Down On My Knees

Chicken pox kept me away from school for a month. I was only 6 then and I remember hating it. I'd always been a healthy kid. It felt like I was being punished for never having fallen sick and I was making up for the all earlier years in one shot. I hated missing school more than anything else.

Decades later, the chicken pox had relegated to dark corners of my mind. While I sympathized with others who fell sick or got injured, I stayed away from anything remotely requiring medical attention. How I managed it is beyond me but I took it for granted. I had abused my body with junk food, no food, erratic workouts for years and all I needed to fix myself up was 2 days in bed, recharging. It is amazing how self-healing the human body is.

Cut to 2012.

It all started with a back-ache that I ignored for as long as I could. It was just sleeping on the couch. Or maybe the bad posture at work. It was going to be fine. I just needed to stop doing those things. I would. It went on this way until I landed flat on my back, on the carpet one fine Sunday morning, unable to perform normal physical activities like getting up, sitting or standing without my back complaining. With much reluctance and driven by panic, I saw a doctor. "Weak muscles", he rued. He was happy to prescribe medicines but I brushed it off saying I wouldn't do it if I didn't have to. He wrote me a letter to get a core strength assessment by a physio and handed me a sheet detailing some stretches I could do, to strengthen the lower back muscles.

Once I started the stretches and the back was beginning to feel OK, I forgot all about the doctor and his physio recommendation. I ignored the niggly sensation in my knees for weeks and waved off the protests during my Krav Maga kicks. I continued to ignore it even after I started to feel like I was going to buckle whenever I walked. I should have at least hooked up to the internet to see if it needed attention but I didn't. I was in denial. It was going to be ok. That was until I carried a heavy bag and walked for about 3 kilometres one evening, while on holidays. Soon, the happy vacation turned into a series of stretches, ice-packs, ultrasound and I was pretty much under house-arrest.

By now I had been suffering all sorts of aches for 2 months and I was aware of my weak muscles. The least I could offer my body was a little rest. For someone who has mis-treated the body for over 30 years, it was a concept hard to grasp. Two weeks into the treatment, throwing all caution to the wind, I headed back overseas and started work. Over the next 2 weeks, I was brought down by my knees once again. It was back to square one. Ice-packs, taped knees, ultrasound, rest. The works. Serves me right for not doing the "rest" thing the first time around. Lesson learned. Right?

I'm just back from another horribly expensive physio session (that my insurance barely covers) and feeling better. All thanks to the massage, ultra-sound and knee-taping (ugh) by my Kiwi physio, who told me she had her first physio appointment at the age of 8. The restlessness that comes with feeling slightly more mobile is back. I want to be out and about, doing all the things I would normally be doing. The only thing that is stopping me from caving in, is knowing how crippled I have been over the weekend... after I had started to walk a little just the week before.

The chicken pox phase jumps to the forefront, from the dark hollows of my mind. It's like a headless villain stepping out of the shadows, in a long black cape. Yet again, is this life making me pay for the score and something years of good health I have had? It's been over 3 months since the first signs of the weak muscles appeared and started giving me grief. I can't wait to feel "normal" again!

I feel exactly like I did when I was 6 years old. I was forced to stay in the bedroom so I would not spread the germs around, only being allowed to get out if I needed to use the bathroom. Mum brought me food and water but I was kept away from the outside world. This time, I'm older and the room is a house, but the feeling is all the same. I am counting down minutes to get back to the outside world... to run and to dance... to kick some groin in Krav class... and to grab that elusive P3 patch... and do all those crazy things on my list...

Krav Maga Practioner Level 1

There was everything about the environment that an exam should have. The students in uniforms waiting outside the institute, some chatting and some reading from sheets of paper, some too nervous to say anything. Checking your name on the list, signing-in. 

Finally the doors opened and we streamed inside. Again, the instructions - go straight to the hall blah blah - were all business and exam-like. 

Instructors - external & internal - getting ready to start the test, in all seriousness. Even the warm-up was different today. Tim Alexander, lead instructor and director of KMTA - one of the world's best Krav Maga institutes - introduced us to the test with Kida (the bow). Piero Borgna (Pete), newly qualified instructor and Kurt Colpan, director of iKMF Australia were to be our examiners. 

The Q&A bit lasted less than a minute, was smooth sailing and nowhere close to what I'd feared. Tim started calling out techniques and within seconds we were all absorbed into the Kravving mood. Stances, techniques, punches, power, defenses, attacks and it went on for 2 hours. It hardly mattered who was watching, it was all about giving our best. It wasn't a class anymore but as close to reality as we could get - like performing on a dance stage after months of practice. 

When my partner & I teamed up, we did not even ask each other's name. He said, "I'd have preferred to work with someone I was familiar with". I couldn't agree more. I was pretty much looking for my usual partner Vanessa before I ended up with him. At the end of the grading - many strikes, hard knocks,  punches and kicks later - we were both thoroughly bruised and sufficiently beaten up. We had not only fared well individually, we had been excellent partners. Good job, mate!

I can now honestly say that I know what it feels like to be punched square in the jaw, kicked in the face with a shoe-shodden foot, choked into a coughing fit, repeatedly beaten on both hands till they leave coloured patches, kicked in the groin, etc. <sheepish insert: giving someone a black eye too>

When Tim said, "Your marking is done, now you've to earn your grading", I couldn't help but smile. Internally, a little voice whined, "Noooo!". I know what that means. When Tim says you have to earn something, he makes sure you work hard and you work a good sweat. So he did.

Finally, it was time for Kida, the final bow before the results. We had all passed. Pete said he was impressed. Kurt was pleased too. Got my feedback, exchanged congratulations with friends and headed home with Vanessa. We couldn't stop raving about it. Various parts of my body were talking too, in a sweet painful way. 

Returned home to FB pages full of today's grading. So much happiness everywhere. Yes, it was worth it. I'm glad I did it. I had some of the best instructors in Tim, Pete and Iman, how could I not?

Now for a beer, pav bhaji, the couch, telly and a book. A well-deserved rest.

What You Don't Know Can't Hurt You

It's been a while. I've had atleast 3 blog ideas and content to write but never made the time. Some of us have to earn a living, no matter how much we detest the means to the goal. Then there's all the extra things one needs to do to fit into that horribly expensive dress one bought or the pair of shorts that one is hoping to buy. Many and such excuses later, here I am. Back to my beloved writing. Sneak-peeking at the time and wondering if I really want to do this. 

One of my excuses for not learning martial arts even as a kid was that if the rest of the world can survive without it, so could I. That was the excuses behind which hid the real excuses - I was scared of getting hurt. Then my husband brought me to this guy who teaches an Israeli form of martial arts called Krav Maga. Tim is an excellent instructor and before I knew it, I was hooked. Yes, I came home bruised and battered quite often. On Wednesday nights, I barely managed to take the train back home, half-blinded by weariness, sticky and beaten after nearly 3 hours of punching, kicking, choking and hammers. When we did the Zombie exercise in the end, I didn't even have to pretend to be a zombie on some days!

In short, I love Krav Maga. I love my classes, my instructor and all that's in it. When KMTA organized a workshop at the Gold Coast one weekend, I didn't need Tim's excellent salesmen skills to tell me I wanted to do it. The announcement said it was only for graded and grading students. I wasn't graded and wasn't doing so this term but I registered, paid and went for it anyway. It was simply superb. We practised KM in the park, in the bus, on rough ground, in the sand, in the water and on sand mounds, just about everywhere. At the end of the "beach workshop", when we returned to the bus to change (he's an excellent driver too, by the way), there was a crate of chilled beer waiting for us. Did I mention I have the best training instructor ever?

One of the things that stuck in my head from the training was Tim explaining to us the strategic location to be seated while flying or in public transport that would help us in getting the best defend-and-escape position. He said he always took the aisle seat in a flight. When he was done explaining, it was obvious that if we all took a flight out some place, the window seats would be empty in the plane and everyone would be fighting for aisle seats. I'm one of those people that loves a window seat in an air-plane. I love the view while taking off and landing. It's my favourite part of the entire flight. The very part that used to scare me when I first started flying. Due to this, I refused to be influenced to take an aisle seat. It is not like I'm really going to be attacked or anything, I said to myself. 

However, it did make me realize what I'd once thought of, as an excuse for not learning self-defence. One of the things you have to learn in a self-defence class is the various kinds of attacks possible. The knowledge is supposed to prepare you for any surprises and help you get away with least damage. It works. Your mind is sure to be alert once you know what to expect. The flip side is that you end up being on an always alert mode. In some ways it is good. Sometimes, it's plain strenuous to have to keep the brain on alert all the time. It's almost like running on adrenalin/battery power all day long (ask me, I know all about how that feels). 

Also, it restricts your freedom to do as you please. Imagine never being able to take a window seat in a flight or bus or train. Imagine being worried about people walking down the aisle while you're in a window seat, with a stranger in the aisle seat next to you. Imagine walking down the street, clutching your bag, prepared for any kind of attack, all the time. What are the chances that you will actually get attacked? That said, can you just relax and go lax, given that the chances are probably slim. I suppose not. What is the point of learning to be alert and defending yourself if you won't apply it. It only takes that once to cause irrevocable damage.

Yet, I can't help feeling that sometimes I am better off being ignorant. I'm better off not knowing about the bad things that could happen, so I can enjoy the good things in peace. Or maybe I should just learn to strike a balance. I'm glad I'm not a police officer or a doctor. Imagine living in an I-must-save-and-protect mode all the time! It's a bit much. I love my sleep, I wouldn't sacrifice it to save the world from a war. Maybe not. Who knows? We'll cross the bridge when we come to it. Time to head off to earn my living. Wish I didn't know that. I'm getting that feeling again. I'm better off not knowing. As they say, what you don't know...