Chapter Twelve
I am

He had put out his hand and I had taken it.  Our final dance.  (Kind of). 

 

He knew me better than most. 

 

You probably think you know me now too.  But let’s face it, I’m still getting to know myself. 

 

Those chameleon strategies, practiced and performed over many years, hadn’t just tilted people’s view of me.  It had skewed my own.  And that blame I’d placed, misplaced really, on the woman who detailed a defective prognosis, was just a cover for the real culprit. 

 

As I said before, I wasn’t broken, just bent.  And I was the true perpetrator. 

 

My partner in crime just forced me to face it. 

 

James was my friend.  He was the first to introduce me, or reintroduce me, to dance.  He encouraged and even forced my true recovery.  He helped me replace my typical “sure” with “yes.”  He may me more definitive.  And that’s why it was so easy to say “yes” when he asked.

 

He was there when my bags full of crutches were replaced with bags filled with clothes and shoes. 

 

But he wasn’t the first to bestow a wonderful friendship upon me, and he certainly won’t be the last. 

 

The first to grant me true friendship were Maya and Adeline.  My Besties.  And although maybe not physically, they were always with me.

 

They welcomed me, inspired me, and I have found them in most of my best memories in both the years before and since.  They were there when I gave up my childhood team.  And so, of course, they were there at the end of this leg of my journey and the beginning of the next. 

 

For the many months I’d spent immersed (perhaps enmeshed) in dance, they supported me from afar.  We talked, we traveled, we supported each other, but our lives, so intertwined, rarely intersected geographically.  They knew everything about my return to dance, but I minimized the end of that period. 

 

A ninety minute out-patient procedure with local anesthesia.  No need for a ride.  Lay low for a couple of weeks and refrain from lifting anything heavy, but otherwise no anticipated recovery time.  Minor fear as the blade would approach the old injury site and temporary immobility may cause a setback on my now sturdy spine.  But I had been through much worse and such considerations seemed trivial. 

 

It took longer than expected and by the time I reached my vehicle, I had several missed calls from my worried mother.  I assured her I was fine, heading home to rest, and was not bothered by the forty stitches (twenty internal and twenty external).  It sounded like a lot and her reaction indicated a similar thought, but in less than ten minutes, I was home, feet up, hydrating, with no plans other than streaming fashion show marathons.  I would follow doctor’s orders, take it easy, work from home for the next two days, and then, expecting prompt return to normalcy, I would head off to my friend’s wedding for the weekend.   

 

Seven hours later, all of my not-so-well-thought-out plans began to fail.  Having not yet experienced a comfortable seated position since the procedure, I was elated to finally feel no pressure or pain in my spine, nor discomfort from irritatingly situated stitches.  I felt at peace.  I felt relaxed.  And then I felt a wet warmth streaming across my skin.  It took me more than a few minutes to stand, remove the sheets and pillows from my bed, toss them into the washing machine, along with the t-shirt I had been wearing, wrap a towel around myself and connect a three-way call with my mother and sister.  I had a thirty-minute commute to my sister’s home where she could check the stitches, clean me up, and redress the wound, or in under ten minutes, I could be at my parents’ home and hope my mother’s knees did not buckle at the site of the blood running down my back.  At least not before she had cleaned me up.  It was days later that she finally admitted to me that she did not know if she would make it through that particular nursing moment. 

 

I was forced to adjust my plans, including missing the wedding (which still bothers me).  I carried nothing over two pounds for the next two weeks, sat in uncomfortable ways that prevented the intact stitches from touching anything, learned how to sleep on my stomach with pillows on either side of me to prevent me from turning over, stopped by my sister’s office each morning to have her clean and redress my wounds and generally exceeded doctor’s orders.  When the stitches came out, I did not think to ask if there would be a scar.  It was my mother, saddled with similar hereditary scares and having been through the process on more than one occasion, who provided helpful suggestions to avoid permanent markings.  I was so lucky to have help, especially since not even a contortionist could have been able to reach my wounds for dressing, cleaning and topical solutions.

 

It was week before I could walk with the endurance I had enjoyed and many months from any thought of a return to dance.  Once again with body not fully functional, I returned to the distraction of intellectual pursuits.  We were only six months into a new partnership and our busy season indicted the next two months.  My friends in the dance community reached out, consistently checking on my progress, wishing me well and begging me to let them know when I was ready to return.  I did not think I would ever return, and certainly not in the tunnel-visioned, overachiever, excessive way I had been living in those nearly two years before.  And, I was scared.  I once again did not trust my body enough to keep me whole. 

 

Although my dance friends could not coax me back into the fold and eventually gave up trying, my Besties, the ones who have been with me since the beginning, would not give up so easily.  They planned weekend travel to my home, a place I had finally purchased and made my own after years of work, financial planning strategies, patience and ultimately, just blessings.  We spent hours in our own little world of conversation, cooking, wine, shopping and walking.  And then came the inevitable ladies’ night out. 

 

We picked the restaurant, a place where our varied food preferences could be accommodated, and began the music-laden task of getting ready.  Outfits would be tried on and approved, hairstyles would be changed several times and finishing touches on the day’s mask would bring us closer to heading out on our way, although always later than expected.  But in the midst of our carrying on like teenagers, blasting our 90’s jams and reminiscing about our nights out when our youthful selves would not need a recovery day after, an idea formed.  They wanted to see me, support me, take me back to the world of dance in which I had been living just a few months prior.  And maybe, just maybe, they hoped, when our weekend ended, they would leave me back in that place where I had begun to find contentment over complacency, passion over predictability; the unbent me. 

 

And so, with a message strategically sent to my most compassionate lead, who always showed up, never asked questions, and accepted however much me was available for a dance, we decided where the night would end.  And when they found me standing before the mirror when they thought we were set to leave, and they followed my gaze to a shirt I had placed on the bed, their only collective response was, “yassssssss.”

 

Three courses, endless laughs and fifteen miles later, I parked and led them into the venue I had first entered in law school.  My fellow students and I had walked away for a study break and ended up in this local restaurant/bar that served food later than its neighbors and did not kick out the students when meals turned into late night study sessions.  I had returned with one of those very same law school friends, now both practicing attorneys, when we served as judges at our alma mater’s mock trial competition.  And then, ten years later, I spent at least one Saturday evening per month dancing on the second floor while patrons enjoyed meals down below. 

 

As with each event at this location, a free class was offered for beginners before the social dancing began.  We arrived a few minutes before the class, I received a few ‘hellos’ and ‘where have you beens’ from familiar faces, and then two instructors I knew well began the class.  I had forgotten to warn my newcomer friends that the class teaches partner dancing and that after each attempt at a few steps, partners were swapped.  Follows were out in force and leads were limited that night.  One of the instructors asked if anyone was willing to learn the lead part and without warning to myself, I volunteered.  One of my friends was elated, assuming she could partner with me for the evening and avoid contact with strangers.  Her eyes widened and I saw her initial uneasiness when the instructors ordered that we switch partners for the next part of the lesson.  Leads to the left.

 

It was my first foray into the lead position and I was not shocked by my love of the control.  I had spent years learning how to give up control, how to let myself be led.  Now, I was returning to my comfortable zone of protection, but it was more than that.  I now understood the elation of a lead who successfully directed the follow, brought out the best in the follow, and created a dance from the feeling of the music.  I got to be choreographer.  It was invigorating.   

 

When the class ended, my friends necessarily ordered strong drinks.  They needed liquefied courage to participate in the social that had begun.  Content on the sidelines for the start, they watched as a lead I knew well brought me onto the dance floor and kept me for three songs.  I was follow again. 

 

I had introduced my old friends to my newer friends and both reluctantly, although bravely, ventured out onto the floor.  Various dances and approximately an hour later, Elijah graced our presence.  Smiling and having secretly craved his lead since my dear friends asked to experience this piece of my world only hours ago, I accepted his invitation to serve as follow for his first dance of the evening. It was just as I remembered:  surprising, exciting, comedic, organic, beautiful.  We found each other several times over the course of the night, breaking his one dance rule to make up for lost time, before my friends and I excused ourselves– early flights in the morning. 

 

I learned to lead that night, but will never forget how to follow.  And despite my hiatus, and any future sabbaticals, I will never be done with dance. With the help of my Besties and Elijah, and the kindness of the dance community, I was home again.

 

Back at my actual home, as the ladies were settling in for the night, I stood, back to the mirror and finally looked over my shoulder.  I recall no other time in my post-graduate life that I would have dared don a backless shirt in public without being forced.  Perhaps it was their unconditional love, perhaps it was their friendship, perhaps it was the euphoric response to dance, or perhaps things would just be different this time.  Within the looking glass, barely visible in a thoracic spot I’ve focused too much of life’s attention upon, the faint whisper of a wound, nearly healed, as if the surgeon’s knife had merely kissed the skin.  

 

I’ve lost some steps, but not the balance.  I’ve lost some flexibility, but not the passion.  And this journey, while still perfectly incomplete, has included twists, turns, and scars, both visible and invisible to myself and others, that for me will forever serve as a roadmap for this walk.

 

A walk made more beautiful, although at times uncomfortable, by the selection of dance shoes strewn across my car’s trunk and piled in my bedroom closet. 

 

For the follows who let me in, for the leads who taught me to let, and for everyone who let me find me, and more importantly, let me be me – thank you. 

 

And for James, the lawyer, who always made it seem so easy, thank you for the dances, for the friendship, and-

 

(Now don’t go getting the wrong idea, dear reader.  I warned you at the beginning of all of this that were wouldn’t be romance.  That predictable coupling, for me at least, comes later.  Don’t worry, you won’t have to wait too long; it all starts in just a few lines.)

 

- to James, for asking Pierre and I to be your partners.  It was the easiest “yes” I’ve ever expressed, and the easiest step I’ve ever taken.

 

And now I’m ready. 

 

And so, I will take this next step, and then another. And I will walk. And with unclenched fists, I will place a hand near your shoulder, and another in your hand. 

 

And I there it is.  Do you hear it?   “Two…six...two…six…two…six.” 

 

And with my heart open, we will dance.

 

Time to meet You.