Category: Special Events

     On Labor Day 2013, I walked into a drop-in capoeira class, which is a Brazilian martial arts, and left limping. I’d fallen during a sparing exercise. Despite the pronounced popping sound, I thought I’d severely sprained my left ankle. After all, I could still walk.

The next morning, I slipped on an ankle brace, hobbled to work and realized I would not make it through the day. I called in sick, quickly got sub plans together, made a doctor’s appointment and had everything ready by the time school started.

Driving to my doctor’s appointment, I optimistically wished to have a boot. That way, I could still hobble around, but my foot would be more protected. The nurse practitioner ordered an X-ray. When he saw the X-ray, he prefaced his conclusion with “go big or go home.” He then explained that my left fibula had a spiral fracture. Since the fibula bears only 15% of the body’s weight, a person can walk on it even if it’s broken. Still in good spirits, I took a picture of the X-ray to show to loved ones and friends.

A few hours later, I received my boot. As the boot tech fitted me, I showed him the picture of the X-ray. He speculated that I might need surgery, but I was sure I didn’t. After all, I was in good health other than the broken ankle. Besides, I had full social calendar and travel plans, which didn’t include a trip to the OR. A few days later, I had a pair of crutches to go along with my boot and an appointment for surgery.

Within three days, I went from shock, denial and then anger. I displaced my anger as I furiously planned for two weeks’ worth of lesson plans for my science classes. I could have scheduled my surgery for an earlier date, but I couldn’t fathom undergoing surgery and taking a two-week sick leave without solid lessons for the long-term sub.

Another thing that curbed my anger was my lack of spare energy to be angry. Since I had to keep weight off my ankle, I used crutches and a rolling chair to get around. Using my upper body strength to move around felt like running a daily marathon. (I still don’t know how anyone can gain weight while being on crutches!)

Before surgery, the lesson plans had been written, one of my sisters had flown in to take care of me for two weeks, and gradually, I had undone all the immediate plans I had set for my life. I stopped capoeira, tango and bikram yoga classes. I cancelled my trip to Myrtle Beach for my 25^th high school reunion, complete with flight and hotel reservations. Instead, I made appointments with friends who helped me take out the trash and recycling, gas up my car and shop for groceries.

The novelty of riding around a motorized shopping cart in the grocery store was partially tainted with my first taste of invisibility. No one saw me at that height. I’d hobbled in with a friend and my crutches, placing the crutches in the basket once I got the cart. Although I joked about jousting, I was amazed to discover that people initially reacted to the crutches as if inanimate objects had suddenly come to life. Some people dashed in front of me in such a hurry since allowing me a few seconds to pass by them was too much of an inconvenience.

That first grocery shopping trip gave me an initial taste of the loss of independence and invisibility an injury can cause. I never realized that I existed in a fast-paced crowd and an injury such as this would cause me to be left behind even when I was among them in social settings. I repeatedly envisioned myself as one of the injured animals in the Serengeti that had been left behind for the predators to consume.

My invisibility also meant that men no longer flirted with me. I had a tremendous loss of sex appeal that had nothing to do with my age, hair, clothes, weight or any other physical attribute we women drive ourselves crazy about. Men acknowledged my physical disability and politely ignored me since we are raised not to stare at people who look different. The ironic thing was, before the accident, I didn’t care to attract too much male attention. After being injured, I thrilled to have anyone notice my existence.

A week after surgery, I gained a little more mobility and visibility once I got a knee walker, which most people referred to as a “scooter.” One coworker even took to calling me “scoot” during the three weeks I rode it at work.

Apparently, I made that knee walker look attractive. Students wanted to ride on it, which I wouldn’t allow. Friends gleefully suggested I decorate it with a motor, a horn, some flags. I smiled as if I appreciated the suggestions, yet I quietly simmered, mentally telling them to go fuck themselves, counting down the days until I no longer needed it.

Five weeks after surgery where I had six screws and a metal plate put into my fibula to help it mend straight, my doctor pronounced that my recovery had progressed so well that she was clearing me a week early to start physical therapy. I waived that in lieu of returning to yoga. After all, the whole reason I’d recovered so quickly was due to visualizing myself doing the things I’d done before the accident. The promise of returning to my former routine motivated me to heal.

Doing bikram yoga three times a week proved to be medicinal. With every class, the edge of possibility moved farther than where it had been the time before. After three classes, I’d kicked the boot to the curb—just in time to attend one of my friend’s wedding reception.

I dressed up scrumptiously well, arrived nearly an hour late, but parked very close to the venue, thanks to my handicap placard. Now that I’m “permanently handicapped,” a label that I vehemently deny, I have a lifetime of convenient parking at my disposal.

As soon as I entered, the bride gushed at how beautiful I looked. She went on about my hair, the dress and others commented about how slender I was, but in my mind, the beauty lay in my upright mobility. Even though I hobbled at half the speed of the average abled-bodied person’s gait, I was within the realm of ambulatory. Later on, I pressed my luck gingerly dancing with male friends who were all younger, gorgeous and in shape. Not only did I celebrate my friend’s nuptials that night, I celebrated being revisible.

The celebration continues with the things that I’m grateful for because of this experience.

1.I have a loving family who called me every day to check in with me when I was on sick leave along with a sister who came to take care of me during that time.

2.My drive to make the most of my life, coupled with my refusal to accept the “permanent handicapped” or “disabled” labels helped me heal faster from this injury than my doctor had expected after the surgery.

3.I now know that a physical injury may slow me down or disfigure me, but will not disable me unless I allow it.

4.Life is far too short and precious to tolerate bullshit.

I have hit another milestone on my road to recovery after fracturing my ankle on Labor Day 2013: I returned to capoeira class. The significance of that action lies in the fact that a freak accident during a capoeira exercise caused my ankle injury. Several people, all non-capoeiristas, concluded that I would never train capoeira again. My usual retort was, “If I’d broken my ankle taking a shower, would you assume that I’d never take another shower?”

I’d warned two of my capoeira teachers via text the Saturday before that I intended to return to class on Monday, but I would not be running, jumping or sparing.  They welcomed me back, assuring me that they would modify my training to get me back into shape.

Thanks to traffic, I arrived about 15 minutes late, which would technically be on time by Brazilian standards. Yet, I only did half of the exercises before going to the side and stretching on my own. My capoeira teacher, who had an achilles injury himself, suggested a stretch with a weight to help open my left hip. At the end of class, we played drums and practiced singing capoeira songs.

The next time I attended capoeira class was Saturday. Fortunately, two other capoeiristas were relatively new and we worked a lot on the ginga, the basic move that looks like a dance step. As a matter of fact, ginga sets up all the kicks and evasive maneuvers to make one’s game more fluid.

Throughout both classes, I could feel the limits of my left ankle being tested and the boundaries of movement expanding further. When I attended a tango presentation later Saturday night, I politely refused to dance since I still could not balance well with all my weight on the left ankle.

The next day, I went to yoga class where I experienced more balance on my left ankle than I ever had since the accident. Although practicing bikram yoga three times a week has contributed to the gains I’ve made in my recovery, I credit capoeira for expanding that recovery. The beauty of cross-training, even when not injured, is that one learns different skills and works different muscles.

As soon as I can consistently maintain good balance with all my weight on the left ankle, then I’m going to return to tango class. Not merely to exercise different muscles, but also to regain cultural practice and sensuality.

As a Meetup organizer, I’ve joined other meetup groups that have interested me, both for the activities and the networking potential. This past Saturday, I met up with other single people who don’t want kids, but one of the tricky twists that made last night wonderful was the presence of two among us who actually had kids! We dubbed them “The Infiltrators.”

Allow me to set the scene: during a recent cold front, seven of us braved the weather to meet at an upscale burger and beer joint. I was fashionably late or on time, depending on your culture, arriving about 20 minutes after the predetermined dinner time. Yet as soon as I walked into the restaurant, I immediately spotted the hulking 6’5″ organizer, who was waiting with our party.

He had not called ahead of time to make reservations, betting on a gamble that he could get a table for ten by showing up early. Sure, why not? It had worked for him in the past. Except that this was a popular restaurant on a popular night that obviously overwhelmed the staff to the point of basic duties being neglected. Case in point: after waiting for 30 minutes, I went to the bathroom, which was miraculously empty given the crowd, and found no toilet paper except in the handicap stall that did not lock–I of course found a temporary solution to lock the door since I am a Physics teacher for crying out loud!

One member of our party abandoned ship after an hour of waiting while the rest of us diligently continued to wait. After all, we had managed to sit down. Not at a table, but still in the waiting area.  It was an improvement. After 30 more minutes had passed, another member of our party, who had been drinking (and, gasp eating!) at the bar, rejoined us in the waiting area to socialize. Apparently, the one table where the hostess wanted to seat us had a party who had already completed their meal and paid, but were still socializing (damn them!). After a few smart phone searches and bombarding the hostess station, none of which I participated in, we went to a nearby French restaurant.

Our second restaurant was wonderfully underpopulated and quiet–until we brought the noise! Ironically, the hostess asked us if we had kids with us. Ha! We gleefully told her no and she sat us in a vortex of families with children. No problem.   Our raucous party of six cleared out that section in no time. The last stragglers made haste toward the end of dinner when our entertaining waiter serenaded us in two different languages, first Spanish followed by German.

Among the many interesting conversations that ping-ponged around the table, the meaning of “singles who don’t want kids” volleyed. One parent stated that she had not planned on having kids and had even requested to be sterilized, but the doctor would not do it since she was under 32 and her husband did not want her to be sterilized. Her argument to the group was that she was now divorced and didn’t want children in the first place; so she should be allowed in the group. The other parent stated that he had not planned on being a parent either, but his interpretation of the group was “singles who didn’t want any MORE kids.”

My vote was to allow them to be in the group since a) they were fun, interesting people; b) were single; c) were done with procreation.

At the end of the chilly night, we had had a good night, ate a delicious dinner, made new friends and no one went home pregnant.

As I approached the beautiful park where my friends’ wedding reception was held, I briefly worried about finding a close parking space since I was nearly two hours late. Yet, the one silver lining to fracturing my ankle is that I have a handicap placard and there was a handicap place available.

I placed my famous cornbread on the savory table and joined some capoeira friends in the food line.  About the only things I was looking forward to in the food line were the brisket, my cornbread, wedding cake and a glass of red wine.

The fun thing about this reception, other than the fact that it was a pot luck, was there was no formal “head table;” so I joined the blushing bride and other capoeiristas when I finally made it through the food and drink lines.

I felt as if I was at a capoeira family reunion. I got to see people I had not seen since I temporarily stopped training.

Funny thing is, I cannot remember having any deep conversations with anyone, but we were all in a jovial mood, which was appropriate, given why we were all there.

The happy couple hired different musicians, most of whom played a genre of Brazilian music, to perform for an hour.

The bride and some of her musician friends surprised the groom by playing a selection of songs.  My favorite song kept making double entendre math/science comments.

I took a chance to dance forro on the smoothest surface I could find. My gamble paid off and I didn’t hurt myself, but of course my ankle became swollen.  As hardheaded as dancing was, I couldn’t attend yet another music-filled evening as a mere spectator.

As invisible as I’d felt the past couple of weeks, I felt exhilarated to be seen once again.

Not only that, but some other women even commented on how beautiful I looked in terms of both my attire and the fact that I’d lost weight.

Honestly, I don’t know how anyone could possibly gain weight while being on crutches, but I do know how one can lose sexuality while being injured.

I realize that my entire since of self is not tied solely into my ability to walk, but my recent resurge of happiness is definitely due to gaining visibility and independence.

Without a doubt, Halloween is my favorite holiday since

A. I say that every year around this time and

B. I dress up as “someone” at the drop of a hat regardless of the time of the year.

This year, I’ve finally linked up with some kindred spirits and made an evening of it. Before going to the Zombie Ball, we all met up at a posh restaurant to get party started before the madness of the whole event.

I dressed up as Viveca A. Fox in “Kill Bill” although I must admit, my favorite part of the entire costume was the sword.  I hobbled a few feet taller while brandishing that sword and the elbow length black gloves added a hint of sexiness to the assassin look.

The dinner turned out luxurious and fun. Most of us were black except for one white guy who ended up getting the worst service out of all of us.  I kept joking about “reverse discrimination,” much to the amusement of all the other blacks, but I don’t know if the white guy in question was as amused. In such a festive mood, I took everything else in stride, even the boot!

I ended the meal like every meal should end with a rich plate of delicious rich chocolate along with polishing off the rest of my Malbec.

I seized the moment to stab a woman dressed as Uma Thurman from “Kill Bill,” by announcing that I was one of the Kill Bill assassins.  She actually got out of the drink line to pose with me.  Lord only knows where the dude in the bear suit came from to photobomb us.

For once, I ran into a friend who I didn’t know was going.  The first two years that I’ve attended the Zombie Ball, I went solo and had a perfectly entertaining time. Now that I had a group to hang with, I see a friend.  Go figure!

We finagled our way to the balcony seats for a breather. Once again, I documented the boot since I knew its final days were nigh.

Fortunately, the view of the show was much better than my camera phone could capture.  Nonetheless, we kept ourselves entertained with conversation during the other events, including the costume contest, leading up to the headlining band. I listened to two songs and then went home.  After all, it was a school night and I just made it to bed five minutes to midnight.

A mere two days later, I dressed in my Kill Bill assassin outfit again to be part of a bachlorette party of women dressed up from the movie.

The friend who hosted the party’s rendezvous point dressed as the nurse and served up some delicious snacks.

I didn’t know how long my recovering ankle would last without the boot (I’d finally kicked it to the curb!), but I was determined to get in some action shots before leaving to hit the town.

Our first stop after leaving the rendezvous point was a small E 6th bar that played an appealing mix of Latin and hip-hop.  I must admit, our little bachelorette party excited the inebriated guys since we were all swinging in costume swords, knives and a ball and chain.

We managed to get the bride-to-be up and dancing although she successfully avoided anything too embarrassing.

I struck a final pose with half the posse before dropping off a few of them to the next location.  I’d had a good night and since I couldn’t dance and wanted to take the 10 am bikram yoga class, I went home a little after midnight.

The best thing about this weekend is that we gained an additional hour, which I used to leisurely get ready for yoga class and organize my pictures.  I don’t know about other people, but I approach pictures as documentation of the interesting times of my life.  If I bother to take the picture, then something productive must be done with it! Just like every other aspect of my life.

This first week back to work and without my sister has been both exhilarating and exhausting. I know that there are certain things I must live through in order to get to where I want to be. As I figured, the knee walker was a big hit among my students and colleagues alike. Yet, without my sister to remove it and retrieve it from the back of my car, I had that added burden.

I was still faithful to my crutches up until Wednesday. For some reason, on the hump day, I rationalized that if I could take three steps without crutches to deal with the knee walker, then I could limp down my apartment stairs without crutches to go to my car. The newfound happiness I had, tossing those crutches in the closet was wonderful. At the same time, I know not to over do it. I still have chairs strategically placed in my apartment in order to prop up my injured leg and I use the rolling chair in the kitchen/laundry area.

Since this was anti-bullying week at school, the culminating activity was dress up like a superhero as a show of support against bullying. I dusted off my standby Halloween “Storm” costume, which is always a big hit. The knee walker added an extra oomph to the ensemble.  One teacher claimed that I’d scared him since he initially did not know what had just went gliding by. A student photographer came into my room to take my picture. All in all, it was a terrific way to end the week even though I’d stayed after school every day to tutor students.  A bit excessive, but on Tuesday and Wednesday, I collectively called 21 parents to inform them that their children needed to attend tutoring.

Saturday morning, I put the first paint onto my latest canvas. I’m always happy when it comes to the first layer of paint on a new canvas, but this was especially wonderful since it was the first time that I’d set up my canvas on the balcony myself without the burden of crutches. I painted until one of my friends arrived to go with me grocery shopping. I only needed her assistance to get the rolling cart, reach certain things and carry the bags up once we were at the apartment. I did as much as I could do from the rolling cart.  As if reading my mind, she offered to take me grocery shopping again next Saturday. I was actually thinking if I’d be strong enough to do it solo.  I’d still use the rolling cart, but I want my independence back as soon as I can. Yet I took her up on her offer.

Nonetheless, I find that people are very willing to help me out if I just ask.  I’m sensitive to not playing the “poor me” card, but later that afternoon, I went to a beer brewery anniversary party.  I arrived early to get a close parking spot.  The meetup organizer was already there, setting up the gazebo. I actually helped by rolling my knee walker on one part of gazebo legs while he scouted for some cement weights to keep it from blowing away.

Once again, I forgot to bring a hat, but I didn’t have to wait in line too long to buy my anniversary glass. One cool phenomenon is that when I was ready to get my second beer and the lines were long, no one had a problem with me rolling to the front to be served. Sort of balanced out my universe when I came home on Friday and two able-bodied people had parked in “my” handicapped space to unload supplies.  Granted, they were only there for about ten minutes, but they’d pulled into that spot when I was right behind them. I was dressed as Storm, but I still glared at them as I limped by.  Thoughts of taking pictures and sending it to the police had crossed my mind.

Then a woman I’d just met at the brewery party, went with me to one of the food trailers. She was very cool about helping me out, stating that she was also hungry and had been thinking of going over to that trailer to get something to eat.  She carried our food back to the gazebo.  I was happy that we could use the knee walker as a temporary table.  I’d offered a couple of people a seat when I was in the lawn chair; so I feel that  I helped out as many people who had helped me.

Speaking of which, the friend who is supposed to come over early to help me load up the car for the Austin Writers Roulette has car trouble of his own.  Looks like I may have to go pick him up and bring him back over to my place. It’ll be worth it since he’s also one of the poets on the line up.

Feels good not to be just a taker!

Usually when a woman in her 40s talks about a shiny new toy, it’s something along the battery-operated, vibrating, adult toy genre. In my case, it’s a knee walker. Just another thing in my collection of walking aids. Unlike the boot and crutches, I’m merely renting this new toy for a month.

I anxiously awaited for its arrival nearly all day Thursday when it finally came around 4 pm–about two hours before we were due to leave for an open mic where I wanted to take my sister to hear me read.  I grabbed the instructions as she laid out the contents of the box. All in all, it wasn’t complicated to assemble the large pieces with the hex screwdriver and proper washers and bolts that came with the kit. 

About the only thing that we needed to put it together that wasn’t included was a pair of pliers. After the 20-minute assembly, which included the seat and handlebar adjustments, I got cleaned up so we could get the restaurant early enough to eat before it was my turn to read.

After 4 or 5 featured poets, the open mic round began. During my turn, I started off making a shameless plug for The Austin Writers Roulette. I then read “Amazon Gender,” which is about the modern day heterosexual woman who lives outside societal expectations. I’d never read it at this particular venue where the pieces seem to run more along the sentimental. Yet the piece resonated with many of the older men in the audience.

The next morning, I opened the front door of my apartment and all the newfound mobility that I’d gained with the knee walker was shot to hell, discovering that the guys renovating the apartment complex had painted the railing.  I’d usually grab ahold of the railing and double up on the crutches on the left and hop down one stair at a time. Thank goodness, once again, my sister was with me.  She had to stand on a step below me so I could place and hand on her shoulder and hop down.

With that hurdle down, I drove us to the hospital for the post-op appointment.  I’d feared the worse, but when the bandages and temporary cast came off, my ankle was not bruised nor swollen.  Even the doctor was impressed at how healed it looked. For the first time since the ordeal had begun, she gave me good news: I would start physical therapy a week early if I kept up the good work.

I returned to my place, after the rain had poured on the dampened railing, propped up and iced my ankle now that all that separated it from the outside world was an ace bandage.  Not having a cast or boot on truly made my left leg feel lighter, less burdensome. What a luxury.

We got lucky with parking at the gallery opening we attended. Even the rough parking did not stop me from enjoying the latest collection. Normally, in addition to viewing the art, I would also hit the corporate-sponsored bar and catered food.

This time around, I could fix a small plate and once I finished, I got a glass of the juice that they were mixing with vodka.  I told my sister she should try the cocktail since they were usually good.

I’d originally patted myself on the back for actually having more than one event lined up a week after surgery, but the second stop on Friday did me in.  A friend had invited me to her birthday dinner party without remembering that I could not walk down the steep set of stairs where the dining area was.  When I asked the hostess if they had an elevator, she told me with all cheerfulness that I had to go around the block and go down the wheelchair ramp.

After surviving that, I made a point to wish my friend a happy birthday before cussing her out for having her birthday at a damn near wheelchair inaccessible restaurant. She apologized all over herself.  Then I realized that her mother was sitting across for her! To add insult to injury, half of the capoeiristas who came to the celebration, dutifully reported to the first table they came to without even bothering to walk their two healthy legs over to me and speak.

My sister just chalked it up to the fact that they were “young,” but I think late 20s to mid-30s is old enough to know better.

The next night, we attended a fundraiser where I’ve taken tango, Spanish, and samba lessons. We got there early enough to get a choice table to prop up my leg.

This was probably the most varied show that my sister had seen so far.  The kids were the most entertaining dancing cumbia.
And samba.

And of course tango!

And then the showstoppers: the two tango teachers.

Now for the first time since I’ve lived in Austin, I finally made it to The Pecan Festival…during the rain and with one and a half legs! The point is that I made it with my shiny new toy. And this was after treating my sister to a nearby popular brunch place. About three more weeks to go and then my shiny new toy goes back to where it lives.

The time had finally arrived to repair my fractured fibula.  I’d already become quite good at maneuvering my crutches around my apartment, up the apartment stairs and rolling around my classroom in a wheeled chair–not an actual wheelchair. I’d furiously planned and written two weeks of lesson plans for my science classes and had picked up my sister from the airport.

We had to be at the hospital around 6 am, allegedly so they could put in a pain block behind my left knee. Yet, we waited around about an hour since the front desk didn’t realize that I was getting a pain block. Nonetheless, we were on time and prepared. I even wore a dress to make getting dressed after the surgery easier.

I like the way it looks as if I’m checking into a fancy hotel, which was sort of the feeling when we were escorted to room 7.  I changed into the over washed and faded hospital gown and clashing bright yellow socks with white rubber grips on both the bottom and top of the foot.

I kept introducing my friend who came along to drive us back home as the “bone-breaker” since I’d tripped over her leg during that faithful Labor Day capoeira class. She took it all in stride–since both her ankles worked very well and she has a terrific personality.

Even though my previous surgical experience had been the removal of my wisdom teeth, I was not nervous at all as my surgical team cheerfully introduced themselves to me and made conversation, with the main topic of how I broke my ankle. As a matter of fact, one of the checklist questions was having me explain what procedure I was having done and on which body part. When the anesthesiologist found out that I was a capoeirista, he said he’d make sure that I would not experience any pain since I could beat him up.

In the operating room, before all the drugs kicked in, I talked about how I’d told my students I’d be their bionic teacher. One member of the surgical team agreed that I could use my reinforced ankle to kick their butts in shape.  I corrected him, saying that I only needed to give them my teacher look.  My surgeon seconded that by saying, “Yeah, she’s tried that on me a couple of times.”

In retrospect, I’m glad there were no hard feelings about that.  She did a beautiful job on my bionic ankle. I cannot wait to dance, play capoeira, do yoga and walk with it.

So you know you’re recently disabled when a trip to the grocery store becomes an adventurous weekend plan rather than an errand. The best thing about my condition is that I’m expected to make a near 100% recovery–after having a few metal screws surgically implanted into my fractured fibula next Friday. In the meantime, a good friend offered to help me shop for groceries, in addition to taking pictures of me cruising around on the electric shopping cart.

One of the employees saw me hobbling in on crutches and figured that I wanted an electric cart. He drove one up to me and my friend arranged my crutches in the basket.  Then I was ready to roll.  Except the cart wouldn’t move. This not being rocket science, I immediately thought he’d given me a defective one. After all, I was pushing the controls forward with my thumbs.  About a minute passed when the employee suggested that perhaps I didn’t weigh enough! As complimentary to me as that comment was, my whole shopping adventure hinged on the fact that I’d be able to cruise around.

My friend handed me the crutches so I could hobble off the cart.  The employee rolled it back where he got it from and drove up a second one. I was determined to make this one work.  I jiggled the steering mechanism and pulled up on it a bit as I worked the thumb presses.  This time, it worked.  With my crutches strategically placed, I was ready to either shop or joust. Going down one aisle, there were three people down at the far end, blocking the way.  I asked my friend which two out of the three I should take out.  She warned me that there would be none of that. Yet, when I had her to put a mop in basket, I thought jousting had become even more doable.

I managed to manuever around without hitting anyone or knocking anything down, despite my medieval ambitions.  As fun as that little jaunt was, I am happy that this Thursday I’m picking up my sister  who will do the shopping for the two weeks she’s here. I’m going to make sure that she sets me up with food before she hops back on a plane. I’m ready to kick these crutches to the curb as soon as I’m medically cleared to do so.  The boot at least allows me to walk so I can have things in my hands and push a shopping cart.

Another thing I’ve discovered is that I cannot stand being “short”. I got a pain in my neck, looking up at things. More problematic, I felt invisible in plain sight. What people noticed first were my crutches and mop coming at them as I approached. From my perspective, they responded as if inanimate objects had become bewitched and moved on their own accord. Seconds later, they’d noticed that an actual human being directed the movement.

Saturday, I slept in, as one should do on the weekend.  Then I worked on my fictional WIP, my 6th painting and got some lesson planning done for my sub who will teach my classes for the 2 weeks that I’ll be out. By the time I hopped down my apartment stairs to meet some capoeira friends at a Mexican restaurant to celebrate the impending nuptials of one of our teachers, crutches were my friends again.  They allowed my great escape from my apartment, even though I stayed out only a few hours.

One thing this injury has taught me is how to ask for help.  I’m the same woman who, when told she needed surgery to fix her ankle, asked in all seriousness, “So can I drive myself home afterwards?” When I drove into the restaurant parking lot and saw no close available parking, I made up my mind that hobbling from some far off street parking would be my exercise for the day. Then, I saw a friend walking toward the restaurant.  I called him over and asked him if he’d park my car for me.  Of course he said yes. As did the other friend who fetched my car at the end of the night.

I recently recalled a conversation between me and a male coworker/friend who was recounting all the high-maintenance women we worked with.  Toward the end of his tirade, I asked, “Where do I fit on the high-maintenance scale?” He took a deep breath and said, “Teresa, you’re at the complete opposite end. A man doesn’t know what to do for you since you do everything yourself.” If only he could see me now.

Like my father, I believe in celebrating my birthday for a week, which normally works out beautifully. Yet on Labor Day Monday, I went to a noon time capoeira class and broke my distal fibula while doing a sparring exercise. Ironically, my capoeira teacher had made me switch from the partner I’d wanted to spar with two minutes prior to this exercise, stating that I’d have a “mellow class” if I’d stick with her. Ha! Now I’m not going to have a capoeira class or tango for that matter for at least 6 weeks.

The nurse practitioner tried to convince me that I couldn’t even go to bikram yoga, but I was going to be hard-headed anyway and took my boot with me and do a modified version. I couldn’t believe that an exercise that’s known for minimizing scar tissue can worsen my condition.  Plus, I’ve seen other people with injuries train with a chair.

I’d had a chiropractic appointment prior to yoga. Once I hobbled into his treatment room, I was already late for the 5:30 yoga class.  When I informed him that he reason I was wearing a dress to make it easier to prepare for yoga class, I informed me that I would not be doing yoga or any other exercise for at least two weeks. I tucked my yoga mat under my arm like Linus with his blanket and took it back into the apartment.

Ever the one to look on the brighter side of things, after I hobbled home from my doctor’s appointments, I came home to put the final touches on my 5th painting, which has joined the gallery of other Adventures of Infinity and Negativa chapter paintings.  Not only do I see the progress that I’m making as an artist, I had a revelation with this painting, which will surely be the subject of next week’s blog.

In general, happy people make the best of what they have; so although I could dwell on the things that I cannot do for the next 6 to 8 weeks, I choose to work more on my paintings, reading for research on my book while convalescing. I’m so thankful to have a job where I have insurance and sick leave in order to take care of myself. I’m also thankful that although I’m used to exercising that I have other interesting activities to keep me interested in life. Plus, I’ve made a commitment early in this school year to arrive at school two hours prior to needing to be at school in order to keep up with my work.

On Saturday, I was determined to go out on my 43rd birthday, crutches and all.  What a terrifying, but rewarding experience to hobble down 16 stairs one stair at a time, double-crutched on the left side to support my left foot. Then onto my car to attend Brazilian night. Despite the fact that I was dressed up in capoeira performance attire, the woman at the door questioned if I was one of the performers.  Then informed me that I should have used the performers’ entrance in the back.  The younger woman at the desk just chuckled as she took in my crutches and said, “Well she’s in now.”  Then the younger woman asked for my ID.  At that point, I saw one of my tango partners, who’d arrived much earlier than I, and asked him to vouch for both my age and the fact that I’m a capoeirista. Beyond that, he was my big hero who got two chairs for both me and my fractured fibula. I even invited him to get a third chair for him to sit beside me.

About 30 minutes later, two other science teachers showed up.  These two are first year teachers and had an incredibly stressful start. I invited them to Brazilian night to dance all their stress away. I even invited them to try out a free week of capoeira, which is a wonderful long-term solution to work-related stress management.

Much later in the evening, another friend materialized and chair danced with me.  Unfortunately, she’d injured her knee while getting out of the car at some point in the night.

Although the night was filled with good music, including capoeira music where I sang and played pandeiro (tambourine) on stage, I stayed off my left foot. Crutches may be their own brand of inconvenience, but they do the trick as far as keeping weight off a fractured ankle.  I didn’t even have to take pain medication during the day since I’m using them, which is wonderful.  Nonetheless, I couldn’t sit still in my chair; so I took chair dancing to a brand new level with my boot.

Although it’s challenging to be injured, especially on one’s birthday, I was truly touched by the empathy I received from both friends and total strangers. I had about 6 people comment that they had been in the same position as I and encouraged me to keep going because the situation would be over before I knew it. One woman even told me how bad knees run in her family and that one one of her sisters had not had knee surgery.

All in all, it’s been a memorable birthday, which will hopefully pick up from here.