Beneath the Surface

by Libby Trickett

  I had a huge amount of respect for the women I competed against, which only made me feel worse about my own shortcomings. I certainly found Jodie frustrating—she was so crazy talented that it felt like things came much easier to her than they did to me. In my mind, it felt like she did less work but was able to achieve such incredible things, and was always so laidback. Alice, on the other hand, had my intense focus but worked even harder than me. I felt awed by both of them.

  We weren’t really encouraged to be friends when we were competing; if we had been, we may have found that we actually had a lot in common. It wasn’t until later in life that we forged deeper connections. As young women, we were kind to each other and we made each other laugh, but we kept our distance, psychologically and emotionally, probably with some influence from our coaches. And it would likely have been difficult to compete at that level if I cared too much about my rivals. But I cared enough, and I empathised enough, to want to celebrate Alice’s win. I was genuinely happy she would get her day in the sun, but I was devastated that I had missed an individual spot in the 100-metre freestyle at the World Champs.

  To make everything worse, after the race Channel 9 asked me to join Alice and Jodie in for their interview. ‘Why? I came third,’ I said, annoyed, but they insisted. They were just playing up the drama of an unexpected upset. It detracted from Alice’s moment, and it put me in the spotlight when all I wanted to do was run to the change rooms, climb into the shower and cry.

  After trials, my goals for the World Championships shifted. Stephan and I decided that the best path forward was to try to make the 4x100-metre medley team, even though I wasn’t the fastest qualifier in any of the strokes. The idea was that I would put in such a monster performance in the 4x100-metre freestyle, which was earlier in the program, that I would make it impossible for the coach of the medley team not to select me for the freestyle leg of that race.

  Usually it’s a given that the person swimming the individual 100-metre race would take that spot—which for the freestyle leg would be either Jodie or Alice. But Jodie, Alice and I were all in the same league. We weren’t just the top three female freestyle sprinters in Australia, we were the top three in the world, so it wasn’t completely delusional to think that I could deliver a performance in the earlier 4x100-metre freestyle relay that made me the best choice for the medley relay later in the week. The medley team was selected based on form. It didn’t matter if you had an amazing run at trials—if you weren’t performing under competition conditions, someone else would get the spot.

  I had to prove myself in every race I swam, and I did just that in Montreal. I took a silver medal in the 100-metre butterfly and did a personal best time, finishing just behind Jess Schipper. It was amazing having Australians come in first and second, and it meant I got to sing the national anthem on the podium even though I didn’t actually win. We also won gold and broke a Commonwealth record in the 4x100-metre freestyle, which was deeply satisfying for me on many levels, because I always seemed to have something to prove.

  Before the final of the 4x100-metre freestyle relay, I approached the coach of the medley and freestyle relay teams, Shannon Rollason, and asked to lead off so I could get an accurate and official time for my leg of the race. The other legs of a relay are all ‘flying starts’ over the head of the girl who has just swum; the split time is between one girl touching the wall and the next girl leaving the blocks, which means the timing of the lead leg and the subsequent legs is not strictly comparable. Shannon, who was also Alice and Jodie’s coach, denied my request. I think he was probably conscious that I would be trying to qualify for a spot on the medley team, but it was just as likely that he said no simply because I’d had the cheek to ask. There was no love lost between Shannon and me. I was always fastest off the block—that was my strength—but he was unfazed. He told me that just after the Olympics was a good year to change things up and see how a different combination worked, and proposed that I anchor the team instead.

  Again, I was devastated. How can I possibly make an argument that I should be selected for the medley relay when I won’t have a clear time? Part of the problem was that I had almost assumed I would get the first leg of the freestyle relay. I was blindsided by my own optimism. I felt so frustrated and powerless that at first all I could do was cry hot, angry tears in my hotel room. But eventually I calmed down and decided that I had to make the best of the situation. If I had to swim a truly extraordinary leg in the freestyle relay that left no doubt about my speed, so be it. I couldn’t let it shake me—I had a job to do.

  Jodie led off in the freestyle relay, Alice was second, Shayne Reese was third and I brought us home. Jodie swam her leg in 54.4 seconds from a flat start, and Alice did hers in 53.9 seconds. I saw Jodie’s time as I was waiting to swim and knew I had a chance of beating it. It was a flash of a thought, gone almost instantly. Then my mind went blank, I hit the water and my race came together beautifully. I had a fiercely held goal, but I let it go when I had to and let my body take over. And I swam my leg in 53.5 seconds, almost a full second faster than Jodie.

  It was exactly what I wanted—a clear indication that I was in great form. I felt good, my body felt good, the taper had gone well and my race process was bang on where I wanted it to be. That mental aptitude for competition had served me well. I didn’t have to deal with the level of scrutiny at the World Championships that I had experienced in Athens—we were being broadcast but it didn’t feel like the eyes of the entire world were on me—and I felt much stronger mentally as a result. I focused on what I could control and let go of the things I couldn’t, including the fact that Jodie and Alice still had to swim the individual 100-metre freestyle race. If Jodie or Alice pulled out a 53.7 or better, my chance of swimming the medley was gone, so it was completely out of my hands.

  I swam the 4x200-metre freestyle race the same day that Jodie and Alice swam their heats for the 100-metre freestyle. It kept my mind occupied and kept me in the water—as I saw it, any chance to race was a chance to get more competition experience and stay match-fit. I also just loved racing. I smashed the first leg of the race, and surprised even myself by breaking the Commonwealth record for the 200-metre freestyle, and our team won the silver medal. Meanwhile, Jodie won the 100-metre freestyle in 54.18 seconds. Her time wasn’t extraordinary—they rarely are for any swimmer the year after an Olympics—but she won the World Championship; in terms of staking a claim for the medley race, she had done a damn good job. I had also done everything within my power, and now it was out of my hands. As much as I wanted that spot on the team—and I was ravenous for it—I felt satisfied that I had given it my best shot. No regrets.

  The following day, the day of the 4x100-metre medley heats, Shannon told me I’d done it—I was on the team. The decision must have been tough, but with the times and the results we’d all swum, I think it was fair. I did feel bad for Jodie and Alice, but for myself I was elated. I had made good on a modified goal. I had adapted to disappointment and come out fighting, and in the race I did both Shannon and Stephan proud. I absolutely smashed it—I swam my leg in 53.1 seconds. Alongside Jess Schipper, Leisel Jones and Sophie Edington, we won gold in the 4x100-metre medley final and set a new Commonwealth record.

  I won gold in the 50-metre freestyle as well—my first individual gold medal at a major championships. This was the point where I felt like my swimming career was really starting to take off. I was getting better. My form was getting better and I was getting more consistency in my performance. But I also had a growing mental toughness that gave me an edge. I was extremely proud of myself for adapting to the disappointment—for absorbing it, refocusing my mind and moving forward. To come away with three gold and two silver medals was a massive feat, and I felt my confidence become that much stronger. Good, I can do that, I thought to myself. Now, what am I going to do next?

  Chapter Five

  2014

  ‘Every experience, no matter how bad it seems, holds within it a bless
ing of some kind. The goal is to find it.’

  —Buddha

  I have naturally elevated levels of testosterone, which I guess is part of the reason I did so well in my swimming career. I’m stronger than other women and I can recover faster, but the testosterone wreaks havoc with my menstrual cycle. I didn’t really notice it as a teenager, and I was on the pill the whole time I was training, but since I came off it my cycles have been all over the place—sometimes 30 days long, sometimes 60. I’ve been diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS) and they tell me getting pregnant could be difficult, but it’s okay—I’m up for the challenge.

  Getting pregnant is my next goal, and after Megaport I really need something major to focus on, something meatier than a five-minute breakfast TV slot and the massage and personal training diplomas I’m only half-heartedly committed to. Having a baby feels like a solid choice. Luke’s finance business is growing, slowly. It’s time to start the next chapter of our lives.

  Irregular cycles make it really hard to know when I’m likely to ovulate. It could happen any time across a span of three or four weeks, and I have to look for signs that it is happening, which means I’m suddenly hyper-aware of my reproductive system. I have to count calendar days and worry about things like my basal body temperature, cervical mucus, twinges on my uterus that might signal implantation and then vague pregnancy symptoms. I have to map, and study, and think about the plan. I have to work towards the goal.

  I don’t have lengthy conversations with Luke about cervical mucus. He’s only vaguely aware of what PCOS is, and he’s very happy to let me manage the details. I think he figures that I’m the best person to oversee what’s going on inside my body; his job is to front up and do the deed every second day, like a good husband. Rain, hail or shine, he is expected to perform, even if he’s busy, if he’s running late, if he’s tired. I love my husband very much and he’s a total spunk, but this routine is not exactly romantic. It’s not sexy and it’s not fun. We’re very committed to the job, however, and boy, are we good at it. Practice makes perfect. It feels like a lot of effort and a lot of concentration on my part, but it pays off relatively quickly in the end. We kick off in May and the first cycle is a non-starter, but by mid-July I find out that I’m pregnant.

  Pregnant in the second cycle! Early triumph! I feel all the normal giddy feelings you get with this news, plus a little something extra—something like relief. I thought it would be hard and it really wasn’t at all, and this seems especially awesome to me. It gives me an extra bounce in my step. Luke, ever the moderate guy, is very happy that we’re pregnant but doesn’t quite get my sense of triumph. He wasn’t anxious about the PCOS situation so he doesn’t share that special feeling that we beat the odds. This stuff is all in my head.

  I feel incredibly motivated all of a sudden. I have a clear purpose in life that is every bit as important as training for a gold medal, and that’s how I try to approach it. At the beginning of a training cycle, I would sit down with my coach and talk about my goals, and we would develop a plan to achieve those goals. My goal now is to have a baby, and I have already put the program into place. The pregnancy was the first milestone; now I have appointments to make, a home to prepare, a name to choose, all that stuff. None of this is urgent but it feels good to have something meaningful to focus on. God, how I’ve missed that feeling.

  It’s unclear exactly how far along I am because of my irregular cycle, so my GP sends me for an early scan to figure it out. ‘Roughly seven weeks,’ the sonographer tells me. ‘There’s your baby’s heartbeat.’ On the monitor, I see a tiny, flickering pulse in the middle of a tiny little bean, and I feel a rush of absolute joy. There you are, bunny! Already on your way. Unbelievable. It just feels unbelievable.

  At home, I jump online and start searching for statistics around seeing a heartbeat at seven weeks. I’m absolutely positive that this is a great sign for the pregnancy, and I want the internet to agree with me. It does—the baby is growing strong. A tough little bean, like Mum.

  I feel such a strong connection to this little human, who is just barely there. This baby is already a person to me. I can’t stop thinking about that little heartbeat, pummelling away. I wonder what gender they will be. I wonder what they will be like, what their life will be like, who they will grow up to be. My excitement is not really about having a baby—I’m actually not much of a baby person, to be honest—it’s about the whole journey ahead. I’m just so keen to meet my child and see who they become.

  I find it so bizarre that this baby is a physical part of me and Luke—they will grow into a wholly unique individual, and be an adult one day. And I get to experience and influence that adult taking shape. I’m excited to share the things I love with my child, and to learn about the things they love. I wonder if they’ll have some spark of creativity, which Luke and I completely missed. Will they sing? Will they dance? Will they play an instrument? Will they be academic, like their dad? Or will they swim, like me? I wonder who they’ll look like—me or Luke? They say the baby always looks like its father when it’s born, but I’m convinced that we’ll have a blond baby, although I have no idea why.

  My baby is such a lovely thing to think about, and I think about it and think about it, all day long. There are so many daydreams in my head.

  I’ve been looking at this pregnancy as a life goal, but this goal feels so big and bright and happy that it’s not like my swimming goals at all. The competitiveness is gone. The punishment, the hard work, the sacrifice. I’m on a journey and there is somewhere I want to get to, but the pregnancy is a far lighter burden. In some ways, I know, it’s because I feel like being pregnant is ‘ordinary’. Of course, this is the most important thing that has ever happened to me and Luke, but the rest of the world doesn’t care. I won’t have the eyes of the world on me when I’m giving birth (thank god). And it’s nice to feel like I’m doing something worthwhile when there’s no pressure for me to be the best. I don’t have to win this time around, I just have to cross the finish line.

  Some women opt for experience, but I decide I want a younger obstetrician. Male or female doesn’t bother me, but I want someone with a bit of energy. My GP recommends a specialist named Dr Rob Butler, so I hop online to do my research and it’s obvious that this is my guy. He’s a former athlete, for one thing. Before becoming an obstetrician, Rob was an elite rower and he still competes in triathlons. He’s also very handsome, which doesn’t hurt. My very own McDreamy. Ticks all the boxes! I smile.

  Our first appointment with Rob is around the nine-week mark, and he ushers us into his office in South Brisbane with a warm smile on his face, which puts Luke and me at ease instantly. The banter is great, light-hearted and familiar, so I know I’ve picked a winner. We talk weather, sports, work, the usual nonsense, and then he asks us about our baby.

  ‘Nine weeks, you reckon,’ Rob says. ‘Right, let’s take a look.’ He takes me over to the examination chair. He tells us that he’ll do a scan every time we visit, just to see how things are travelling, and I mention that we’ve already had a scan and that we saw the heartbeat. ‘That’s a great sign, right?’ I say. Rob agrees.

  He closes a small curtain around me so that I can take my pants off and get into position, and then we begin the very awkward process of having an internal ultrasound. I drape a cloth over my lap for modesty and assume a very neutral look while Rob rolls a big condom over the scanning probe and smothers the top of it with some kind of lubricant. This stuff is so embarrassing, but Rob is a professional. He manages somehow to insert the thing while looking the other way. I manage to keep a straight face, I think, but it’s a challenge. I’m amazed I don’t start giggling.

  It’s funny how the air can get heavier from one moment to the next. We’re all smiles, ear to ear, then the probe goes in and suddenly Rob is somewhere else. I’m still sitting there on the bed feeling goofy, but then I get the sense that I’m trailing behind, like I missed some important bit of information in a movie. Th
e atmosphere has changed, but I don’t understand why exactly. Nothing has happened but something is clearly happening.

  Rob is very quiet. He’s moving the probe around and searching the screen, looking for something, and I find myself scouring the monitor, too, because I want to help him find whatever he’s looking for. The next minute drags. It feels like an hour, because I’m holding my breath.

  Rob sighs. He marks two points on the image with a cursor and removes the probe, pulls the latex gloves off his hands and throws them in a small rubbish bin, pumping antibacterial gel onto his hands and rubbing them together as he speaks. ‘I’m sorry,’ he tells us, ‘I can’t find a heartbeat.’

  He explains that the two points he marked on the screen indicate the size of the embryo, which likely stopped growing at around eight weeks. A missed miscarriage. For a week at least, I thought I was pregnant when the baby inside me was dead.

  Rob is talking but I can’t think. I’m listening and I’m not—I feel like I’ve been punched in the heart. I’m just sitting there with the stupid modesty cloth over me, feeling numb and disoriented, but also as though I’m going to be sick. Maybe I can throw up in that little rubbish bin. I’m trying to pay attention to the detail because I want to understand what is happening, and Rob is explaining it to me right now in this kind, but also perfunctory way. His voice is telling me something that he’s not saying with words, and I’m trying to figure it out. He is gentle, but professional—maybe that was the problem. I realise that he’s made this speech a hundred times before, thousands maybe, because what is happening to me is so totally ordinary. It happens every day. I feel like I’m drowning. I feel like a tidal wave is crashing over my head, but my doctor is saying, in the kindest possible way: Miscarriages are common—this is not a tragedy.

  I haven’t been around many pregnant women in my life. All the women I knew in the swimming scene were on the pill, their bodies trained for another purpose. I didn’t know, or I don’t remember, that one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage. If I knew, I guess I just didn’t think those odds applied to me. The odds had never applied to me. And anyway, I got pregnant fast and we saw a heartbeat, which meant we were good. We were lucky. There was nothing to worry about. I hadn’t shared the news with anyone because you’re not supposed to do that until the twelve-week mark … I didn’t really consider why but now I know.