Keep Advancing the Ball
By Jana Eshaghian
I was raised in a family of golfers. My dad, a “scratch golfer,” kept score at the prestigious Master’s Golf Tournament in Augusta, GA for twenty-five years. Mom taught golf to a half dozen women every Thursday for as long as I can remember. Mike, my older brother, took up golf when he was strong enough to carry a bag of clubs. Our vacations revolved around the locations of the Junior PGA Tournaments in which Mike participated as a teenager. Charlie, my oldest brother, made enough money to buy his first motorcycle by caddying at our local golf course. For easy access, our family home was on the 18th tee of that same course.
At the age of seven, I began tagging along on the family golf outings, and I began playing as soon as I could manage the adult clubs. At the practice tee, four sets of eyes focused on my every move. It was impossible for me to concentrate while being pelted with instructions. “Keep your head down.” “Keep your left arm straight.” “Bend your knees.” “Keep your eye on the ball.” If I was lucky, my club actually connected with the ball, but more often than not, it just whiffed through the air.
By age nine, I was occasionally allowed to join the family foursome and play the course, usually with Dad, Mom and Mike, while Charlie worked at the clubhouse. There was no way that I could keep up with the lofty shots that belonged to Mom, Dad and Mike. They sailed straight down the middle of the fairway. To keep our game moving, sometimes Dad mercifully let me throw my ball off the tee, or carry it and put it down next to his perfectly placed lie. Most often, however, Dad encouraged me to keep swinging, even when I could hear Mike’s impatient sighs. On the seldom occasions when I felt the impact of the ball with my club, I would jump for joy. Mike would roll his eyes at the pathetic distance of my shots, but Mom shared my small victories by cheering, and Dad always had an “Atta’ girl!” ready to shout.
My most vivid recollections from this era are the times when I was frustrated and ready to quit. I would fall into the trap of my own negative feedback, and Mike’s brotherly teases didn’t help. “That’s a real worm burner!” he would howl when my ball rolled into the fairway a few yards. “If ya wanna play in the sand, why don’t you go to the beach!” he would chide when I was stuck in a sand trap.
Throwing in the towel was not an option when I played with Dad. “Sugar,” he would say, “the most important thing is that you keep advancing the ball. Now, try again.” He would wink his sky blue eye and give me a quick nod. Sometimes his words would just frustrate me more because I wanted to quit. I wanted to scream or throw my club. Instead, I breathed a simple prayer, and tried again and again. Slowly – and sometimes near dark, we always made it back to the clubhouse.
Five years ago, I was diagnosed with lupus, a debilitating autoimmune disease. My life went from a full swing to a full stop. Learning to manage my disease has been a completely frustrating experience, but I don’t chose throwing in the towel as an option. Just like on the golf course with my dad, I’ve wanted to scream and throw things, and frankly, I have. Just like golf, life is not easy and it takes perseverance. Dad’s words have found a place in the forefront of my mind, “Just keep advancing the ball.”
On a “good day,” the pain I feel is manageable and my body moves well. Making it through the day feels as comfortable as staying in the middle of the fairway. I feel productive and useful. Other days, when my joints are so swollen that it’s difficult to walk or use my hands, I feel like I’m in the weeds or stuck in the sand trap. Small tasks are difficult and it makes me mad because I can’t function as I would like.
Even on a “good day,” I’m unable to do many of the simple things that used to be so easy, like opening a water bottle or going for a long walk. Instead of focusing on the obvious negatives, I try to zero in on Dad’s advice. In my memory, I hear his words’ and see his wink and nod. I whisper a prayer of gratitude for the things I can do, and I try to advance my life - whether it’s starting up a business that meshes with my new lifestyle, or studying Hebrew for my Adult B’nai Mitzvah class. Many days, I’m just thankful that I can get dinner on the table – largely due to the support of our loving family. Slowly, just like making it back to the clubhouse, I make it through every day. I know, on that great golf course in the sky, Mom must be giving me a victory cheer.
Having lupus has caused me to re-structure every aspect of my life. In the process, I continue to find new meaning by harkening back to old lessons I’ve learned in the past, and by looking and listening for new insights. What remains clear is that perseverance is paramount. Although many days are frustrating, I’ll keep trying to advance the ball, because, obviously, “I’m Not Done, Yet!”
*A “scratch golfer” is a golfer with a zero handicap. (That means they’re really good.)
