Chapter 4D - The Olympian: Alexandra Orlando - by Anne Shier (a.k.a. "Annie")

(Based on the book “Breaking Through My Limits:  An Olympian Uncovered”,

copyright 2012, by Alexandra Orlando)

As related by Ms. Orlando (from early-to-mid 2006):

The next few weeks I couldn’t train.  I couldn’t do anything.  I lived in the clinic.  I did physiotherapy, acupuncture, all different kinds of treatments, trying anything that might help.  There was an ice bath permanently attached to my body, which I carried around with me.  Every time someone new would come in and see my ankle, their eyes would open wide, and I could see what was going on in their mind: there’s no way she is competing at the Olympics.  I refused to believe it.  If I didn’t compete all year I’d be fine; as long as I had two months, I could get ready for the Games.  It didn’t matter how I was going to compete now, it was just about being able to compete when it mattered.  Ironically enough, I met the greatest people while I was in rehab, like Ohenewa Akuffo, a female wrestler healing up for the Games, Perdita Felicien, the Canadian hurdling queen, and Nicole Forrester, high jump Olympian.  All these women were so strong and so positive that I couldn’t help but feel inspired.

We spent almost every day together that summer, and if it weren’t for them, I don’t know if I would have found the strength to make it through this.  To not have my coach by my side helping me through it was horrible enough.  She was so far away, and could even imagine telling her what I had done.  I didn’t want her to know, and couldn’t bear to see how distraught she would be.  Everything that was so right the year before had suddenly become so wrong.  I had everyone I knew praying for me.  I missed all the major tournaments, and was even able to compete at my last national championships.  It was awful.  I couldn’t even tell people how bad my injury was because I didn’t want to spark rumours that maybe I shouldn’t be going to the Games after all.

It was not how I expected my last year in the sport to be at all, to never compete in front of a home crowd again, not to say a proper goodbye to the community that I loved so much.  It broke my heart, but I had to tell myself that it was all a test, a test to see how strong I was.  If I got through this, I could get through anything.  Sure enough, my ankle was getting better, to the point that I could tape it up so tightly that my ligaments were held together, and I could get back into the gym.  The pain would always be there and I had to accept that, but as long as it stayed in one piece I could train.  I was alone though; no coach, no supervision.

The first week, I was pushing it a little every day and was gaining confidence.  I decided to start jumping, and on one of my first attempts, sprained my other ankle.  I collapsed to the floor and screamed out to no one.  I was alone, and crawled to the phone thinking that this was it, it was all over.  Every inch that I slid closer to the phone, the pain pierced through my ankle and up my legs.  I willed myself to stop panicking as it was getting harder and harder for me to breathe.  The panic in my voice oozed out of me, and I didn’t even sound like myself.  I called my doctor and he told me to come in immediately, so I bandaged myself up with whatever I had handy and somehow drove to the clinic.  His face said it all.  It was a sprain.  I either had the worst luck, or someone didn’t want me to go to the Olympics. 

Treatment after treatment, I’d stay there for countless hours on end until I could finally get back into the gym with both ankles now taped, practically cutting off the circulation to my calves.  But, I didn’t care, and I made sure not to jump until a few weeks before the Olympics.  I didn’t even train full-out until I competed.  It was all a big secret that no one even knew, all an elaborate ruse to make sure that judges didn’t catch wind of the fact that I was hurt, or else it could damage their opinions of me coming into the Olympics.  I wouldn’t be seen as just a contender anymore.

The second I could train again, I was on a plane to Spain to be with my coach, but I was still in so much pain that I could barely walk when I took the tape off.  It was the worst pain of my life.  I would run ice cold baths and keep my feet permanently in them, closing my eyes and praying that I would step out and be miraculously cured.  I’d dream of waking up and jumping out of bed being able to walk without a limp.  My coach came back to Toronto for a month so that I could be at home with my family and teammates while I prepared for the moment I’d been waiting for over the past seventeen years.  I just never thought it would be in this way - I would be in a medical clinic more than in the actual gym.  But that’s life, no sense in crying about it. I did what I had to do.

We did a little test run right before the Olympics at a small competition in Bulgaria, and I was cautious, but it was good to get out there and compete again.  It went surprisingly well, better than I thought, and it gave me my confidence back.  I could survive, I could do this, and I travelled with my beautiful teammate Demi for that last competition, that last leg of my career.  I don’t know if she realized what a special time that was for me, but it was an end of an era.  She was so young, so full of promise and potential. 

I hoped that I helped to show her that she could do whatever she set her mind to.  You could be different and still excel, and you could even laugh in the face of the impossible.  She took my mind off my injuries, and we had so much fun together.  We laughed and cried, and had the most ridiculous conversations.  I needed her with me for support, and I will always thank her for coming all the way from Vancouver to train and compete for one last competition of the season that she did not have to do.  She took time out of her preparation for the next year to be with me, to help me gain back my confidence.  Keep smiling, love.  You are so beautiful inside and out.

(to be continued in Part E)

copyright 2014 , Anne Shier.  All rights reserved.