What is impossible for you?

By Marcos Rossi

An obstetrician faints after he takes the baby out of his
mother's belly. A young man surfs beyond the breakers,
with his crutches supporting him on the board. More than
a hundred musicians from a samba school watch in silence
as a guy in a wheelchair, who wants to be part of the drum
section, takes the test. A street musician touches people
when he sings "I Believe I Can Fly" on weekends at Paulista
Avenue. Benny, the mascot of the Chicago Bulls basketball
team, puts his mask on a disabled spectator, to the delight
of the entire arena. A grown man, lawyer, and father of two
has butterfl ies in his stomach as he faces the crowd in his
fi rst speech as a motivational speaker.
What brings these episodes together? Born without
arms or legs due to an extremely rare disability, Hanhart
Syndrome, these are scenes from the incredible life journey
of Marcos Rossi, described vividly and with good humor
in this book, What is Impossible for You?.
With the candor that only the courageous possess, Marcos
shares with us the circumstances of each one of the
conquests he had reached in his daily search to overcome
challenges and limits (both our own as well as the ones that
we impose on ourselves) without any self-pity or playing
the victim. He teaches us not to carry frustrations or sadness
out to the following day. His story shows us that it is
required never to give up our dreams.
In the end, there's one thing that will be really impossible
for you: remain the same after reading this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Buzz Editora
• Release date: Dec 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9786580435524

Book preview

I was 13, almost 14 years old, when I was expelled from school for the first time. A boys will be boys moment. The first time causing mischief is unforgettable. The entire classroom was throwing chalk at the teacher’s head while she was writing on the blackboard. She turned around angrily to punish whoever was responsible for that annoyance. She yelled at us, demanding to know who had done it.

Right away I came forward: It was me, teacher. But the joke, while led my classmates to roaring laughs, cost me dearly. She knew I was the only person who couldn’t have done that since I didn’t have any hands. When she said she was going to call security, I went to the front of the classroom, towards the door, blocking her exit, slowing down until the wheelchair stopped. The battery ran out, I said. That was like poking a jaguar with a short stick, what granted me my first school suspension, which I will never forget.

In my second piece of mischief, newly motorized with my wheelchair, I raced down the hallway, despite t school guards warnings, all the way to the drinking fountain which was at the end of the hall. Instead of slowing down as I got near it, I sped it up. Even though I didn’t know why, that made me happy. However, I was going too fast and I crashed into the drinking fountain, which broke, making water gush out everywhere. The janitor didn’t hesitate to report me to the director right away, who, after seeing my mischief record, expelled me from that school with no mercy. I describe this episode to show that in no occasion did I play the victim. Instead, I am very normal and love to joke around with respect to my situation.

In the lectures I give, I usually say that married couples have nowadays an average of one and a half children. When I read the results of that research I found it curious. So I thought: I am that half. But I’ve never felt like being half of anything. Quite the opposite. From the beginning, I was a guy who was completely whole in everything he did. Sometimes I was so intense that I seemed more powerful than a person who walks around with a full body and an empty mind.

All joking aside, at 13 years old I already had a voracious curiosity about sex. At 15, when I found out I needed to undergo a surgery in which the odds of surviving were 10%, the only thing I was worried about was not dying a virgin. Yes, I would have to go under a surgery. Yes, I could die during it, and the chances were so great it made me think of something known as your last wish. Even though I didn’t actually believe I would turn out to a ghost during something as predictable as a surgery.

After all, what else would a 15-year-old boy think about? Sex was a fantasy that practically drove me crazy, since I hadn’t had it yet. And I had no way of enjoying that pleasure other boys my age had already experienced for they had parts of their body helping in the process.

I was definitely worried about scoliosis, that damn illness that bent my spine and made it curve so much there was a risk of my ribs piercing my vital organs. The doctor said I might die if he didn’t insert a steel rod in my spine so it wouldn’t bend more. Leaving a doctor’s office hearing that really sucked. Putting in a rod would also suck. But that I would find out later.

To top it off I couldn’t lose blood since bleeding could be fatal due to my anatomy. But I knew I was going to stay alive. At that time, these matters of life and death weren’t mysterious to me anymore. But I had always been certain that I would live each moment I was inside of my body intensely. And even if I weren’t able to use 100% of everything, at least I would use all resources around me so that my time here on Earth would be spectacular and limitless.

That is how I’ve been thinking since I was a little kid. That is how I decide to live my life. That’s how I had gotten accustomed to it. Forgetting that there were physical limitations. That is to say, in fact, they don’t exist. But at 15 years old, I didn’t know of any theory that proved it. And at that age I wasn’t so daring either. I just wanted to have sex before I died. And that was so clear to me there was no way to avoid it.

I had been born with a rare disability known by the name of Hanhart Syndrome. I basically didn’t have - and still don’t have as they have not sprouted into existence - arms and legs. When the scheduling of the fateful surgery to put the aforementioned rod in my spine finally was set, what was I thinking about? Sex. Most friends of my age were also thinking about it. Perhaps not with as much curiosity as me. But they weren’t supposed to die soon; they also had arms and hands in case they wanted to experience sensations without a fem inine presence. I did not.

Out of the most difficult limitations I’ve had to face, this one makes it to the top 5 list. To want to do something and really not being able to do so, because you need the presence of a second person, made me want to hit my head against the wall. It was different than eating, peeing, or taking a bath. Those were basic needs for which I depended on some people.

I had already seen some pornographic videotapes. I knew what to do. Unlike people in wheelchairs whose lower limbs are paralyzed, I could feel my sexual organ throbbing. And not being able to touch it left me way too tense. Young people who are tense do stupid things, I know. But sexual tension in a pubescent boy is almost explosive, to say the least.

I told my mother I didn’t want to die virgin. As simple as that. And she was speechless. She was deep down afraid I would die in the operating room. The truth is that she was afraid the 90% mortality chance was real and she really could lose her son.

My mother had her natural worries over me at that time. And perhaps that specific one had never crossed her mind. While she was worrying about the outcome of that surgery I showed up with that curious inquiry, what turned everything even morecomplicated for her. I thought I wouldn’t be heard or even get a response, but it arrived a few days later.

After that conversation, which sounded more like a monologue, she didn’t say anything else. But, less than a week later, I was dressed in nice clothes, with a scent of eau de cologne, so that I could be taken to the doctor. Doctor? I knew there was something really strange about that visit to the doctor. A good family friend, who has being in a wheelchair as well, would be the one accompanying me. In fact, he was the disabled male role model I had as a child. A driver was ready to take me to the visit. This family friend had recommended that doctor, and the excuse given for this outing was that I would be getting a second opinion.

During the trip that day, I was wondering what they were up to, but everyone was quiet and no one gave me any clues. Suddenly I felt something was up: that friend of mine said we would need to take a detour to pick up something at a friend’s house.

Without knowing what was going to happen, I was taken by the driver to an apartment door. The driver sat me in my wheelchair and my friend gave the excuse that the driver would take me first because two wheelchairs wouldn’t fit in the elevator. Of course, I didn’t suspect anything at that moment. Everything appeared to be in order. We waited for a few seconds in the corridor until the door opened. At that moment, I knew what life had in store for me.

Yes, I deserved to have that dream come true. She was blonde and voluptuous under a tight black dress that showed off her waist and allowed her thighs to get my attention. May medicine forgive me, but that was much better than any drug. Her perfume was sweet and she played with her hair and her words in a way that any 15-year-old boy would be hypnotized. Before leaving, the driver was emphatic when he told her, Take good care of him. I said goodbye to the driver. I had already gotten the message. And if our friend thought that my last wish could be fulfilled by a working girl, who was I to doubt it? Definitely, I was not going to die virgin; moreover, my first time would be unbelievable.

The first thing she did, after saying goodbye to the driver and closing the door tightly, was to take me out of the wheelchair. But she didn’t seem to have much practice at that. I was only able to tell she was also an actress when she acted a little clumsy when pretending she didn’t know how to throw me in bed and fall on top of me.

But her performancedeserved an Oscar.

I have not forgotten a fraction of a second of that day. I spent five intense hours learning absolutely everything on female anatomy, about the pleasures my body could provide, and the ones I could feel as well. On that day, I understood that my body was a good machine, that I could also give pleasure and, above all, that I could spend the rest of my life doing that. That is, if I survived that surgery. I left the apartment walking on clouds. Or rather, float ing on them, since the wheelchair was carrying me.

Who would have thought a visit to the doctor could be so full of pleasure?

The following days, and the days preceding the surgery, were calmer than I could have imagined. Although I was worried, something told me that I wasn’t going to die there.

There were odds up to 90% that everything would go wrong.

In my life, chances that things would go wrong were very large but I always challenged all of them. People were constantly telling me to be careful. Daring was a strong characteristic of my personality which I would not give up. I was starving to savor life. To devour it. I was certain that I had not been born this way by chance. I needed to make it happen. I needed to prove to everyone that limits were only mental restraints, that circumstances would always point at us obvious negatives, but that our mind… ah, it could go beyond that. Beyond beliefs, fears and whys. And, assuming this, even finding myself in an allor-nothing situation, I admitted that I wanted to live. My strength was greater than my fears. And I had to admit I didn’t believe I was going to die so young.

I had played with my mother’s psychological side because I believed in fact that my life would be long. That I would die at the right time and date. And that I still would have many things to live, learn and experience.

I went into the operating room and closed my eyes. My life’s movie would be played within seconds. I was 15 years old.

Who dies at 15 years old?

MARCOS, NOW - said a voice that seemed to come from far away.

MARCOS, NOW.

I started to play. There were 170 musicians in an agonizing silence while I had been observed and judged.

My intention was to join the drums section of a samba school. The only one that accepted the challenge was X-9 Paulistana. I had never imagined being in that place nor having that entire group evaluating me. And much less did I have the aspiration of doing that. But a good friend had teased me while we were at a Bloco de Carnaval¹. When he asked, Why don’t you play in a professional samba school, the kind that parades through a Sambódromo²? I asked myself, Why not?. That was a question I used to ask myself every time a challenge came up. And if there is a thing I’m addicted to, it is a challenge.

I played solo for 30 seconds. It was 30 seconds of panic and pleasure. I didn’t know I could feel so many things in such a short time. That the music would flow through my bloodstream and that I would need to review my concepts of emotion after that experience. After so much work learning how to handle the instruments, I was put to test.

Adrenaline made my body shake. Every inch of my body followed that rhythm. If I could describe the feeling, I would say my blood smiled as it ran through my veins and jumped for joy with each heartbeat. My heart was pounding, beating to the rhythm of the instrument I played. There were so many vibrations there I thought about naming them. They were running through the air, reverberating through time and space. They gave meaning to my entire life. I didn’t need to pretend I wasn’t excited. There was so much life in that assembly hall it made me realize how much people were betting on me to succeed.

There are few things that made my heart beat like that. If inspiration somehow fail, I would look for that rhythm, that perfect beat that comes before surmounting something big. Was it an addiction? Perhaps. But this feeling is what makes these remarkable experiences in my life so meaningful, the ones I would be proud to tell my children someday.

While looking at each member of the drums section, surprised and slack-jawed, I remembered the astonished gazes from people who eventually see me holding my son on my lap for the first time, as well as each stare from those who see me typing, playing an instrument, or even singing at Paulista Avenue for the first time. You know, it’s always that expression: How does he do that?

It was the expression that tormented everyone at the beach on the first day I rode that wave I had dreamed about for so long. I accepted the call: MARCOS, NOW, and acted on it despite the fear. Me and my crutches on the board. Like a tripod. Two crutches in front and my hips on the rear. I remember people’s faces as they were watching that episode and saw the movement of my shoulder, playing with the board, putting my weight on the back to balance my body. Next thing I knew, there I was, surfing. The wind kissing my face, the wave breaking. It felt like freedom. Of overcoming one more challenge. Of defeating a fear, of allowing myself to live, in spite of the dangers. Even with its limits. Those seconds brought me life andenergy I needed to move forward. The guys brought me onto shore. We celebrated it. And that feeling of victory made me understand I had to go through all of that. That celebration granted meaning to all challenges.

Marcos, are you listening to me? I was. My body was there, present for that discussion about leaving home, in front of my mother, but my mind was wandering. I was traveling through time and space. As if something was telling me if I could get through that crashing wave, I would be able to surf any waves. But I needed to go through that first.

I attempted to smile, like a confident person. I remember the day I was running the pickups, as a newcomer DJ at a nightclub, as well as the first lecture I gave to hundreds of people.

It was time to face one more challenge. MARCOS, NOW.

This time the voice came from my subconscious. And it has always showed up to tell me what to do.

I browsed through my childhood photos in an attempt to escape from that situation. I couldn’t believe what was happening.

It was a brand new feeling.

Marcos, are you listening to me? she shouted, anxious for a response.

She didn’t look like herself. She really meant what she was saying and I didn’t know what to think.

Being a father was not in my plans at that time. But she was pregnant. We weren’t married, we had sex a couple of