The 2014 carnaval theme was Black Orpheus, based on the classic Brazil samba movie done Greek tragedy-style. As usual, my capoeira group were honored to provide security for the samba school. A job that I look forward to doing every year since it gets me into the biggest party in Austin. We all met at our capoeira studio at 7:30, where the backstage wristbands were issued and the capoeiristas who were going to perform warmed up. Our mestre also reviewed the norms for the night.

In the past, I’ve had to contend with drunk women. Yet, this year, I’m happy to report that I didn’t have any drunk person challenge me. I was grateful for that since my ankle was still recovering and I didn’t feel as tough as I normally do. Nonetheless, I had a terrific time. I especially loved that the samba school had a wider variety of music this year. I hope that trend continues.

I have a confession: last Thursday, I told my 7th and 8th period classes to pray for a two-hour late start on Friday so we would not have to make up a cancelled day of school. Since I usually don’t assign homework, I’ll just assume that my students went overboard with the prayers. Lo and behold! Austin experienced an ice storm that shut down the city until midday.

Actually, I’m not the least bit upset about having a second three-day weekend in a row. As a matter of fact, I vaguely remember back in the day there being speculation about four-day work weeks once computers became more available. Of course that never happened since we Americans don’t know how to relax when we have a plethora of time-saving devices, except when it comes to acts of God.

Although I’d awoken a quarter to six on Friday morning, I stayed up once I found out that classes had been cancelled. After all, I was refreshed and ready to start the day. The true gift of any vacation, whether planned or spontaneous, is the extra time outside of one’s scheduled routine. One of the first things I did with my extra time was call my sister to sing happy birthday to her. I would have done that anyway, but our conversation was much longer since I didn’t have to be at work–at least the rigid work schedule I’m normally bound to on a Friday in January. I proudly told my sister that I got her birthday off.

This weekend, I’d only planned to go to the school play, “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown” on Saturday, but when I arrived at the school theatre, I discovered that the weekend performances had been cancelled, which was unfortunate since I cannot make the remaining shows during next week. This being Austin, I had no trouble finding alternative plans for Saturday night.

First, I went to an open mic at a nearby restaurant that had decadent Italian dinner specials. Not willing to choose between the two dinner entrees, I ordered the gnocchi with gorgonzola sauce with spicy grilled shrimp added. As if that wasn’t rich enough, I also ordered hot chocolate with Nutella. That was such a pleasurable meal that my brain exuded endorphins. Once again, money can buy happiness!

I then joined the open mic out in the backyard already in progress. I was not in the mood to read any of the material that I’d brought since a significant number of the audience had heard it already. Plus, none of the other artists were reading pre-prepared material. So, I followed suit and ad libbed. Apparently, my spoken word was coherent enough that one of the other artists asked permission to use my segment in a documentary, which I readily granted.

While at the open mic, I got an email from one of my fellow capoeiristas. He invited everyone to a Brazilian percussion performance later that night. I’d planned to go as soon as the open mic had concluded, but then one of the other poets read my tarot cards. I hadn’t had my cards read in nearly twenty years; so I indulged myself in a reading. Besides, how often would I get the opportunity to have my cards read by someone who professed he regularly used heroine for the medicinal calm effect?

The cards revealed that I was at odds with my present situation, but had the talent, arrogance and motivation to successfully change it profitably. During that positive reading, I’d pulled the “power” card. Of all the cards that I could have pulled, the power card reminded me of who I am, where I’ve been and all the potential I have. As I’ve always known, life is more difficult when I don’t stand up for myself. Also, I can withstand being in a toxic environment much better when I don’t drink the Kool-aid.

I went to the bar where my fellow capoeirista was playing a few minutes before they started. What a brilliant, moving performance! Even though I still babied  my recovering ankle, I did the bare minimum of dancing as the rhythm seeped into my bones. I’d needed surgery just to remove the smile from my face. What a joy to see people from capoeira to various Brazilian musical genres.

One guy I’d assumed I’d heard his band before. He came up to me saying that he finally placed where he’d recognized me from–work! Out of context, neither one of us readily identified the other. I just laughed, gave him a hug and talked with him. We both were very thankful for the act of God, giving us more down time to enjoy life.  Such a contrast outside of a toxic workplace.

This morning, I felt so energized during bikram yoga class. I fully embrace that the body can heal itself when we live in harmony. If nothing else, this unplanned long weekend has taught me that with happiness, everything else falls into place.

     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.