* * *
A beam of sun hits my half-closed eyes. I squint, trying to adjust to the bright light billowing into my room. I can see colours. So many beautiful colours. Yellows, pinks, greens. Balloons, too. It’s beautiful. I am in some magical garden. Then I hear a beep, beep, beep before a blood pressure cuff on my arm inflates, and I realise where I am.
I open my eyes fully. Flowers, teddies, cards and balloons are lined up in a row on the windowsill. It looks like a florist’s, there are so many. They’re so beautiful but now that I remember where I am, I hate them. Flowers mean I’m sick. I don’t want sad flowers, I want happy flowers. They’ve been pouring in from friends, family and all the dancers and teachers at the studio. I’m staring at a ray of sun bouncing off a yellow gerbera when a figure comes into my peripheral vision.
‘Good morning.’ Mum comes into focus. She is followed by a lady who wheels in a tray of breakfast food.
‘Here you go, lovely,’ the lady says. She has no idea what is wrong with me, but she’s happy and cheery and it perks me up a little.
Mum drags the table on wheels over to me. ‘I want you to try to eat something today, okay?’ she says, already opening the packet toast. And I really want to eat, I do. But nothing is staying down. They have me on a low-sodium, low-potassium diet, with a fluid restriction of 600 millilitres a day. My fluid intake comes from food too, so if I have yoghurt or watermelon, it might contain about 100 millilitres of water. It’s terrible. My mouth is so dry, but if I drink, my body will continue to swell because my kidneys can’t get rid of the water. ‘Try this,’ Mum says. The toast is soft and soggy from being wrapped in plastic. I take a bite but it tastes metallic and my stomach lurches as I try to swallow. Mum looks disappointed as she removes the tray. ‘Maybe we can try again at lunch time, huh?’ It’s like she’s trying to feed a baby.
But my mind is distracted by something else. ‘Mum, today is Staged 08.’ I can’t look at her when I say it.
‘I know, darling. But you will have many more opportunities in the future to perform. You just need to get better, okay?’
‘I need to finish my diploma; I don’t have anything else to fall back on.’ I’m starting to panic. ‘I have to get better. Do you think I’ll be better for Washington in January?’
Mum scrunches up her face a little. ‘I don’t know. But for now, just try to put all your energy into getting better.’
I tell myself that this hospital stuff is only temporary. I’m going to get out of here. So I start going through how much catching up I’ll need to do to get back to the dance studio. I am so out of shape, so weak. I’m going to be so far behind everyone. It’s funny how you don’t realise how much you love something until it’s taken away from you.
Mum must realise what I’m thinking about. ‘Chloe, I have known your whole life that you won’t ever be dragged away from the stage. But you need to focus on the present right now. You seem to have a little bit more energy today. How do you feel?’
I was so wrapped up in missing Staged 08 that there’s something I hadn’t noticed until now, and I smile for what feels like the first time in ages. ‘My headache has gone!’
Mum slumps in her chair and smiles. We both know that this is the first step in the right direction.
* * *
A little while later, Dr Reid is doing his rounds and pops in to give me an update. He tells us that my CT scan revealed no brain haemorrhage, but they still don’t know what’s causing my problems. ‘We would like to do a biopsy of your kidney,’ he says.
I look to Mum, then back to him and ask the question that always comes first. ‘Will it hurt?’
‘We’ll go in and take a small piece of your kidney with a tool that will only leave a very small scar in your back. We’ll make sure it’s very quick,’ he says, and I clock that he didn’t actually answer my question. ‘We’ve booked you in for the procedure in two days’ time, so no need to worry right now.’ Before exiting the room, he turns to me and says, ‘I’ve also found that patients find it helpful to keep a journal while in hospital. I’m not sure if you like that sort of thing, but it might help you.’ Then he disappears out the door.
Right. That’s weird. He’s talking to me as though I’m going to be in here forever or something. That’s a stupid idea to write in a journal. I’ll be out of here before we start back at dancing next term. I could see Mum writing in a journal though; she’s been keeping notes on everything the doctors have been saying. I decide to push any thoughts of a biopsy or dance worries to the back of my mind. I don’t have a headache today, so I’m not going to let anything ruin that.
There’s a knock at the door, and I look up to see a woman. Her features are delicate and her blonde hair is tied back into a braid. ‘Hi, Chloe. I’m a social worker here at the hospital, and I have come to have a little chat with you,’ she says.
What on earth? Why is everyone treating me like I’m dying? But Mum looks happy she’s here, and takes the opportunity to go and get a coffee. She’s out of the room before I have an opportunity to stop her, and now I am feeling very alone and vulnerable in front of this stranger.
The social worker takes a seat beside me and starts asking me questions about my life and what I like to do. She’s nice enough, but something about her is annoying me. I don’t know if this illness is still making me irritable, or if I am just cranky because I am missing out on Swan Lake right now. ‘How have you been feeling in here?’ she says, emphasising the word as she cocks her head to one side.
‘Sick,’ I say bluntly. ‘What else am I supposed to feel?’ Okay, I’m probably being a little snippy, but I feel like telling her to leave me alone and that I don’t need her; I can survive on my own. Then she starts asking about my dancing, and I perk up. ‘I’ve been dancing since I was three, and it’s my life,’ I say. ‘I miss it so much.’ I start to tell her all about my life as a dancer.
I expect her to be surprised and happy about the life I have built for myself and the dreams and goals I have, but she looks at me and simply says, ‘There’s more to life than dancing, you know.’ There’s silence in the room as my mouth hangs open. Then my eyes narrow as a fire builds in my belly. I’ve dedicated my whole life to dance. ‘I’d like to rest now, thank you,’ I spit. She can tell I’m angry, but how dare she tell me that there’s more to life than dancing? I sit in stubborn silence until she gets the message. As she leaves, she crosses paths with my mum, who is looking super excited that I’ve had a chat with her.
‘I don’t want to see her ever again,’ I say as soon as the social worker’s out of the room.
Mum’s face drops. ‘What happened?
Without warning, a lump rises in my throat and tears flow from my eyes. ‘Mum, I think she thinks I am never going to dance again.’
‘Right. I’ll sort it. You don’t have to see her ever again,’ Mum says before marching out the door.
Oops. I think I just fired my social worker.
* * *
It’s late and I’ve sent Mum home for the night. She was a little hesitant to go, but we can both see she is looking like death and needs to rest, so I insisted that she go home to have a nice shower and sleep. Plus, I feel a little better today so things must be picking up. I don’t like that I am keeping her here all the time. The rest of my family must be missing her terribly.
Alone in my hospital bed, I dream about the cygnets who will be just about ready to go on stage. I don’t want to be sad, but things feel so much worse here when it’s night-time. Even the flashing lights seem duller and more melancholy. I wonder who has taken my place in Staged 08 and hope they are doing the roles justice.
My head starts to hurt again. Really badly. I can’t think anymore. My brain feels tight, like it’s pushing its way out of my head. The blood pressure cuff blows up on my arm, but this time it’s super, super tight. As it deflates, a reading comes up on the machine. My blood pressure reads 200/110. That’s strange. I’ve learnt now that a normal BP is supposed to be 120
/80. The machine lets off an alarm and I hear footsteps coming my way.
My head. Oh, it hurts. I can’t think straight. I try to sit forward and then—
I am swallowed by darkness.
* * *
My eyes snap open. In front of me are a bunch of people. Men and women. Doctors, I think. They have those stethoscope things around their necks, so they must be doctors. My head hurts. I’m not sure where I am. Why are they all looking at me as though I’m from another planet?
One of them leans in and asks, ‘Can you tell me your full name?’
I think for a moment. Nothing comes to me because my head is hurting. It’s all fuzzy inside. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. This makes me panic. Am I losing my mind? I know I should know the answer but I don’t.
‘Can you tell me your date of birth?’ he says.
I try hard to think, but I just can’t. ‘Um… I don’t… I don’t know,’ I say past a quivering lip. They keep hounding me with questions and questions and questions, and I can’t answer any of them! I know I should know, but I don’t know why I can’t remember.
‘Chloe, what year is it?’
‘I. Don’t. Know!’ I scream, frustrated and afraid as tears spill down my face. My head is pounding.
They all try to calm me down by touching my arms, trying to lie me down but I push them away. I don’t want anyone touching me. I’m in pain. Someone asks another question. ‘Chloe, who is that?’ He points to a woman standing in the corner of the room away from everyone. She has her hand up to her mouth. She looks worn out and frazzled. ‘Chloe, who is that?’
I stare at the woman, thinking with all my might. ‘I… I… I don’t know.’
The woman starts to cry. Then she comes a little closer and asks me, ‘Chloe, who is your ballet teacher?’
My head is groggy. I can’t picture my ballet teacher in my head but I think her name is… ‘Miss Carmen,’ I say, and the room lets out a collective sigh of relief. ‘My head hurts and I can’t remember anything,’ I say.
‘That’s okay. That’s okay. Just rest now.’
* * *
The room is white. Really white. So white that the walls give off a glare that hurts my eyes under the fluorescent light. I have wires attached to my chest and an oxygen mask covering half my face. I am in a dream. A hazy dream. It feels familiar but different. I have never seen this place before.
A doctor and nurse appear out of nowhere. They ask me how I am feeling, then make me answer all those silly questions again. What’s your full name, what’s your date of birth… I don’t know why they keep asking these questions. Of course I know who I am.
Then vivid images flood my mind—doctors standing around me asking me question after question. But I can’t quite pick where the memory has come from, or if it was even real. ‘Where am I?’ I ask the doctor in front of me.
‘Chloe, you gave everyone a bit of a fright. Last night you had five seizures and you are now in ICU. You are a very sick young girl,’ he says.
How can this be happening? Yesterday morning I was feeling better; I don’t understand how I can now be in Intensive Care. The doctor tells me that I need to keep the oxygen mask on for now because there has been a build-up of fluid in my lungs and I stopped breathing last night. He then tells me that I’m going to have some more tests, and that I have been started on even more new medications, including some sort of anti-seizure drug. All these drugs make me feel so strange; sometimes tired, sometimes nauseated. And this is just from the medications I’ve been getting through my IV line because I still haven’t been able to swallow any oral medication yet.
My mum comes in, escorted by a nurse. At the sight of her, those strange memories come back. I’m still not sure if they really are memories or just a dream. Then it hits me. I remember seeing my mum in the corner of a room and I didn’t know who she was. That woman I couldn’t name was my mother. I couldn’t remember my own mother! My eyes begin to fill and Mum comes to sit next to me and brushes her hand through my hair. Her touch makes everything real. I have to take off my mask to speak. ‘Mum, what happened yesterday? I keep having these images in my mind of being surrounded by doctors but I can’t remember properly.’ As soon as I finish talking, she takes the mask and gently puts it back over my face and leans close to me.
‘You’re okay now.’ She takes a deep breath. It seems hard for her to find her words. ‘After you woke up from having so many turns, your blood pressure was really high and making your brain a little fuzzy. I know ICU sounds scary, but it just means that people can keep a closer eye on you and make sure this doesn’t happen again.’ She swallows, her lips parting slightly as she goes to speak again but then pauses. Finally, she just says, ‘You had some memory loss because your blood pressure was so high.’ I know she wanted to say more. I can’t imagine how much I must have hurt her, not remembering who she was. She grabs my cheeks and looks into my eyes. ‘I love you,’ she says.
Before I have time to respond, my dad comes in. He stands behind Mum, one hand on her back, and smiles at me, but his eyes are sad. Dad has always fixed everything for me. If I’ve ever needed help with anything, he is there. Even silly little things like gluing the shank on the inside of my pointe shoes when they break so I can use them longer. Or fixing all my dolls that Zac used to rip apart when we were young. Even now, Dad regularly checks and fixes up my car to make sure it’s safe and in immaculate condition. He would do absolutely anything for me and my siblings. But right now, there is nothing in the world he can do to fix me.
* * *
A very tall man enters my room. He has a grin from ear to ear that stands out against his balding head. ‘Hello,’ he says in a very Australian accent. He starts fussing around, hooking me up to the dialysis machine. This time I am having my treatments in my very own ICU room. I guess that’s a perk of being in ICU: everything is done for you in your own room. First-class treatment in the worst part of the hospital.
‘Ah. Hi,’ I say.
‘My name is John. I’ll be looking after you this afternoon.’
He must be in his fifties but he seems as though he’s in his twenties because his energy is so vibrant as he bounces around the room fiddling with the machine. Then he drops into a seat next to me and looks at me like he is ready to have a chat. And for some reason I feel as though I can chat to him. He’s friendly, not as serious as the other doctors and nurses, and that makes me feel safe.
‘What’s that?’ I say, pointing to a glass bottle full of clear liquid on the tray beside him.
‘That’s your Rituximab. We’ll administer it after your dialysis,’ John says, and I remember what the doctors told me. They’re going to give me this drug, which is normally for patients with cancer. I don’t know why they are giving it to me; I don’t have cancer. It sounds awful, and I feel like a terrible human being for even thinking it, but sometimes I wish I did have cancer. If I had cancer, at least they would know what to do with me. At the moment they can’t fully treat me because they still don’t know what’s causing my problems. I’m so sick of doing tests. I’ve even had university students come in to interview me because everybody thinks my case is so bizarre. I think the doctors are trying anything at the moment.
‘So,’ I say to John, ‘how was your weekend?’
He grins and clasps his hands together. ‘I went for a five-hour bike ride. Then I cooked up a big omelette. Do you want to know the best way to make a fluffy omelette?’ He’s so excited by this that I have a little giggle and break out into a smile. This might be the first time I’ve felt normal in here.
‘YES. Tell me!’ I say. ‘What’s the best way to make a fluffy omelette?’
‘Well, the key is to use one egg yolk and add more egg whites. But there’s a special process you have to go through.’ He goes on to explain his special technique. Then he cracks a few jokes, makes a few egg-related puns, and updates me on what’s been happening in the news while I’ve been locked away from the outside world. I think I have made a
new friend.
When he pops out of the room a little while later, I get an overwhelming sense of loneliness. I don’t like being alone in here. It makes me think bad thoughts. And it’s moments like these when I can no longer deny that I might have to be in here much longer than I thought.
I reach over to the table next to me and grab the hot-pink notebook and pen that my mum brought me, and then I start to write and write and write. Everything that has been worrying me since entering this strange place falls out and onto the paper. It feels good. I guess Dr Reid was right: journalling does help relieve at least some of the pain.
CHAPTER TEN
Visitors
SEPTEMBER 2008
Peeking through my lashes, I spy an old man sitting up in bed eating something mushy. I try not to let anyone see that my eyes are open as I observe the room, not wanting to make conversation with anyone. My curtain has been pushed back and I’m feeling very vulnerable and exposed at 7 am in the morning. There are three other men in the hospital beds next to me, all between the ages of sixty to eighty years old. I’m a seventeen-year-old girl! It’s so strange sleeping in the same room as them.
I’m in the HDU—the High Dependency ward—so I guess I can’t complain because being in here is a step up from ICU, where I was for about a week. The walls in here are off-white and the smell seems more sterile than any other room I’ve been in. Or maybe it’s just old man smell. I’ve been here for a few days and I’m hoping that today I’ll get to go back to J2. At least in the teen ward the walls are painted bright colours and everyone is a little more upbeat.
To my left is my breakfast and a cup of about fifteen medications. I sit up, still with wires attached to me, and check in with my body. I feel positive. Today is going to be good. Today I am not going to throw up. I tell myself this over and over as I reach for my tray. Some wires get caught up in my elbow and they catch on two of the three cannulas I have in my arm. Ah, it hurts. It’s okay, I think to myself. It’s still going to be a good day.
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