Where Vivid Narratives Live

     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.