Beauty from Ashes: Authors & Dancers Against Cancer Anthology

Home > Other > Beauty from Ashes: Authors & Dancers Against Cancer Anthology > Page 27
Beauty from Ashes: Authors & Dancers Against Cancer Anthology Page 27

by Vera Quinn


  As the Rose Adagio grew closer, her palms grew clammy. Normally when she danced, she imagined she was still in their living room, putting on a private concert for her mom on the hardwood floors. It helped with the opening-night jitters. Her mother wasn't able to be in the audience this time, which was a departure. Her mom was sick with the flu, so she'd decided it was best to stay home. Marie had been feeling under the weather herself lately, but she refused to waste this opportunity due to a few aches and pains. She'd rest when the run was done.

  As the stage began to fill with her partners, she mentally braced herself. Four suitors, one incredibly challenging dance that would be repeated for each one. Throwing herself into the scene with abandon, the nerves never stopped the grin that nearly split her cheeks. For this moment, she was Aurora, the magical princess meeting her potential suitors for the first time. Nothing else mattered.

  As the first suitor took her hand for the grand pas de deux, Marie spun into her first pirouettes but something felt different. She was shaky; her left leg not wanting to hold her weight as steadily as it should. Trying to ignore it, she spun, taking the next suitor's hand. The show must go on. It was just a momentary discomfort. It was nerves, most likely. She hadn't eaten much today either, so that could certainly explain the shakiness. Once she got a break, she'd quickly have some orange juice to adjust her blood sugar.

  She never made it that far. The next pirouette had her crying out as she collapsed. Immediately, the rest of the troupe abandoned their roles and surrounded her. Marie had felt the cracking as she'd turned. She had no doubt that she'd broken or fractured her leg. Keeping her eyes tightly closed, she shook her head as someone asked if she could stand. She didn't want to look, to see the damage. If she didn't look, it wasn't real.

  But it was. Helped to her feet, she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood as she attempted to put weight on it and immediately regretted it. Someone had the foresight to motion for the curtains to be closed, so at least the audience wasn't watching this. She didn't want to upset them. She knew how this went... as the lead, there wasn't anyone available to really step into her role. The run would be shuttered, at least until a new dancer could take her place. Programs would be re-printed, tickets rescheduled. This was a mess. The show would eventually go on. She would not.

  By the time she got backstage, she was near hyperventilating; the pain radiating so badly that it was making her lightheaded. Tears blurred her eyes enough that she could barely see the resident physician they employed as he came running backstage from the audience. It was as if she was in a dreamscape. Everything was muffled and surreal. She heard the announcer letting everyone know what had happened, followed by the upset of the crowd. The sound of sirens growing closer, though it didn't connect in her mind that they were coming for her. Blinking as a face swam in front of her vision, it took long moments for her to recognize Julian DeFoe, her dance partner. He looked worried. Patting his arm, she tried to smile.

  “It's okay, Jules. It's a flesh wound. No biggie.”

  The medicine she was given as soon as she was rushed in by the paramedics was superb. She didn't remember a thing. She dozed through the tests and exams. She never even felt it when they'd put a temporary splint on her leg to keep it stable. If they could bottle a lesser dose of this for dancers, it would revolutionize their production. No one would feel a damn thing, no matter how much abuse their bodies suffered when those curtains opened.

  Hours later, she blinked, eyes aching from the stark white of the room she was in. The steady beep of machines taking her vitals droned on, making her head hurt. Fumbling for the remote with the buttons to call for a nurse, Marie located it just as one stepped in to check on her. Giving her a wane smile, Marie had to ask the question she was dreading.

  “How bad is it?”

  The nurse, to her credit, kept her face neutral. “The doctor would like to speak to you about your test results and scans so he can discuss treatment options. I'll go ahead and alert him that you're awake. Can I get you anything? Water, ice? Top up your pain medicines?” When Marie shook her head in the negative, the nurse hurried from the room to place her call, leaving Marie alone once more.

  Risking a glance downward, Marie realized she couldn't see much, which was likely a blessing. Her leg was in a splint, wrapped with thick layers of cotton gauze. For a dancer, a leg break could be catastrophic. She knew that. She also knew others who had gone through healing and therapy and had come back from it. If the fracture wasn't too bad, she could eventually return to the troupe. At least, that was her fervent hope. Dancing was all she'd ever wanted to do. She hadn't ever thought of the 'what-if's', if she couldn't continue.

  The doctor arrived, his wrinkled face kind and friendly as he took a seat next to her. Flipping through her folder, he asked how she felt, if she had any pain. He wanted to know what she'd been doing when the break had happened, if there had been any pain or swelling she'd noticed beforehand.

  Thinking back on it, she had to be honest, admitting there was. She'd assumed it was the normal aches and pains of being a dancer. They trained like athletes, likely even harder. There was no time for taking care of yourself when the next show or audition was usually right around the corner. Her leg had ached for months. It started out annoying, but tolerable, but had steadily gotten worse to where she had begun taking anti-inflammatories before rehearsals and performances to make it through. Overworked, that was all it was.

  “Miss Lynne, your scans and test results showed some abnormalities in the bone structure. My team took a biopsy. You've developed Ewing's sarcoma in the tibia. Ewing's is a rapidly growing tumor that often spreads to other areas, such as the lungs. Treatment is less invasive the earlier it's caught, but with the size of the tumor shown, the fact that you've waited so long and that you now have an open break, I fear that limits our options.”

  She shook her head in protest, her vision tunneling as her hearing went fuzzy. This wasn't possible. Cancer? Not now. She had to get back to work. She had so many things she wanted to do. The tests were wrong. It was just a fracture, a break. A cast and a few months of therapy would be all she needed. “I want a second opinion.”

  The doctor sighed, reaching out to grip her hand in his. “We've already gotten two, Miss Lynne. I understand this is shocking and confusing, and not what you wanted to hear, but with aggressive treatment, you will survive this and you will thrive. I have no doubt of that. From the PET, the tumor appears localized in the tibia, but it's spreading upward. I'm asking you to let me save your life. I can't do anything without your approval, but the longer we wait, the more risk we take that this could spread to the blood or lymphatic system.”

  Marie took the paperwork he handed her, reading over the suggested treatment options. None were good. All options were terrible, but necessary ones. She needed someone here with her, to tell her what to do. Someone to provide some guidance, to remind her that her life wasn't over. She didn't have anyone, at least not right then. Tears tracked down her cheeks as she selected the doctor's preferred option, putting her faith in his ability to know the best way for her to survive. Once he'd left, she collapsed, sobbing into the pillows as if her heart was breaking. Perhaps it truly was.

  Staring into the mirror 11 months later, Marie could barely recognize the woman staring back at her. Her once thick, dark tresses were lank and greasy, pulled into a ponytail. She couldn't remember the last time she'd done more than spray some dry shampoo over it and brush it through. She'd lost a bit of weight, making her cheeks appear slightly sunken in, her skin paler than normal.

  She avoided the full-length mirrors she used to adore. She didn't want to see what she looked like now. Her leotards and tights had been put away, replaced with sweatpants and tank tops. Her life had become a blur of doctors' appointments, tests, and physical therapy.

  Losing a limb as a dancer felt like losing your soul. By choosing it, she'd avoided radiation and therapy, as the cancer hadn't spread above the shin. Still, her life ha
d been shattered irrecoverably once she'd signed the dotted line. She'd woken in denial, swearing she could still feel her toes flexing. The doctor had given her medication to sedate her once reality set in and she'd panicked.

  Her third-floor apartment was temporarily vacated, as it was a historic home and had no elevators. Marie had been forced to move back home with her mom for the first time since she'd been eighteen. She felt helpless, hopeless, and adrift. When it came down to it, she knew she was simply going through the motions. Her mom had attempted to cheer her up by suggesting outings, movie nights, anything to take her mind off of things, but Marie couldn't do it.

  She spent most of her days curled in bed, staring at the wall opposite her unless she had an appointment. Realistically, Marie knew she was depressed, but there was no magic pill or mental health therapy that existed to fix this. She'd lost an intrinsic part of her, the 'thing' that made her who she was. If she couldn't dance, if she wasn't on stage, she had nothing to fall back on. Nothing else had lit a spark in her, to drive her to get up. So she simply... didn't.

  Her friends from the troupe had tried to visit, but she'd had her mom turn them away. She couldn't stand seeing herself like this, she didn't want anyone else to, either. She didn't want their pity, to have people saying it was such a shame, or such a waste as they oftentimes did. Shit happened, and sometimes the hand you were dealt sucked. Instead of playing through it, Marie had chosen to simply set down the cards and walk away.

  Therapy was hard enough. She'd gone from having complete control over her body to having no idea how to manage it. She had to learn to do the simplest things over again- learning to stand, to balance, to walk once more. Her amputation had been just below the knee, so she still had the flexibility of the joint, but the straps for the prosthesis, which she'd had fitted once she healed after five months, were uncomfortable, chafing her skin no matter how she attempted to protect it.

  They said it would get better, that she'd get used to this. She couldn't see how. She'd once been the epitome of grace, and now she could barely take a step without lurching, grabbing for the railings next to her before she twisted herself out of the prosthesis and fell on her ass. She was so used to her lower limbs taking the strain that her upper body couldn't support her as well.

  If she fell, it was a struggle to drag herself back upward, to pull herself into the wheelchair and re-secure the leg back into place. Each time, tears of embarrassment tracked down her cheeks as she fumed silently at how helpless she'd become, how dependent she was on others. She'd never felt so weak, or so lost. She missed dancing. She missed the camaraderie of the troupe, the physical exertion and endorphin rush that accompanied the close of the curtain at the end of a show.

  The woman who gazed back at her was a shell of who she'd been. She'd graduated from parallel bars to a walker. From a walker to a cane. Over the last month, she'd been able to walk unassisted, but her gait was still slightly unsteady. She supposed it might always be. Tears sparked on her lashes once more, but she angrily brushed them aside. This was her life now, for better or worse. Her life as La Belle De Ballet was gone, and she had to accept that.

  She wasn't sure what she would do, where she would go. She supposed she could go back to school, but for what? All her life, she'd wanted to dance. She'd done well in school, if only because if she didn't, she'd have been grounded from ballet. After the bell rang, everything had been about her dance classes, her exercises. Marie had never really been interested in much else, not really. She had no hidden talents that she knew of.

  She had no marketable skills, no applicable job history. Sure, someone could probably twist the work she'd done with the American Ballet Theatre into some positive traits for different work, but she had no idea what she even wanted to do. That meant twisting things into marketable qualities would be hard.

  She needed to find something, though. Marie didn't want to live with her mother forever. She needed her own space, her independence. Even if it was an illusion now, she needed to feel like she was still able to take care of herself. That meant finding a job to ensure she could continue paying her bills. At the thought of well and truly giving up her career for good, her face crumpled. Sniffing back the tears that wanted to flow, she pushed away from the mirror.

  Hearing a knock at the door, she opened her mouth to protest that she wanted to be left alone when her mom peeked in anyway, not waiting for her answer. “Someone is here to visit. He's not taking no for an answer, and neither am I. We're worried about you, Marie. It's time you realized you have people that care about you and don't want you shut in like your life is over. It's not. It's just different. You have five minutes to freshen up if you'd like, and then I'm letting him in.”

  Who in the hell would bother her after she'd specifically told everyone to leave her alone?

  Adagio

  Julian. Of course it was. She tried to summon a smile but didn't think she quite managed. They'd been friends and partners since she started at the company. He was her stability, her strength. Except now, she didn't have anything to offer him in return. Embarrassed at the way she looked, she tried to fluff her clothes, at the very least, but stopped when he knelt down next to her wheelchair that she used at home to give her muscles a break, gripping her hands in his.

  “It's good to see you, Marie. We've all been so worried about you. You haven't let any of us visit, haven't been returning any of our calls or emails. We all have to get second-hand news from your mom, but it's not the same as hearing it from you. We're family, you know. We miss you.” He was so sincere, she felt ashamed for cutting them out.

  “I'm sorry... it's just been too hard, Julian. I couldn't bear to show up at rehearsals, to see all of you preparing for the next show, to hear all the good news. Not when I've lost everything. It's not fair to you guys, but that's the truth.”

  He frowned, his thumb rubbing gently against the back of her hand. “Marie, you haven't lost everything. You're still here. You've survived cancer, honey. That's something to cherish, to be proud of. You've fought a battle none of us could even fathom and come out relatively whole on the other side.”

  Realistically, she knew he was right. Logically, she was still alive, she was still mostly healthy. By choosing amputation, she hadn't needed radiation or chemotherapy, which meant she didn't have to deal with sickness and the complications from those. Her brain knew it, but her heart had problems seeing it that way.

  “I miss dancing. I miss the rush, the excitement. I miss the troupe, and you. I miss preparing for the next big show, the nerves that make my palms clammy before auditions or the curtain goes up. Those things... you just can't find them anywhere else. Not really. I don't know what to do with myself now. My life has always been about ballet, I never made any plans past that.”

  “You haven't lost me. You never will. Why don't you come to the studio tomorrow? You can see everyone, I'll make sure we're not practicing when you let me know you'll be there. It'll just be a little get-together for us to be able to spend some time with you.”

  She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to, but she couldn't bring herself to commit to it. Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore the tears that gathered behind her lids. Why was this so damn hard? “Julian... I.. I don't think I can.”

  His expression tightened, getting that steely eyed look he got when he wasn't going to take no for an answer. She knew that look well. It was usually followed by some stubborn proclamation that got her into trouble or ended up with them taking on a new audition, a new show, or adding a new routine into training to keep them busy.

  “I'm not asking, Marie. I've been doing some research. There are plenty of dancers who have learned to dance again with prosthetics. It's harder, but possible. I'm not going to let you sit here and fade away into depression and ignore the rest of the world. I'm not going to let you abandon your friends. Even if you don't dance professionally, you can dance for yourself, to strengthen your muscles. You can dance for me.”

  She'd argued an
d protested, but to no avail. The next day she wheeled herself to the steps at the rehearsal space and let out a breath of nerves before she called Julian to let him know she was out front. He hurried out to help her up the stairs, even though she didn't really need help, before waving her mom off where she'd been waiting in the car, bringing the wheelchair up after them.

  Clutching her bag, she tentatively stepped into one of the large rooms they used for practicing. It felt so odd to be here, as if she was a ghost stuck in memories of a better time. Before she could sort herself mentally, she was surrounded. The hugs and tears caused her own tears to fall as her troupe welcomed her home with open arms. She hadn't realized how much she truly needed this until she was wrapped in between them all, feeling like a part of the family once more.

  Once all the pleasantries had been exchanged, Julian cleared the room. She appreciated it. For this first time, she wanted privacy. She didn't need to have anyone else watch her fail miserably, to see how badly she'd fallen from grace. Julian knew her, he was her best friend. He wouldn't shame her for anything, so she felt more at ease with just him, at least for now. Making her way to the small bathrooms, she carefully changed into her leotard and leggings, lacing her slippers up over the fabric covering the metal.

  She could no longer wear her pointe shoes, at least not yet. Perhaps in time, she could get another prosthetic that would allow it. For now, the canvas slippers would do, as she doubted she'd be going on pointe anytime soon. Hell, she doubted she'd be truly dancing any time soon. Julian had far more faith in her than she had in herself. For him, she was willing to try, but she didn't have much hope that it'd be successful. Not really.

 

‹ Prev