State championships. Scholarships. Successful collegiate careers. Degrees.
I had a whole Sliding Doors moment. What would my life have been like if I'd had even a partial scholarship? What horrors would I have avoided in Pennsylvania? Where would I be now?
I mean, you never know. Maybe I wasn't as good as I remember. Or maybe I would have plateaued. Maybe I would have burned out or sustained an injury. Maybe my math idiocy would have hurt my GPA to the point where I lost a scholarship. But oof. The missed opportunities hurt.
Eric dying sent me back into that tail spin space. Okay, so I quit swimming a hundred years ago. I didn't have any real or lasting support to get a college education. Do I try to go back to school now? What does that look like?
I wrote about the Displaced Homemaker Program in Idaho, and explored that for some time. It dead-ended for me as it was only going to cover the cost of a CNA, a step lower than the CMA I already have and we couldn't sort out how to cover living expenses once I was back in school full-time. Even with scholarships and grants and all the things I missed out on the first go-round, the math wasn't mathing.
It sent me into the deep sads for a while. I think there was a part of me that always knew the nursing ship had sailed, but that desire to right an old wrong, to fulfill a very old dream was strong.
I didn't really turn a corner until I had this incredible dream about Eric. This is already way too long, but someone remind me and I'll share it one of these days. I don't know what I believe about an afterlife anymore, but this dream was pretty powerful and it gave me something to hold on to.
With a renewed sense of hope and direction, I turned my attention back to graphic design and worked on an updated portfolio site. I was able to land some really lovely clients and my kids especially were pretty excited, feeling like we were going to be okay.
Still, the anxiety ate away at me. Eric loved self employment, loved working for himself, loved being home and available. And even though it's a little unconventional, working from home with him felt secure and stable; it truly felt like we could do anything together. Without him, it was terrifying.
I started thinking about adding a part-time or full-time job to provide some of that missing stability.
Eventually, I braved the intimidating world of LinkedIn, updated my resume and began applying for jobs. After several rejections and two very sweaty interviews, I accepted a full time remote job as a Graphics Coordinator for an engineering firm. Huzzah!
I had a really dreadful first day at the Idaho Falls office and was positive I'd made a terrible mistake, but since then, I've settled in (at home, getting ready only from the waist up for video conference calls). So much of the worry and anxiety I'd been carrying for almost three years began to evaporate. I mean, work is work, right? There are stressors and security is relative--there is always the possibility of a layoff or a job becoming obsolete. But I can't deny that the heavy elephant on my chest has hoisted itself off at last.
I guess it's easy (easier?) to say now that I'm in a better place and feel like I can provide (with a lot of careful budgeting!), but there's a part of me that can appreciate the journey. Not Eric dying, god, never that. But the whole nightmare of growing up in such a restrictive environment, the lost opportunities, the near misses, the anger and frustration over what could have been... I don't know, it puts things into perspective. Ugh, that sounds so trite. I'd roll my eyes at myself but I'm getting a migraine.
There's a full-circle kind of feeling, even if I can't pull this essay in and make it make sense on paper. I did it, you know? I didn't get the education I could have had, and didn't have the career I dreamed of, but I taught myself a lot of marketable skills. I can create some pretty cool things that also solve real problems for entrepreneurs and companies, and now big government entities are paying me to solve problems in pretty ways for them, too. A lot of that was possible because Eric loved, supported, and celebrated me, and because he was just so damn rad. Like, sure! Let's start a cloth diaper company. What the hell is that? How weird is that? But let's do it!

So I guess this is my really long way of saying he was right all along. And it's okay that I'm not a nurse, though I would have been a damn good one. Ask Uncle Rico. He knows.