En Pointe

by Chloe Bayliss

  The sides of the sink are cold as I grasp them with both hands to support the weight of my body until my legs decide to wake up and function properly. My hands are slippery with sweat. Is this a migraine? I have never experienced one before, but if so, is it the cause of my weak legs or are they really just asleep? My mind is racing as I try to calm my thoughts of not today, of all days. Today is my one chance to prove to the company that I am capable of keeping up with the professional dancers.

  Grasping the sink tighter, I raise my throbbing head. A drawn and pale face peers back at me from the mirror. Dark, almost purple, shadows have appeared under my eyes. I’ve turned into a walking corpse overnight.

  Moving to the shower, I turn on the taps, then peel the clammy clothes from my body and drop them to the floor.

  Hot water rushes down my back as I lean my head against the wall of the shower. After a few minutes, I grab my shower gel and start to lather my body in an attempt to revive myself. It’s too much effort to reach my legs, so I lower myself to the floor. The water beats down hard on the back of my neck as my head hangs heavily. With what little energy I have, I continue to lather my legs and find bruises have appeared around my thighs and knees. Probably from contemporary class. I hear Sofia moving about outside the bathroom door, which I think is my cue to get out.

  Wrapped in a towel, I walk out of the bathroom and sit on my bed.

  ‘Good morning,’ Sofia says cheerfully. She walks past me, hairbrush and toiletries in hand.

  ‘Morning,’ I say, managing a small smile.

  Sofia turns at the sound of my weary voice. The room is still dim with the curtains drawn and I can’t see her face properly until she’s at my side. ‘Are you okay?’

  I look at her beautiful black shoulder-length hair as she inspects my face. She looks as though she’s just stepped off a hair-care commercial, not just got out of bed—effortlessly beautiful. ‘My head is pounding,’ I say. ‘It’s really weird, I don’t usually get headaches.’ I feel her body tense up. She knows how important today is. ‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her. ‘I probably just need some water or something.’

  Her blue eyes are piercing from beneath her fringe and she looks at me a few seconds too long. ‘Do you want some Panadol?’ Sofia carries an old soul in a young body. Only a couple of years older than me, she has already lived and danced in Europe. She knows how to take care of herself and right now, I can sense that she wants to take care of me.

  ‘I’m okay, seriously. Just coming down with a cold or something. I’ve got some ibuprofen I can take,’ I say.

  She gives me one last look, like she’s not sure whether to believe me, before disappearing into the bathroom. I refuse to let a stupid headache ruin my day, so I toss down two ibuprofen tablets, give myself a motivational talk, and get ready to go out there and show them what I’ve got.

  * * *

  Thankfully, the ibuprofen works quickly. My headache already seems to have faded slightly when Sofia and I meet the other diploma girls out the front twenty minutes later.

  We all take off in the direction of the Queensland Ballet, but as soon as we’ve walked a hundred metres my energy levels plummet again. When we reach a hill, I drop behind the group. My head is throbbing again as I desperately try to gather myself and catch up with them. It’s as though there isn’t any blood in my legs to keep them moving. My breaths are short and my steps are small. It’s no good, I need to take a moment to rest so I tell the other girls to go on ahead.

  * * *

  When I arrive at the Queensland Ballet, the girls are already in the studio warming up. I dump my bag and have to head straight into class with the company dancers with no warm-up.

  Everyone trickles towards the centre of the room where they each take a place at one of the ballet barres scattered around the floor. Sofia is already at the barre, leg warmers on and performing a grand battement en cloche, swinging her legs back and forth like a pendulum. She’s got legs for days, and her raised bent leg swings and almost hits the back of her head when she swishes back, then almost touches her nose when she swishes forward. Catching my eye, she runs over while I’m changing into my ballet shoes.

  ‘How are you doing?’ she says in a whisper as she leans towards me, trying not to disrupt the focus of the company dancers.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell her, knowing she won’t believe me. As I suspected, she doesn’t look convinced, but doesn’t press me further. I’ve always been an independent person but all I want right now is my mum by my side, nursing me back to health. She has a way of making my life seem much more manageable when I am unwell. But I guess it’s nice to have a friend who’s so concerned.

  The morning sun creeps in from the surrounding windows, creating a bright and warm atmosphere in this very large and open studio. Unfortunately, the warmth doesn’t reach me—I feel as though a cold rain cloud is about to break over my head at any second.

  An arm’s length away is a company dancer. She effortlessly pulls her hair up into a messy bun, accentuating her long, swan-like neck. Any other day I would be entranced by her. Today I wish she would stop moving; the crisscrossed straps on the back of her emerald-green leotard are making me dizzy. Placing one hand on my stomach, I close my eyes, take a breath and engage my core muscles. Centred and calm.

  We begin the class, but before long the whole room is spinning as I try to keep my head up and balance. I can’t focus on any of the work the teacher is giving us, and I fumble around forgetting the exercises. I feel like an amateur. Telling myself to keep going, I push and push, but when the class is almost at an end, my body just can’t go anymore. I have to give up. I’ve never given up. Ever. My chance at making a good impression is gone.

  Disappointment consumes me, tightening my chest, as I walk up to the teacher. Feeling like such a cop-out, I can barely get out the words to explain that I am feeling unwell. I’m sure she thinks I just can’t keep up with the professionals so have chosen to be ‘sick’ instead. I have danced despite being extremely unwell numerous times throughout my life and I just don’t understand why today of all days I can’t keep going.

  The teacher politely dismisses me, and I take a seat at the front of the room where I spend the rest of the class trying not to fall asleep.

  * * *

  When the day is finally over, the girls drag me to some sort of all-ages bar to kill time before our flight home. I’ve never really been to a bar before. This one is far from the dingy bars I conjured up in my imagination. It’s kind of cool, with red-leather booths and slick black tables. Taking a seat next to Sofia, I’m still struggling to hold myself up as I listen to the girls chat. Condensation drips languidly down the sides of their alcoholic beverages. They are happy and relaxed as they go over the inspiring day they had. I try to be enthusiastic, but I’m so disheartened my body couldn’t do what I needed it to do today.

  The girls soon move on to chatting about the various parties they went to last weekend. By now, I’ve heard a million stories about my friends’ wild weekend adventures and although this is nothing new, it feels different somehow. I feel different.

  I sink down in the booth and into my thoughts, their voices and laughter fading away into the hum of the other bar-goers. I’ve never wanted anything to take my focus away from dance, but now I wonder if perhaps I do have a lot more to learn about the world outside the studio. This train of thought gets too much for my brain as the ibuprofen wears off and the throbbing in my head returns. I need to rest but I can’t—not yet. I’ve only got a couple of weeks left until Staged 08.

  * * *

  It’s late at night when I arrive home to Newcastle, and judging by the worried looks on my parents’ faces when they pick me up from the airport, I must look terrible.

  Looking in the bathroom mirror at home, I see my face is three shades whiter than my already porcelain skin. I’m translucent, like you’d be able to see my insides if you looked hard enough.

  I feel nauseated and can’t seem to keep anyt
hing down, but I keep telling Mum I’ll be okay, although I think she can see I’m getting weaker and weaker by the minute. We decide I must have picked up some sort of lethal virus, and after I throw up again she gets Dad to pick me up and carry me to the car to take me to a doctor. She has that anxious look she gets when she thinks something terrible has happened; it’s a look I usually only see when I’m sick, now I think of it.

  We drive to a late-night doctor who assesses me and gives me a prescription for a drug called Metoclopramide to ease the nausea and vomiting. He tells me it’s just a virus and that I need to rest and wait it out. Both Mum and I are relieved it’s nothing more, and we hop in the car and head back home.

  * * *

  A day goes by. I’m getting worse. I blew my nose this morning, and the tissue was streaked with red. I’ve never had a nosebleed before.

  When I wake up from an evening nap, my room is dark except for a single tunnel of light that beams into my room from the corridor, ending at the bottom of my bed. In the doorway, I can see the silhouette of my sister. I think she has her hands near her mouth. My bedside is lined with buckets, and my body flings up as my insides try to come out. I can’t stop vomiting. Over the sound of my heaving, I hear Fezzy scream out to my parents. Hair covering my face and liquid down my chin, I turn my head to see my sister being shoved out of the way as my parents run to my side. I am once again carried to the car before Mum speeds down the highway to the nearest late-night doctor’s surgery. We get out of the car, and Mum takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze as I shuffle my way to the doors of the practice. Her hand is warm and feels like a lifeline right now.

  Inside the doctor’s rooms, I sit with Mum by my side as a little old doctor—I think she is Russian—checks me over. Mum is tense beside me. The doctor says I should have some bloods taken and come back in a few weeks. But she obviously didn’t anticipate dealing with my mum. My mum is one hell of a woman. She’s strong. Oh so strong. And she doesn’t back down without a fight when it’s in support of her family.

  In a direct and clear manner that even I find intimidating, she tells the doctor, ‘I’m sorry, but there is something seriously wrong with my daughter. She won’t make it back here in a few weeks. I want you to write a letter that I can take straight to the emergency department of the hospital. She needs help now.’

  Mum is scaring me with how serious she is. The doctor seems almost as overwhelmed as I am as she follows through with my mother’s orders.

  Grabbing the letter, my mum puts her hand around my waist then guides me to the car. ‘It’s okay, darling, we’re going to get you some help,’ she tells me.

  ‘Stop, stop, stop,’ I cry and Mum comes to a halt. ‘I think I’m going to…’

  Mum tries to drag me to a nearby garden but it’s too late, and I bring up my insides again all over the concrete parking lot. Kneeling beside me, Mum pulls my hair back from my face and whispers, ‘You’re going to be okay,’ before helping me to the car.

  I take one of the Metoclopramide tablets that the previous doctor gave me to calm my stomach as Mum starts the engine. To be honest, I feel like this is all a bit much. Yes, I’m sick and feel like crap, but Emergency seems like a bit of a fuss. Maybe I’m just dehydrated and need a drip or something.

  My mum’s hands are tight on the steering wheel as she races down the road, her eyes frequently flicking sideways at me, that worried look still on her face as I curl up, clutching at my stomach on the seat beside her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Emergency

  AUGUST 2008

  It’s 25 August 2008. Five days until Staged 08 and I am stuck here in the emergency department of the hospital. It must be about 9 pm by now and I’m still sitting in this overcrowded, hot and stuffy waiting room with people and children who are making far too much noise. It’s as if I’m in New York again, except this time I want to scream for everyone to just be quiet. My head is pounding and pounding as though my skull will split in two.

  People stand in a line at the counters in front of us waiting to tell the nurse their problems. I just want the nurse to call out my name. I don’t know how much longer I can sit here.

  I must be in the non-urgent category. Yes, I look unwell, but I don’t have any broken bones and the vomiting has stopped for now. My headache is about a nine on the pain scale, but I’m sure they think I just have a virus.

  Slumped in the armless chair, I feel a strange numbness creep up the side of my neck, my jaw, then the entire right side of my face. Am I imagining it, or is my mouth actually drooping down and melting off my face? The whole right side of my mouth feels like it’s hanging low and twitching or something. Something is terribly wrong.

  I turn to Mum. Or at least I try to, but my neck won’t turn so I have to move my entire body to face her. Raising my hand to my face, I realise I can’t move my mouth. At all. My face and jaw are clenching up. Panic starts to set in as my breaths become short and fast. I can’t be sure if I’m having a panic attack or if it’s fear rippling through every inch of my body. The whole right side of my face is paralysed.

  ‘Mum,’ I try to say through my clenched jaw, but my voice is muffled. She doesn’t hear me. ‘Mum!’ I try to speak louder, grabbing her thigh to get her attention. Finally, she turns to me and through the panic, I feel tears well up in my eyes. ‘Mum, I can’t move my face. My jaw. My jaw is shut. I can’t move my face!’ I am trying hard to explain what’s happening through a clenched jaw. What’s happening to me?

  ‘It’s okay, Chloe. Just breathe. You’re okay. I can’t see anything wrong with your face, it looks fine. You just need to stay calm.’ Her gaze travels down from my eyes and lands on my mouth, and I can tell she’s lying to me. The worried look is in her eyes, but this time I sense fear as her lips press tightly together. For a moment, she stares into the centre of the room. Then she rises to her feet and pushes past everyone at the counter to get to the front of the line. I can see her talking fiercely to the person behind the glass as she points at me. Before I know it, a doctor is at my side and I am rushed into an examination room ahead of everyone else. My head is still throbbing. The smallest noise pierces my head like someone is jackhammering my skull. I just want the whole world to shut up.

  ‘Hi, Chloe, I’m going to give you this needle,’ a doctor tells me. ‘You have had an allergic reaction to the drug Metoclopramide. You should be back to normal soon.’ Slowly, my face starts to unclench and I am able to move it again, but my head is still pounding. ‘Is this what brought you to the hospital this evening?’ the doctor asks. He’s calm, young and kind of attractive. Even through the pain I’m in, I can’t help but notice his sandy hair and Hemsworth-like features, and I cringe internally as I have to tell him my symptoms.

  ‘My head is pounding, I can’t stop vomiting, my throat is sore, and blood pours out of my nose when I blow it.’

  Then my mum pipes up. ‘I’ve also noticed some red dots scattered on her top left eyelid.’ She hadn’t said anything about this to me, so I’m surprised by this information.

  Dr Gorgeous takes my blood pressure and tells me that it’s a little high and that he isn’t surprised I have a headache. After several tubes of blood are taken from my arm, I’m then given a jar to pee in. Good-looking doctor and my pee. Great.

  I return from the bathroom, and as I hand over my sample I realise that the colour of my urine has turned brown. Maybe my body is getting rid of toxins. I don’t know. The doctor seems concerned as he looks at the jar. ‘You are severely dehydrated,’ he says, then ducks out of the room for a few moments. I think he is talking to someone. I give my mum a small smile while we wait—I feel bad for scaring her like this.

  The doctor steps back into the room. ‘Chloe, we would like to admit you to hospital for now.’

  I look to Mum again, and she seems very calm and composed. I think that means she thinks everything will be okay. I think.

  I am hooked up to an IV line and various other machines, and they whisk me away
in a hospital bed where I await my diagnosis.

  It’s super dark where I’m lying—almost surreal, like I’m in a dream, or watching a TV show and this is all happening to someone else. A barrage of noise is going on all around me. Mum sits in a chair in the shadows at the end of my bed. She’s pulled the curtain around to give us some privacy, leaving a small gap through which I can see nurses running back and forth with plastic things in their hands.

  ‘Mum,’ I say softly, ‘I need to be out of here for Staged 08. It’s only five days away.’

  ‘You’re in safe hands, darling. I’m sure you are just overworked and dehydrated. The drip will do wonders, you’ll see. Just get some rest.’ Mum’s voice is soothing. It’s amazing how she can calm me down with just a few words. I know I am strong enough to get better. I’ve got a whole five days. It will be fine.

  * * *

  The following two days are perhaps the most frustrating of all. As each day passes and I’m not given a diagnosis, I grow increasingly agitated. Doctors come in and out, asking me all sorts of questions: ‘Have you eaten anything that may have been off?’ ‘Have you travelled overseas in the last six months?’ ‘Have you taken anything? Any drugs?’

  Do I look like a druggy?

  They scribble things down on their notepads and fire off more questions.

  When I tell them I’ve been very emotional and acting out of character, that I haven’t felt like I’ve been in control of myself, they nod and hurry out the door. But no one gives me answers. All I want is for them to figure out what’s wrong with me so I can leave and return to my life as normal.

  The machine I’m hooked up to keeps me up at night, beeping and making noises as it records my blood pressure, pulse and other things I have no idea about. Each morning the blood collectors come around and take copious amounts of blood from my arms, leaving me covered in big black and blue bruises.