It’s a bizarre position to be in: observing your limbs flailing like a ragdoll as you’re flying mid-air. This is the last thing I remember after the impact and before I landed on my feet in a karate-like stance, ready to kick the crap out of the bus that just hit me. No sooner did my hands reach to my head and hip as I winced in searing pain.

The first person I saw was a black man on the sidewalk facing me. He was dancing from one foot to another, unsure which way to go or what to do after seeing me launched from front of the bus, bounce down the street, and land on my feet like an angry ninja cat. The man looked more stunned than I, so I quickly moved into save-my-ass-mode, pointing to random bystanders, “You! Call 911!”, “You, grab my things!” The sandals were blown off my feet from the impact, and the contents of a small handbag were scattered all over the road.

I hobbled myself back to the sidewalk, where I asked a kind and concerned-looking woman to hold my hand and dial “Wiz” on my little Samsung flip phone. My roommate Liz and I had just finished brunch at our favorite local spot, Café Artiste, where I told her I was walking over to the new art museum. New York’s MOMA collection was temporarily housed in Houston while the museum underwent renovations, and I was dying to see it.

Liz answered, and I was able to mumble out, “Wiz, I just got hit by a bus,” before handing the phone back to the woman to share what was happening. It wasn’t until I knew that an ambulance and Wiz were on their way that I allowed myself to roll out of drill sergeant mode and into a scared and shocked little girl trembling on the sidewalk.

The sensation of shock is a strange one. You feel a bit detached from your body. I really couldn’t tell how badly I was injured, if my head was busted open and bleeding, or if my ribs were broken. Maybe this is how an antelope feels when a lion takes it down. I lay there on the sidewalk feeling like my leg could be eaten off, and I wouldn’t have known it was missing.

The ambulance arrived, and I was happy to see it was #42, our neighboring firemen and EMR guys who Liz and I shared a backyard fence with. When taking smoke breaks on the back stoop of our second-floor apartment, we could peer down into the fireman’s yard. It was always fun to see how they’d puff up and strut around when they knew we were watching. Something about ‘my boys’ coming to save me was comforting. They carefully lifted me up and strapped me onto the gurney. I breathed a small sigh of relief that I decided to put panties on under my thin jean skirt that day (though I was braless under my tank-top….Houston summers!)

It was just a short ambulance ride from Houston’s Museum District to the Hospital Center, but I could feel every road bump and groove rattle through my ribcage. Despite the pain, I could not stop talking. I begged the guys to tell me a joke or the latest firehouse shenanigans or kiss me before I died. I must have been distracting myself from just how scared I was; like if I stopped talking, I really would die.

I used the same strategy as they rolled me into the Emergency Room. Pleading with every handsome doctor to kiss me when all I was looking for was a laugh or smile or some sign that things weren’t so dire and that I would be okay. I don’t remember if anyone obliged my request, but I do remember being left alone in a hospital room a long time waiting for someone to tend my abrasions and scan my body for internal injuries, something law-student Liz helped me advocate for when she arrived.

It’s a miracle I wasn’t flattened by the bus or complete roadkill, considering how Houston Metro buses kill dozens of people each year. It’s also unbelievable more flesh wasn’t peeled off my bare arms and legs, and that I didn’t break a single bone or suffer a concussion after bouncing down the road on my head and back.

I still don’t know what happened between being airborne and landing on my feet three car lengths away and facing the opposite direction of where I started. How did I manage to tuck my limbs into a ball? All I can think is I must have been relaxed and limber after that morning’s yoga class. I remember walking to the museum in a blissed-out state: happy from the morning brunch with my roommate, delighted by the walk through the outdoor sculpture garden, and excited about being reunited with some of my favorite artworks just a few yards away.

It’s true what they say: that time slows down when you’re faced with your own death. In milliseconds, I went from complete disbelief that a Metro bus was barreling straight toward me in the crosswalk, to indignant that I would die in such a cliched manner, to determined-as-hell that I was not going out that way. In milliseconds, I calculated my best move: “Could I avoid it by running forward or backward? No.” My best bet was to pivot and run with it. I took no more than two running steps before, Wham! The bus hit me right in my rump, sending my body flying into the air and right back to the beginning of the story.

Did yoga and catlike reflexes save my life? Did a guardian angel carry me from flying ragdoll to warrior ninja stance? I don’t know. What I do know is this: if you’re going to get hit by a bus, take it on the tush!