13 Things I Wish I'd Said

First in a two-part series

Years ago, I sat next to literary agent Laura Rennert at a writers' conference luncheon in Austin, Texas, and she wouldn’t shut up about an important project she helped bring to the market.

The book was called Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher.
 

There’s been a lot of discussion recently on social media about the groundbreaking Netflix series based on Asher’s novel. I haven't seen the series yet, but the book itself was an overwhelmingly shocking and sad read. I finished it not too long after a woman I was mentoring killed herself.
 

I’ve known several people who have committed suicide: among them, my cousin and two women I mentored in a recovery program. There also have been many other colleagues and acquaintances who have “accidentally” overdosed. Statistics tell me that I’m not the only person who has lost someone to suicide. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), 34,000 people commit suicide each year—about one death every 15 minutes. The WHO predicts that by 2030, depression will pass cancer, stroke, war, and accidents as the world's leading cause of death.

Caitlan, a woman I mentored, talked about suicide all the time. She was in her early 20s and in medical school, and she had already been in a mental hospital several times. She really tried to be happy. I remember her wearing a propeller beanie hat, just to fake it. Unfortunately, she was on a seemingly unending merry-go-round: recovering from depression with new medications, thriving for a while, but then falling again into a deep downward spiral. Caitlan said her parents never wanted to talk about how or why she was suffering. They just wanted her to get better so that she could be a doctor. They saw her potential, not her pain.

I remember sitting outside a coffee shop with her one night when she said again that she wanted to die. Every time she went back to med school, the suicidal thoughts returned.

“Do you even want to be a doctor?” I asked her.

“My parents want me to be a doctor,” she replied.

“But do YOU want to be a doctor?”

“My parents wouldn’t understand,” she said.

I asked her why she didn’t tell her parents that she didn’t want to be a doctor. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. I few months later, she left a voicemail, saying that she was doing well. A few weeks later, she hanged herself.

I’ll never forget her. She remains a painful reminder to always talk openly about suicide—to go the extra mile to get those crying out for help the treatment they need, and then to keep talking about their feelings and to keep getting them help. Caitlan’s gone, and I didn’t get a second chance to say the things I wish I’d said to her. It’s too late. But maybe it’s not too late for someone in your life. Maybe by me sharing what I wish I’d said, you can say it to someone you love and help them through their rough time.

Here are the 13 things I wish I’d said:

1.     I LOVE YOU.

2.     It’s not your fault that you feel the way you do. You didn't do anything wrong. You're not wrong.

3.      You’re not alone. You need to know that. Other people have and do feel the way you do, and many have gotten help and gotten through tough times.

4.     I can see that you're in pain. If you share your pain with me and others, the pain will likely lessen. Let me help lighten your load.

5.     You can talk as long as you want—about anything—and I’ll listen. I’ll just listen if that’s what you want and need. I won’t try to fix you.

6.     I can tell you’re hurting. I can tell you want help and might not know how to ask for it. Can I make some suggestions of resources that might ease your pain?

7.     You can tell me anything—ANYTHING. You can ask me anything, too. I won't judge you.

8.     It’s O.K. to disappoint your parents. They’ll get over it. Trust me on this.

9.     You’re not bad for having suicidal thoughts. You’re not weak. You’re struggling. There’s a difference.

10. Suicidal ideation, however fleeting, is more common than you might think. (Cite statistics above.)

11. I know that your family has a history of suicide and mental illness. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, and you’re not automatically doomed to follow this pattern.

12. Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Can we brainstorm for alternatives to suicide?

13. I LOVE YOU, REGARDLESS.

Bringing the topic of suicide out from the shadows is important. When the topic and problem of suicide remains in the dark—remains taboo for open discussion—the person in pain may continue to feel lonely and alone. So go ahead: Talk about it. Get it out. Have you considered suicide in the past? If so, talk about how you felt at that time, what changed, and what life’s like now. Have you lost loved ones to suicide? How did you feel when you couldn’t save them? Talk about that too.

If a loved one or friend is in pain, pull out all the stops. Get the mental health treatment necessary. Tell the person that you love them a zillion times, and then tell them again. Tell them to not be afraid or hesitant to talk about their questions, fears, and pain. Tell them you’ll listen. And then be available to listen.

You may not get a second chance.

I Hear You

Last Wednesday night, I sat with Uncle Marvin on his death bed in a nursing home in Llano, Texas. He struggled to breathe. He was dying, and he knew it. He was frustrated, and I knew it.

I haven’t told many people about my experience with my uncle during his last few hours, but because of what happened last night in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) of an Austin hospital, I’m telling it now.

Saying goodbye

Uncle Marvin had Stage 4 lung cancer. He was a big man in his younger years: tall, strong, and opinionated. A Vietnam vet. He was the person who sat beside me in my family's dining room as I read a story I wrote called “Clink Clank” about a talking dog. He told me, “Keep it up, kid.” (I was in the third grade then, and I never forgot those words.) Now he was reduced to lying motionless in a nursing home bed, eating pureed meals, and receiving oxygen to help him breathe.

When I sat with him that night, his decline from a few days before was remarkable. He was no longer eating or drinking. He couldn't talk. He didn’t have the energy to move, yet he was still somehow able to communicate his feelings: He was irritable. Frustrated. Powerless. Then suddenly he’d stare out into space at something and take hard breaths.

I knew I had to say goodbye, so I positioned my chair in his line of sight, held his hand, and started talking, just like I do with the babies in the NICU. Sometimes, the most comforting thing you can do for people who might be feeling powerless and afraid is to talk to them.

Because they hear you.

I told him how incredibly grateful I was that he took the time to say those four simple words—“keep it up, kid”—to me, and about how I have kept up the writing, and how I’ll continue to do so. I told him that his disabled brother, Ronnie, would be O.K., and that in no time, Ronnie would be getting speeding tickets for running his motorized wheelchair up and down the nursing home hallways too fast.

Marvin raised one eyebrow.

I knew he heard me. So I continued.

I told him that I’d recently gone out to his house on the outskirts of Llano to check on things, and that though the yard was overgrown, everything looked just fine.

Marvin took a deep breath.

He owned several properties before going into the nursing home but had to sell them off one by one to pay for his care. The nursing home wanted him to sell this homestead too, but he insisted on keeping it in case he got better and could go home.

Everyone knew he wouldn’t return. HE knew he wouldn’t return. But, by golly, he was a stubborn man who wasn’t going to let go of his home because someone said he should. Marvin fought them every step of the way, and in the end, Medicare officials allowed him to keep it.

“You can go back home now whenever you’re ready. It’ll just be in a different realm,” I said. “And, by the way, nice job! They never took that place from you!”

He raised both eyebrows—twice.

For hours, I held his hand and talked about all my childhood memories of him. I thanked him again for his service in Vietnam. And I thanked him for taking care of Ronnie for the past 40 years.

He raised an eyebrow.

I continued to talk, and though I knew Marvin was already halfway in another realm, I sensed that he could hear me perfectly.

He died a few hours after I left his side.

Now, about last night

I have a routine when I rock babies at the NICU. After scrubbing up, I head to the nearest bay to see who needs comforting. There are seven bays, and the lower the bay number, the sicker the babies. Bay 5 is the nearest bay to the entryway, so I usually pop in there first. But not last night.

Last night I intuitively changed my routine and headed first to Bay 1.

It’s less common to rock babies in that bay. Most are too sick to be held. Many have a lot of wires and tubes attached to their tiny bodies, and they’re just trying to survive. But I go there anyway to talk to them, hold their tiny hands, hum, and sing off key.

In a room off to the side of the bay, I came up to a little girl who I’d seen many times before, but who was always off limits. A sign posted in the entryway said to be quiet and ask the nurse before touching her. She was very sick and needed her rest.

Last night I walked over to her bedside to see how she was doing and to greet her primary care nurse. The poor little girl was upset because the nurse had just run some assessments. But you didn’t hear her cry. She couldn’t cry; she had a trach tube in her neck. The tube helped her breathe, but she was frustrated.

So I put on the required purple latex gloves and held her hand. At first she didn’t want it and pushed my palm away. (My ving tsun kung fu sifu would be impressed at her pak sau.) So I asked her if I could just sit and talk, and I just held my hand out in case she changed her mind. She seemed to settle.

“I’m Cathy,” I said. “I’ll be your guide tonight.”

She curled the fingers of one hand around my forefinger.

And so I talked: I told her about my four dogs—two with three legs—and my predatory cat. I told her about the hospital and how it was a really safe place for her, and that she could relax and rest here.

“You’ve got the best nurse ever and she’d going to take good care of you.”

She was listening.

“She really likes you,” the nurse said.

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“Her oxygen levels are higher when you talk to her,” she said, pointing to the monitor. “Her heart rate is always pretty low, but it’s great now.”

“Well, I’ll just keep talking then,” I said, turning toward the little girl.

She was dressed in a cute pink elephant onesie. She had a clean diaper and clean bedding. She was warm and safe. Yet she was irritable. Frustrated. Powerless.

Just like Uncle Marvin.

So I told her about him, then suddenly realized that I was sitting by his side exactly a week ago—to the hour.

“If you see a big guy, and he says he knows me, that’s my uncle. Don’t be afraid. He’s here to help you. He’ll watch over you to make sure you’re O.K.”

She raised an eyebrow.

In shock and exhilaration, I continued: “He knows exactly how you feel! It’s so hard to feel like you can’t breathe. He understands.”

She squirmed in a frustrated attempt to say something, her one free hand flying in the air like a bull rider in a rodeo. But she couldn’t make a sound.

So she squirmed some more, moving her eyebrows, ears, and forehead. She was talking to me via facial expressions—so fast that I couldn’t keep up with the conversation.

“I’m listening,” I said. “Tell me all about it.”

Though I didn’t understand what she was saying, I wanted her to feel heard. I wanted her to know someone cared and that someone was listening.

This little girl was a joy to watch. She had a fascinating ability to contract and relax her facial muscles. She was even able to move the skin on her skull forward and backward.

“How do you even do that?” I asked as I tried to mimic her facial expressions. All I could muster was a double raised eyebrow. (I stopped when a nurse walked by, fearing that she might think I was odd.)

What was that little girl trying to say? I don’t know, but after the flurry of activity, she calmed a bit, and her eyes began to slowly close and open until they remained closed and her breathing settled. I stopped talking, holding her hand until she fell asleep. Ten minutes later, I quietly left the room.

I walked away feeling so lucky—fortunate to have sat with my uncle while he was dying and fortunate to sit with this little girl while she was fighting to live. It seemed the perfect example of yin and yang, and it made me realize something profound:

Sometimes you don’t have to necessarily understand everything a person says for them to feel heard. You just need to listen.

My Social Media Experiment from Hell Contained a Childhood Land Mine

My family was mired in the disease of alcoholism. Everyone had a role:

·        Daddy drank every day, embarrassed the family in public on a regular basis, got arrested for driving while intoxicated several times, and injured people in drunk driving accidents.

·        Mamma yelled, cursed, and blamed—daily.

·        My older sisters? Nancy was a care-taker and Susan was pegged early as the overly emotional troublemaker. None of those labels were fair.

·        And me? I was the comic relief. The entertainment. The one who tried to make everyone laugh as a distraction from the drunk elephant in the living room. The one who wanted everyone to get along and be happy so that there was no more crying in the house.

Why the heck am I starting out this essay with a description of family dynamics? On a blog post about a social media experiment of how differently groups of Americans viewed U.S. President Donald Trump’s recent press conference? Well, hang in there, because we’re about to go deep.

Day One

Day One of the Social Media Experiment involved an invitation for those who identified as conservative in my Facebook feed to share what they saw in the press conference. I wanted to know, because what I saw upset me. Made me lose sleep. Maybe my view was skewed. Maybe not. But I truly wanted to know what others thought. And then I respectfully asked anyone else who wanted to follow the conversation to comment with a period.

I’ve never seen so many periods in my life.

It was cool to see who was reading, but it was my experiment. I really wanted to know—uninterrupted by today’s constant online debating that typically ends in name-calling with no real result—what folks different from me saw.

Folks different from me.

You see, there’s a reason I don’t see things the way others see them. I’m not them. I figure that there’s a reason we all have different fingerprints. We’re supposed to be different.

It was indeed an eye-opening experience. First, many people posted a period, and were silent THE ENTIRE DAY. I’d never been more proud of my peeps. And, second, the folks who commented did so, I felt, authentically. Some strayed from the press conference itself to talk about their perception of the president, but for me that was O.K. because again it gave me a peek into their view.

There were nuggets of insights, but the comments that struck me most were, of course, the personal stories—the ones in which folks different than me shared something that I could relate to as being tragic:

·        One woman lost an 11-year friendship over the election. This has caused her so much pain. (I could relate: I know many people on all sides who have grieved this deep pain since the election.)

·        Two neighbors who had Trump signs in their yards took them down immediately after the election for fear of reprisal. (I could relate. I supported Hillary Clinton, and was a part of that whole Pantsuit Nation thingy for a while, but you know what? I never put a Clinton bumper sticker on my car or a sign in my yard because of fear. I didn’t want strangers giving me shit.)

·        A man who had a Trump bumper sticker on his truck came to his vehicle one day to find the bumper sticker ripped off and “Nazi” etched into the driver’s side door. (My jaw dropped. I know this man, and yet I had no idea this happened. He never said anything before now. And I felt so sad.)

·        One woman was told that she and her children deserved to be shot by a mass gunman. (I felt horrified. This one really got to me.)

What I found fascinating and equally heartbreaking was that if I replaced the political label, I and I'd bet a plethora of folks from all sides could list off similar tragic incidents.

Throughout the 260-plus comments, there was only one time in which someone on the post broke the rules of no commenting from the other side, and it was a drunk college student who didn’t read the rules before going on the typical “You’re stupid for…” rant. (Now sober, he has promised me and the others, as an amends, to pump out 50 pushups for each ugly comment he made. I plan to put it on Facebook Live.)

At the end of the day, I was actually feeling happy and hopeful. I felt as if it was possible for people of different walks of life to listen to one another. Harmony of life is important to me, because, like I said at the beginning, I’m conditioned to want everyone to get along.

Because I HATE CONFLICT.

And thus, Day Two was hell.

Day Two

On Day Two, I posted a news article from Wired about how differently folks viewed the press conference. It was as if Wired read my post the day before and handed me this story on a platter. The article spoke to the wide chasm of perception and how people could have such different views on one event. It was fascinating. Exactly what I’d witnessed since way before the election.

On Day Two the rules were simple. Anyone could participate. There was only one disclaimer: Be nice if you comment.

Throughout most of the day, the debate was logical and respectful. Yet I began to feel a rising level of discomfort. I know now that it felt a lot like when Daddy would come home from work drunk and Mamma would begin her blood-pressure-rising rant. I wanted everyone to be nice, and some weren’t. I wanted everyone to be respectful, and some weren’t. As the day progressed to evening (when maybe alcohol was consumed?), the tone turned sour and quickly digressed into a merry-go-round of “how could you possible believe…” and “you must think I’m an idiot” to “if I’m attacked, I will defend myself.”

My stomach was in knots, just like when I was a kid. I wanted everyone to stop fighting. I wanted everyone to get along. All of a sudden, the Social Media Experiment became a rerun of my family’s nightly drama, and I was miserable.

What’s fascinating is how others saw the day:

·        One woman thought the debate was pretty good—much nicer than what she’s seen. (And I thought, “Oh, my God, I guess I don’t know how bad these type of discussions can get.”)

·        One man wrote that he actually enjoyed the banter. (Banter. Huh. That’s not how I saw it AT ALL. The least little disagreement was so hard for me to read.)

·        Another man wrote, “Cathy, you don’t have nice friends,” and another, in a private message, wrote that he felt disrespected, and that he was done listening to or trying to reason with the other side. (I felt that my Facebook friends were a reflection of me, and that I was coming up short.)

Suddenly, I realized that I DID THIS TO MYSELF. I heard two things:

·        My brother-in-law’s constant question, “Well, what did you expect?”

·        My ving tsun kung fu sifu’s advice: “Never expect. Never compare.”

Dammit, I did it again: I had an expectation. I expected that all people could—and should—get along. I expected that somehow I could fix people, places, and things. That I could make everything better. That I could steer conversations to a more positive tone and convince all sides to work together.

How egotistical, delusional, and controlling of me.

There I was the next morning, feeling defeated just like the many mornings as a kid when I realized I hadn’t been able to stop Daddy from getting drunk the night before and that I couldn’t do anything to keep my Mamma and sisters from being pissed.

And today, I see that I have a lot of personal work to do, and how differently others see a press conference should be the least of my worries.

I have to stop trying to fix people and things. I have to stop trying to think I can help people find common ground. Some people don’t want that. Daddy didn’t want my help. Mamma didn’t want it. And neither do most of the fine folks on social media.

So to all who participated in the Social Media Experiment, I offer a humble apology—and a sincere thanks. I didn’t know that this was all about me all along and that I had a hard lesson to learn. I’m sorry that I had to drag you into this. If you got something out of it—terrific. If in the end you felt hopeful—awesome. If your previous beliefs that "people on the other side are still schmucks" was reaffirmed, well, I guess that’s just the way it is and will have to be.

As for me, I realize I still have a LOT of personal work to do—that the insidious family disease of alcoholism is still in my fucking DNA.

And that I should get my butt to an Al-Anon meeting as soon as possible.

A Dudley Do-over

A little over a year ago in the uber sterile operating room of what used to be Animal Trustees of Austin (ATA), I stood over the anesthesia-limp body of my dog, Dudley Do-Right. The surgeon had prepped him for an emergency exploratory surgery, but she quickly discovered when she opened him up that a tumor had wrapped itself around Dudley’s colon, and the removal would mean a painful and uncertain recovery. He was 13 years old.

Mare and I, right there, made the decision to let him go.

 

I cried so hard I thought I’d hyperventilate.

Dudley was our first puppy; I brought him home at five weeks old from a friend at work. He chose me. As co-workers passed this little dachshund-Scottish terrier mix puppy from arm to arm, he shook with nerves. But when he came to me, he nuzzled his little cold wet nose against my neck, immediately stopped shaking, and closed his eyes.

“Oh, he’s yours,” a co-worker said.

I decided to take him home for a trial run, warning Mare in a voicemail that I’d made an executive decision on behalf of our family. She came home to find this little bitty puppy in a huge box. Mare looked down into the big box to see two sad brown eyes staring back at her.
 

Dudley as a puppy. 

“Damn," Mare said. "He’s cute.”

And just like that, he became part of our family. I repeated often, “You’re my baby boy. You’ll always be my baby boy.”

Dudley “Do-Right, Except When He Don’t” went on many Central Texas camping trips, a road and hiking trip to North Carolina, countless visits to dog parks, and thousands of walks in the neighborhood. He wasn’t an on-your-lap dog. He preferred to lay his head on your lap. And he didn't like to be held much, unless he was riding in the car or very tired. There was a special way he liked me to hold him when we were seated together—whenever he was in my arms.

Sleepy Dudley.

But mostly, he was a next-to-you dog. As long as he had a part of his body against ours, Dudley was happy.

He was also at times a grouchy, odd boy. He’d grumble and moan like an old man so often that I began calling him my “My Old Man.” He aged gracefully and faithfully, and he rarely complained unless there was a thunderstorm. He shivered hours before we heard the first rumble. We bought thundershirts and gave him anti-anxiety meds during spring rains, but mostly, we just had to ride out the storm with him and get through it the best we could.

When Dudley started having diarrhea issues in the fall, we took him to the vet, who suggested we try foods that would help him have healthy poops. Instead, he became constipated. One night he was in obvious discomfort, and Mare and I tag-teamed staying up to try to comfort him until the vet office opened. I remember feeling hopeful every time he went out the doggie door that night, hoping that he would poop. He never did. Instead, he dug a hole by one of the autumn sage shrubs and laid down in the cool dirt.

It's like he’s digging his own grave, I thought. But I pushed it out of my mind.

A few hours later, we learned that he, in fact, knew that he was dying.

I wasn’t ready to let go of my Old Man and Baby Boy. I cried so hard for days, and then I shut down. Feeling the sadness was unbearable, so I didn’t. I knew that no matter how many dogs Mare and I fostered, I’d never have another dog like Dudley.

Enter Tucker Trucker

Though Mare no longer worked at ATA, she maintained contact with her canine rescue friends, and one day, Suzy Swingle reached out for someone to take in a 13-year-old dachshund-mix. “Tucker” was being surrendered informally by a woman struggling with multiple life-altering issues. She had to move in with family, but Tucker couldn’t come with her. Instead of sending Tucker to a rescue, where an old dog could very well sit for a long time in a cage, Suzy decided to pitch him to her friends on social media.

 

Mare nudged me one night, pointing to her phone. She showed me a blurry picture of a portly old dog in front of a food bowl and said, “Wanna?”

 Twenty-pound Tucker.

 

“Sure,” I said, without feeling. “Why not?”

 

Suzy brought Tucker over the next day. She carried him from her car to our backyard and warned us that he didn’t like to be picked up—that he seemed to be in pain but she wasn’t sure why.

His former owner had him since he was a puppy, and we all thought it would take time for him to adjust to our home and pack.
 

Nope.

He trotted around our backyard, said hello to our cat, and ignored our three dogs. His first time on our couch, he rolled on his back and growled in ecstasy. It was a pretty uneventful meet and greet, so Tucker stayed.

We started to call him Tucker Trucker because of his hefty frame (we likened him to a keg with legs), but after a while the name faded because we began feeding him quality, carefully measured food (no more table scraps for you, buddy!) and Mare took him for daily walks with our pack. He didn’t have his own collar, so Mare grabbed Dudley’s old collar that sat on his box of ashes on the living room bookshelf.
 

Tucker bore the white eyes of an old dog, a sweet spirit, a misshapen head, and a swollen mouth. He seemed to like his new pack, but he didn’t like to be touched near the mouth.  Mare eventually took a peek at his teeth, and she discovered why he was in so much pain: His teeth were caked with plaque; many were obviously rotten. Tucker’s breath was indeed atrocious. If he gave you a lick, a stinky bacterial scent stayed on your face. You had to wash it off with soap and water.

 

Tucker's mouth was pretty swollen.

A trip to our veterinarian confirmed Mare’s suspicion: Multiple teeth needed to be extracted. It would cost an estimated $1,300. That’s a hefty cost for a dog we were only fostering, so we asked for GoFundMe help, and our loving friends generously pitched in. (It ended up costing about $1,600.)
 

I remember the day I took Tucker to the vet’s office for his dental surgery: His breath was so strong, I repeatedly gagged. I had to roll the car windows all the way down because his breath stunk up my vehicle.

And at the end of the day, Tucker groggily waddled out to me in the waiting room of the vet's office—less 15 teeth. He had only one incisor left up front and two small teeth in the back. He gummed me with affectionate, “thank you” love while the vet explained the surgery and aftercare regimen. I stared into his old, whitened eyes, and I knew we’d be keeping him.

Little by slowly, Tucker began to remind me more and more of Dudley.

Once Tucker understood that he was welcome on the couch without invitation, he’d climb up and lay his rump right next to my thigh—just like Dudley.
 

At night, he’d crawl under the bed covers and rest his head on my thigh—just like Dudley.

Tucker likes to rest his head on me, just like Dudley.

Soon, Tucker started walking around the house, grumping and moaning like an old man—just like Dudley.

Sometimes he trotted through the house with a purpose—just like Dudley.

He'd bark annoyingly from our living room window at passersby—just like Dudley.

Was it because he was wearing Dudley’s collar? Or was it because my Old Man was spiritually saying hello? I don’t know.

All I do know is that today, on a cold Texas day, Tucker is moping around the house, going to Mare at her easel, then to me at my word processor, then back to Mare, wondering when one of us will sit down on the couch and watch football so that he can cuddle with his pack—just like Dudley.
 

So on the week before Christmas, though no dog will ever replace Dudley, I feel like I got the best holiday gift from my beloved friend: A Dudley do-over.

Thanks, Old Man. Merry Christmas to you, too.

Kickin’ It at Cowboys Stadium

DALLAS—Dressed in shorts and T-shirts, about 120 Taekwondo students from all over the United States lined up in the red zone of the same football field where Dallas Cowboys quarterback Dak Prescott regularly throws touchdown passes against opponents. The students’ faces showed a mixture of excitement and nervous apprehension. While the stadium’s massive, 160 foot wide by 72 foot tall jumbotron above showed clips of past Cowboys games, the Taekwondo students bowed to their coaches and began a slow but increasingly aerobic warm-up. Within minutes, sweat rolled from foreheads to cheekbones and dripped from chins onto the artificial turf below. They progressed to agility drills, where 1988 Seoul Olympics gold medalist and coach Arlene Limas reminded them to have “fast feet.”

The students at the inaugural three-day sport Taekwondo seminar in Dallas came with different goals. Most athletes were there because they dream of standing on the podium at the Olympics wearing a gold medal. Some just wanted to test their endurance and build fortitude. Others, very young, were there because their coaches saw something extraordinary in their already swift-yet-smooth footwork. Regardless of the reason, the athletes all knew that they’d work hard this weekend.

D.S. Lee, USA Taekwondo (USAT) Juniors Team coach, organized the Cowboys Stadium Sport Taekwondo Seminar, pulling together 20 coaching colleagues from Virginia, Florida, Illinois, and all over Texas. Lee envisioned a gathering in which coaches could leave their egos on the sidelines and collaborate to build a stronger Team USA for the 2020 Tokyo Olympic Games.

“The reason why I hosted this event was for the athletes—to give them a training environment that will produce greatness,” Lee said. The event was also meant to “get the coaches to be open to training together with athletes so we can all raise the levels.”

The coaches didn’t disappoint, raising the figurative bar as high as the field goal post overhead in the end zone.

“Keep moving,” Limas, shouted at the students during agility drills. “Good! Very good,” she added encouragingly when athletes pushed themselves.

After the spirited warmup, participants separated into three pods for more personalized coaching. Limas led a group of older students through a series of drills to quicken reaction time, improve the ability to process verbal and visual information, and recognize distance—all in real time.

Athletes test their ability to process visual information in real time.

 

In other pods, younger students worked on balance-challenging front leg kicking drills—keeping their lead leg high in the air and thrusting it forward by pushing off with their base foot. Smiles emerged periodically from members of the group. Sweat continued to drip. T-shirts were well-drenched. These drills may have looked simple and fun to the casual observer, but they were deceivingly challenging.

Two hours later, the students bowed to their instructors, took commemorative photos, and left for a hotel shower, good meal, and an early bedtime. The next day’s training was moved up by two hours; they needed a good night’s rest.

Day Two: Twelve Hours of Taekwondo

Professor Victor Manuel Mendoza Guzman, a sports psychologist with the Mexican Taekwondo Federation, stood before a sea of athletes Saturday morning at Blue Sky Sports Complex in The Colony, careful to pause his message so that USAT Senior National Team Coach Lynda Laurin could translate his message into English. It was important to get the details right. Guzman, a leading authority in sports science, has had repeated success coaching athletes on Mexico’s national team, so Lee wanted him to share his experience with the athletes.
 

Victor Manuel Mendoza Guzman helps an athlete stretch.

Guzman’s work isn’t solely Taekwondo-based. He works with athletes of all sports, evaluating how they move and helping them improve by increasing efficient motion.

“I work on the entire development of an athlete,” he tells the students, “from the development at age nine to world champion—to Olympic champion.”

Guzman began his statistical presentation by humbling the athletes, who just two hours earlier were tested in a series of agility speed drills. He asked for a show of hands of those who considered themselves fast. Half the athletes raised their hands. Then Guzman wrote down a number on a whiteboard.

“Did anyone have this?” he asked, pointing to a time of 3.9.

No hands.

“Or a 4?” he continued.

One athlete toward the back of the room lifted his hand.

As it turns out, most athletes at first aren't fast—not as fast as they can be. Guzman said it’s usually because there’s a part of their body that impedes efficient movement. That’s where sports science comes in.

Guzman and his team specialize in evaluating athletes, finding their deficits, and then prescribing exercises to do everything from loosen tight muscles to build lactic acid endurance. Only then can an athlete truly make gains in performance, he said.

Guzman helps an athlete with resistant exercises to improve flexibility.

 

The students, previously seated on the floor in a semicircle, inched closer to the center of the room to get a closer look as Guzman performed resistance stretching exercises on an athlete to increase his flexibility. Within minutes, the athlete said with a smile that his hamstrings weren’t as tight and that his legs now felt supple.

Smart training involves specific levels of development over time, according to Guzman.

“Sometimes we think, ‘I’m going to do it the way I want,’” Guzman said. “But you have to do it a very specific way. It’s called goal setting.”

Before the students broke for lunch, Laurin gave the world-class athletes in the room a chance to share their experience with the younger, up-and-coming competitors.

Salma Castellanos, USAT Senior National Team member from Laredo, Texas, encouraged seminar participants to keep working hard.

“Even though it’s hard, I keep going and good things happen,” Castellanos said.

Fellow USAT Senior National Team member Ara White of Largo, Fla., agreed.

“You can never give up,” she said. White revealed that she lost a lot of matches earlier in her career. “Every single time, I got third place, third place, third place, third place. Then I started to win. I started to get first place.

“So you can never give up.”

After lunch, participants were back on the mat for another conditioning session. Many of the older athletes had taken seminars like this before—multiple two-hour training sessions a day, each one building on the next technique- and stamina-wise. So they encouraged younger students with smiles and high-fives.

The coaches rotated leading footwork drills to help the athletes move more efficiently. Periodically, Limas would stop a group to make technique adjustments.

“It’s muscle memory,” she said after stopping the participants during a sparring strategy partner drill. “It’s teaching your muscles good habits or bad habits. Put good habits into your training—quality stuff.”

The athletes continued the drill with a little more passion, their previously tired kihaps a little louder.

Two hours later, the coaches slowed down the pace by leading athletes in a series of stretches. The already quiet training area grew more still when a tall young man walked to the front of the room. Some of the younger students lifted out of their stretch a bit to find their parents in the bleachers and point to the man.

“It’s him!” one boy excitedly mouthed to his mom in the stands.

Dressed in black and smiling easily, Carlos Navarro stopped at the front of the room and surveyed the crowd of athletes, now thoroughly tired. Navarro, who represented Mexico in the 2016 Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro, is a fan favorite of many Taekwondo students in Texas.

 

Rio Olympian Carlos Navarro and coach Greg Tubbs.

Navarro offered thanks to his fans for supporting his Olympic journey. To those with Olympic dreams, he advised that they keep training hard.

“It’s in the training that we actually win gold,” Navarro said.

 

After a short break, another session began—with more conditioning drills. Participants donned sparring gear and trades kicks. Before long, the last sparring session for the day was over, and a select group moved into a smaller room to perfect poomsae technique with an expert.

 

Elva Pai Adams, bronze medalist in the 1988 Olympics in Seoul, South Korea, doesn’t spar anymore since tearing a ligament in her knee. These days, she’s drawn to the more precise movements of sport poomsae.

Adams, a member of the USAT National Poomsae Team and an international referee, is well known for providing detail-oriented poomsae corrections—foot placement down to the inch and knifehand blocks at the precise angle.

She spent most of the time late Saturday demonstrating and correcting stances, basic punches, and proper presets to primary blocks. Adams encouraged students to progress smoothly throughout their forms, resisting the urge to rise up and down.

“Don’t bob,” she said, showing students how to maintain their stance between moves.

Elva Pai Adams leads a group of students through Taeguek basics.

She detailed the most current standards of poomsae, reminding athletes that sport poomsae judges take off big points for mindless mistakes like not tucking the fists when kicking.

While the pace of the seminar day’s final session was much slower, the precision was more demanding.

“It’s one movement,” Adams said, showing how to properly return to a ready stance. “Don’t give away easy points.”

Day Three: Mock Tournament Matches

As athletes tried to shake off fatigue and stretch out sore muscles from the prior day’s 12-hour training session, coaches gathered to assign ring duties. On the final day of the seminar, athletes sparred one another in practice matches, applying the drills and skills learned and developed the two previous days.

 

Arlene Limas readies to coach one of her students in a mock tournament match
while Brian Singer acts as head referee.

Athletes were encouraged to take risks—to try new techniques.

“We already know you can score with fast kick,” a coach told an athlete between rounds. “Now we want to try some other things. To get better.”

The athlete nodded and smiled.

Parents sat in the stands as the matches progressed. The majority had watched every minute of the seminar training from the bleachers, and many said they were happy with how the weekend went. Most confirmed that they would return next year if the seminar were held again.

Jody Miner of Florida said her family was determined to make it to Dallas because of the caliber of coaches present. They almost didn’t arrive in time, though. Their original flight out of Orlando was canceled due to Hurricane Matthew’s approach. So the family switched tickets, drove to Tampa, and caught one of the last flights out. Other families from their school weren’t so lucky.

“We’ve been to others (seminars) before,” Miner said. “The level of coaching (here) is unbelievable. It’s well-rounded. My kids are getting the same focus at 10 and 11 that the juniors and seniors are getting.”

Lee said the across-the-board treatment was intentional. He and his colleagues want to help grow Taekwondo in the future by offering athletes exposure to more innovative coaches, sports science, and high-level athletic training—“so we can all learn and grow.”

“I’m passionate about the sport and I know there are other coaches and athletes who share the same passion,” Lee said. “By coming together we all benefit.”