En Pointe

by Chloe Bayliss

  Dragging the thin brown trolley tray across my bed, I prepare to swallow my tablets, determined to keep them down for the first time since I arrived two weeks ago. My fluid intake is still restricted to 600 millilitres a day, but I desperately want to have milk with my cereal for breakfast, so I’m going to have to cut back on my fluid intake with my tablets. I tip my medications out of the cup and spread them out on the tray. My stomach is sore and bloated from no food and too much fluid in my body, and I feel queasy. I take a deep breath. I can do this.

  Not wanting to waste my fluid intake, I pour just enough water to fill a 30-millilitre medicine cup. Then I grab five tablets at once, rest them on my tongue and sip just the tiniest amount of water to wash them down my throat. The tablets hit my stomach and I lurch, feeling them coming back up. Closing my eyes, I focus hard and tell myself to keep them down. My stomach feels awful, but I sit for a minute or two and wait. Three minutes go by. Nothing has come up. I did it! I repeat this process three more times only using the 30 millilitres of water. ‘Yes!’ I squeal. The old man next to me jumps, then sees me and lets out a huff. All fifteen tablets have stayed down. Next, I try for the milk and cereal. This is the first solid food I have eaten in weeks. Fifteen minutes later, I have successfully kept down all of my food through sheer willpower alone. I am so damn happy. This is just what I need for my body to fire up and start mending itself.

  As I’m sitting up in bed feeling pleased with myself, I hear a familiar chatter in the corridor outside and it’s coming closer and closer to my room. My heart almost bursts out of my chest at the sound of my baby sister. She’s the first person I see as she pokes her little head around the corner of the huge hospital door to look at me. I smile, so happy to see her. She looks at me, but for a split second her little face does a double take, perhaps not sure if it actually is me. I know I look different. I’m really pale and there are tubes and wires hanging all over my body. I’m also puffy from fluid and probably look a little scary, but when she looks at me a second time, she grins and comes bounding over like a puppy. She’s carrying paper and other strange items in her hand. ‘Chloe!’ she yells out to me, disturbing the old men around me. I don’t care, she can be as loud as she wants. She jumps up and kneels on the seat beside me, wrapping her arms around my body. Her fresh scent is overwhelming, almost like a newborn. Her body is so warm and her skin is oh so soft. She just seems to radiate health. Her cheeks are still flushed like I remember, because she never stops running around. This little eight-year-old is full of health and vitality, and I just want to hold her forever and tell her how much I love her. When I look at her, I know she’s going to have a wonderful life full of possibilities and I’m frightened I might be too unwell to see it. As soon as that thought enters my head, I go back on it and squash it out of my mind immediately.

  Fezzy lifts her head to look at me, her big blue eyes staring right through to my soul. ‘Clo-bow,’ she says as she diverts her gaze to inspect the tubes hanging out of my neck, ‘when are you coming home? I miss you.’

  ‘Um, I don’t know. I really want to come home, but I just can’t at the moment.’ Stupid statement from me. But I don’t know what to tell her because I don’t know myself when I’ll get out of here, and I don’t want to get her hopes up. I can hear my parents and my nan coming closer to the door.

  ‘Everyone keeps crying at home. Mum told Zac you could’ve died.’ Fezzy says this matter-of-factly, but I’m lost for words. I know the doctors told me that I was the sickest person in ICU and that I had the kidneys of an eighty-year-old, but for some reason I never really thought I could actually die. Maybe I’ve just been naive or perhaps subconsciously refusing to allow these negative thoughts into my head. I can’t believe my little sister is overhearing all these things at home. I’m sure she doesn’t fully understand what any of it really means, but I’m upset that I am the cause of such disruption in her little world. Before I can respond, my mum, dad and nan come into the room.

  ‘Happy Father’s Day, Dad!’ I say as Dad comes over to hug me. ‘Sorry I didn’t get you anything, I’ve been a little tied up.’ I lift my arms to show all the wires attached to me. We both have a laugh, then my sister makes an announcement.

  ‘Dad, Dad, guess what?’ she says as she plonks herself on the end of my bed, almost sitting on my feet. She has totally forgotten where she is and I love it. She’s brightening up the room significantly. ‘I got you a present!’ She produces a green ceramic frog from behind her back. ‘It’s from The Reject Shop,’ she announces, like this is a super-important detail. We all smile, trying not to laugh as Dad gives her a bear hug and lifts her off my bed.

  I haven’t felt this happy since Nurse John in ICU told me how to make an omelette. My nan comes over and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Nan,’ I say, ‘I have a favour to ask. I ate breakfast today’—Mum and Dad cheer—‘but maybe when I get back to J2, maybe I can have some of your home-cooked meals?’

  She looks thrilled. ‘Oh yes! I can make anything you want. Let’s write out a list and I’ll start preparing meals. We have to get you strong, you are far too thin.’ Nan has always loved her food and I am a sucker for the pikelets she makes. I know my bland no-sodium, no-potassium food is going to be a bore, but I’m sure Nan can make something delicious and still stay within the guidelines. In my eyes, my nan hasn’t aged at all in the past ten years. She doesn’t have a single grey hair on her brunette head that she has never dyed, and even though she can eat like a rugby player, her waistline remains the same. I think it’s because she never sits still. Even when I lived with her in my first year of full-time dance, she was always on the go. I don’t think I ever even saw her sleep.

  Mum notices the other patients getting annoyed at the noise my family are making—we are quite a loud bunch—so she gives Dad, Nan and Fez the signal to go out to the waiting room. I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed that many visitors in here anyway. But who cares. It’s nearly time for my biopsy anyway. ‘Bye,’ I say, waving to them. When Fezzy reaches the door, she turns and runs back to me, a piece of paper in her hand. ‘I forgot. I made this for you,’ she says as she hands over a piece of A4 paper that she’s made into a card. She has carefully written out a poem on some lines she has drawn with a ruler and pencil. Very neat—for an eight-year-old. ‘Thanks, Fezzy,’ I say and begin to read the card out loud.

  ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, hope you get better soon, the sky is blue, the grass is green, soon you will be in tip top shape. Lots of love, Phoebe.’

  She looks at me with her big blue eyes, and I can’t help but chuckle as I give her hair a little scruff. ‘Clever girl. Don’t you worry, I’ll be just fine,’ I say. She runs out of the room after Dad.

  Mum is still by my side. ‘The doctor told me that if all goes well with your kidney biopsy today, they can send you back to J2 this afternoon,’ she says, grinning.

  ‘No way! That’s so exciting, I can’t wait,’ I say. It’s weird that I have become so accustomed to this hospital already, and small things like moving wards can make me happy.

  A green-shirted man appears in the doorway. ‘Guess it’s time to go,’ I say to Mum. ‘I’ll see you when I come out.’

  ‘Be brave, Clo. Love you.’

  * * *

  Lying face down on an operating table, it’s dark and I hear a man’s voice say, ‘One, two, three,’ before there’s a sting in the bottom-right side of my back.

  ‘Ahh,’ I say as the local anaesthetic goes in. Then I feel the coldness of the ultrasound probe on my back. It’s looking for my kidneys. There’s a rattle as the doctor gets something from a tray, then he makes an incision, slicing through the skin on my back.

  Okay. That wasn’t too bad. But I know what’s coming. A huge needle is going to be inserted through my back until it reaches one of my kidneys where it will take a small sample out of my body.

  I close my eyes and dream about my favourite place in the world. Tuncurry, where my nan and pop live. It’s a small beach town in N
SW where my family go for holidays.

  I let out a whimper as I feel the discomfort of the big needle threading down into my back. My back is still muscular from dancing and there’s no fat on me to give me any relief.

  I picture myself lying on the beach, far far away from here, the sun beating down and soaking into my skin.

  ‘Breathe in for me,’ the doctor says. I take a breath and hold it. There’s a click. Tears fall from my eyes as the needle is removed from my body. Thinking it’s all over, I let out a sigh until I am told to hold my breath again and the whole process happens over and over.

  The waves softly break on the shore, a fine mist sparkling up into the baby-blue sky.

  How many samples do they need! It’s torture, and I cry out every time they pierce my back.

  The sand between my toes is warm, and cool clean air dances across my face as rays of sun soak into my skin.

  ‘All done,’ the doctor says, ignoring the cries I am trying to smother. My tears have stained my cheeks and my body collapses even further into the table I’m lying on. I close my eyes, utterly exhausted.

  * * *

  The first thing I see when I wake up is a purple wall. ‘Yes, I’m back in J2,’ I mutter to myself. My back is still sore and I was told to stay extra still to minimise discomfort and make sure my kidney doesn’t bleed.

  ‘Darling Chloe.’

  It can’t be. Turning my head, I see Miss Carmen’s slim figure dressed in elegant three-quarter-length black pants and a red sheer top. How I have missed her.

  She comes and takes my hand. ‘My dear Chloe. How are you feeling? We have all been missing you terribly at the studio.’

  ‘I’m doing okay. I’m missing dance so much,’ I say. I’ve been wanting to speak to Miss Carmen for so long, but now it all feels too much and I start to ramble anxiously. ‘What am I going to do? How will I ever be strong enough to finish my diploma? I won’t be fit enough to finish this year and then how on earth will I be ready to go to Washington?’ The words spill from my mouth.

  Miss Carmen is silent as she waits for me to finish. ‘Here, I have brought you something,’ she says as she reaches into her black bag and pulls out a card and a small blue velvet pouch. I take the pouch, reach inside it and pull out a small silver angel that says Hope in silver writing on the front. The angel looks old. It’s quite solid, but beautiful. ‘I was given this angel when I was your age and going through a very tough time,’ Miss Carmen says. ‘I want you to have it. Have faith and hope, darling. You will get where you want to go if you have hope. Sometimes we just have to take a road that’s a little harder to get to where we want to go, but with hope, you will make it in the end.’ Every time Miss Carmen speaks, she ignites a passion and drive in me to go after my dreams. Even now, in the most awful situation I could have ever imagined, she has somehow lifted my spirits. We talk for about an hour about dance and everyone I’ve been missing. ‘All your dance friends and your students miss you terribly. They have written letters for you to read when you feel up to it,’ she says as she produces a white cardboard box overflowing with letters and cards. ‘And your mum brought these up when you were sleeping. They’re from all the teachers at ballet.’ She steps aside to reveal a huge Nutcracker doll and teddy bear. They make me smile. I hope that one day I can perform The Nutcracker for real.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice tight, and she gives me a wink and a smile before leaving the room.

  As I reach over to the drawer next to me to put away the angel for safe keeping, I hear someone say, ‘Knock knock.’

  ‘Oh, hi, Jake,’ I say as a young man walks into my room. I’m surprised to see him. It’s a little late in the evening for visitors and I don’t really know him that well. I mean, he has been my pas de deux partner in class this year, but we’ve never really interacted much outside the dance studio. Maybe because he usually spends most of his free time with his girlfriend, Blair. But I think she’s overseas dancing now.

  ‘How are you doing?’ His big brown puppy-dog eyes look at me with sympathy. I’ve seen this look far too many times from my family already; I really don’t need more of it.

  ‘I’m doing okay. Thanks for coming. You didn’t have to,’ I say, still curious as to why he has.

  He takes a seat beside me and tries to stretch out his long legs but my food table gets in the way. Linking his fingers together, he appears to decide leaning forward is a better option, and he rests his arms on his thighs instead. He seems nervous, so I give him a smile to reassure him that I’m okay, that he can talk to me normally. I know it must be a shock to see me so sick when he is used to seeing me tearing it up in dance studio. I’ve worked out that if I appear upbeat and happy when people talk to me, they all seem to relax a bit more around me. Good energy means I must be on the road to recovery or that I am having a good day. It’s draining to keep up this facade but I don’t want anyone to be sad for me.

  His body visibly relaxes. ‘I’ve missed seeing your big happy smile around the studio so much.’

  This confuses me even further; I wasn’t aware he took any notice of my presence at all. ‘How was Staged 08?’ I ask. ‘I want to know everything!’

  His shoulders roll forward and he smiles. He probably appreciates me diverting the subject to something he can talk about. I don’t think he really wants to ask what’s been happening with me in here. ‘It was awesome. The live orchestra was like nothing else. You should’ve seen the guest Australian Ballet dancers; their technique was flawless.’ He recounts all the events of the evening and I’m happy just to listen—his enthusiasm is infectious. He’s also kind of cute when he gets all wrapped up in his head, talking about something he’s passionate about—I can almost see the stars in his eyes. ‘We were all so sad you weren’t there. Miss Carmen announced over the dressing room speakers that you had been rushed to ICU right before we were about to perform. Everyone danced for you.’

  Wow. The thought of everyone dancing for me is really touching, but at the same time it makes me want to tear my heart out because it aches with longing to dance with my friends again. I so badly want to tell him everything that’s been happening to me, and how I really feel about being in here, but I can’t bring myself to dampen the brightness he’s brought to my room. For some reason I feel warm around him, as though he would keep all my secrets. The urge to tell him that I just want to scream out to the universe to stop hurting me expands in my chest, but I don’t say anything. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, so I just say, ‘I’ll be back dancing in no time.’ Then silence punctures the air, and I try to think of something to fill the space it leaves. ‘Um. Oh, you should see my tubes.’ Shit. I don’t know why I said that. I’m supposed to be making him feel comfortable, not sending him running for the hills. And clearly he would’ve seen them already—he was probably trying to be polite and not say anything. Shit. ‘Um, so yeah,’ I say. I can fix this. ‘So, like, they put this thing in my neck so I can have treatments. Crazy, right? If I have to stay here longer, they’ll put a more permanent one in my chest. I’m like a super-hero alien or something.’ I’m actually dying on the inside right now. I don’t know why I’m getting nervous around him; we’ve done pas de deux before and it’s just Jake. Jake is Jake. Just a guy from dancing. I mean, I hardly know him. But strangely, in this different setting and out of his dance gear, I can’t stop noticing that he is cute. His hair is a little messy, as if he’s just rolled out of bed. He runs his fingers through it every time he has a new thought; right before he speaks. I just want to reach out and run my own fingers through it. Maybe I’m just thirsty for attention because I have been around old men for too long.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ he says. ‘That looks like it would’ve hurt. But you’re such a trooper, Chloe. If anyone can get through this, you can.’

  We chat for over an hour as he entertains me with funny stories about everything that’s been happening at the dance studio. He’s so easy to talk to.

  When he finally gets up to leave,
he hands me a card that has a cute hand-drawn picture of us doing pas de deux together. I notice again how odd this is—the card reads as though we’ve been friends for a long time. It says how much he misses having my positivity and bubbly presence around the studio. He writes about how much strength I have and that he knows I will be okay. I guess it’s nice he cares so much.

  Before he goes, he taps his number into my phone and tells me to keep in touch and that he is there if I need anything. ‘Keep your chin up. I’ll come back and visit soon,’ he says, then disappears out the door. I sit for a moment, realising what a beautiful human being he is. It’s rare to find people that nice in the dance world, and I find a little part of myself already wishing he will come back.

  It’s been a big day. Reaching underneath my pillow, I pull out the little Guatemalan worry dolls the dance mum gave me. I hold the tiny canvas people in my hand, their bright colours stark against my white hospital blanket, and whisper all my worries to them before placing them back under my pillow. It sounds silly: a seventeen-year-old talking to tiny dolls. But I guess when you’re in need of help, you will try anything. I then close my eyes and drift off to sleep, my unexpected visitor still on my mind.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fresh air

  SEPTEMBER 2008

  I’ve been in hospital for about a month and haven’t stepped foot outside. It’s like being locked up in a prison cell. I long to fill my lungs with clean, fresh air again.

  No one has made any progress in figuring out the cause of all my problems. At one stage, the doctors wanted to fly me in an emergency helicopter to the Sydney Children’s Hospital. They were under the impression that I would get better care in Sydney. But the moment I was to be airlifted out of Newcastle a huge storm broke out and it was unsafe to fly. I took that as a sign that I was meant to stay right where I am; surely a doctor at this hospital can solve the mysterious case of my illness.