The Sugarless Plum: A Memoir

by Zippora Karz

  I understood all that. Even so, I was miserable, and needed to talk to someone.

  There was one person I could go to: Susie Hendl. Susie had always taken a maternal interest in me. I knew she truly cared about my health issues and believed in my talent. In the fall of 1991, I took the chance and confided in her.

  “I’m scared that this may all be too much for me,” I told her. “Maybe this would be the right time for me to think about quitting. I know I’m not dancing well anymore. Jerry gave up on me long ago, and now Peter’s giving up on me, too. Maybe I need to face the reality that I’m just not cutting it.”

  But Susie didn’t want me to give up yet. She had an idea. Peter had recently choreographed a beautiful pas de deux, Four Gnossiennes, with music by Erik Satie, for SAB’s workshop.

  Afterward, he restaged it for the company, and it would be performed in the coming winter season. It was a beautiful and difficult piece, requiring a tremendous amount of control. I couldn’t believe that Susie thought I would be able to do it. Did I not look as bad as I felt? She believed in me so strongly that she actually went to Peter and suggested he let me dance it.

  The next week I was called to rehearse Four Gnossiennes. My partner, Ben Huys, was the dancer for whom Peter had choreographed it at SAB and who was now a member of the company. Ben was Romy’s best friend from SAB. They even went to the prom together. He was a beautiful dancer with long legs and a pure line, and he was a great partner. We looked good together and I was thrilled to be dancing with him.

  Susie told me afterward that Peter had asked her if she thought I could do it.

  “Let me rehearse her,” she told him. “Just give me plenty of time. You can come and be the final judge.”

  For the next six weeks, in addition to my regular corps rehearsals, Susie rehearsed Ben and me every day. Four Gnossiennes was the most controlled dance I had ever done. Peter’s steps were incredibly difficult. The piece required the same level of control that I’d needed in the one turn I’d done in Les Petits Riens. Just when I wanted to go to the left, he would have me go against the momentum of my body to the right. I never felt I had mastered it, but with Susie’s excellent coaching and Ben’s great partnering, I was able to manage. The day Peter came to see it, everything worked like magic and we were cast.

  The day before the performance, after my macrobiotic buffet of brown rice and root vegetables, I had an anxiety attack. The room was spinning and I was afraid to leave the apartment. I knew my sugars had to be rising because of the adrenaline my body was producing, but I didn’t want to think about that. I wasn’t willing to go back to testing my levels and taking insulin injections while performing. I told myself that my sugars would come down naturally when I began to dance.

  During the performance of Four Gnossiennes, the calm I felt onstage equaled the anxiety I had felt the previous day. I was like a person dying of thirst who is finally given water. I drank it up.

  After that performance, I didn’t think any more about quitting. I had rediscovered my sense of purpose. I felt the magic again.

  Still, I couldn’t go on the way I was. I may have rediscovered my love of dancing, but I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that I was sick, and getting sicker.

  In July 1992, when the company went to its summer home in Saratoga Springs, I rented a house with my friends Jeff and Catherine and went swimming at nearby Lake George on weekends. Even though we were still rehearsing and performing, everyone seemed to be more relaxed in Saratoga.

  That summer, my weight hit an all-time low. One night in the dressing room, one of the other corps dancers came up to me and told me that I looked terrible and needed to gain some weight. She was really nasty about it. Did she think I’d lost all that weight on purpose?

  Another night, as I was warming up for the performance, I overheard two dancers talking about me.

  “Does she think it looks good?” one asked.

  Couldn’t they see I was standing right in front of them and could hear every word they said? Did it even occur to them to ask if I was okay? No. They just assumed that I was anorexic.

  I had hoped that being out of the city might help me relax, maybe even to get a good night’s sleep. Instead, I was just as edgy and suffering as much from insomnia as I had been. Then one night shortly before we were due to return to the city, I did manage to fall asleep for a few hours. But I was shocked back into wakefulness by a terrible dream. I’d had nightmares before from time to time, but this one was different. In the past I’d always woken up just before I died. This time I didn’t wake up. Instead I saw myself dead. I’d never died in a dream before. And it didn’t feel like a dream.

  Like the dream I’d had in which I was suffocating in the car, this one was a wake-up call. Suddenly, just like that, I knew I was on the wrong path. I knew I needed to check my blood sugar levels. My life could be in danger. I would have done it right then, but since I hadn’t been using it, I hadn’t brought my meter with me. For some reason it didn’t occur to me to go out and buy one. Instead, even though I was terrified, I told myself that I’d check my sugar levels the moment I got back to the city.

  Two days later, I rode the bus back to New York with the rest of the company, dashed to my apartment, threw my bags down and searched frantically for my meter. It must have been at least a year since my last finger prick. When I finally found it, I pricked my finger, pushed the blood onto the strip and waited for the beep. The meter showed three thin lines. I didn’t recognize the symbol.

  Where was my instruction manual?

  I searched my drawers, telling myself it was probably a symbol indicating that the batteries were low. I opened the manual and flipped to the page explaining what the different symbols meant. There, I read the words, “This meter does not go up this high.”

  How high do meters go? Six hundred? I tried not to panic. I had no insulin. Sitting there in my apartment, I realized that I had become my own, self-created disaster.

  “Help me, God, please,” I said aloud, “help me. I don’t want to die!”

  THIRTY

  I remembered that Kay Mazzo had given me the phone number of her daughter’s doctor, Fredda Ginsberg. I’d never called, but, thankfully, I’d held on to it. Terrified, I called Dr. Ginsberg’s office and was told to come in immediately. I was back on insulin that same day.

  I felt as if I’d been living in the spin cycle of a washing machine for more than two years. By that time I was exhausted.

  I trusted Dr. Ginsberg immediately and was ready to accept that I needed the insulin. It wasn’t going to be easy, but I’d finally learned my lesson. At this point my fear of dying from not taking it far outweighed my reluctance to admit that I was, and always would be, a person with type 1 insulin-dependent diabetes.

  I’d already stopped being so strict with my macrobiotic diet while I was in Saratoga, and it was harder to stick to my routine. I knew that not all macrobiotic diets were as strict as mine in any case, so I gave myself permission to start eating more fat and protein and fewer carbohydrates.

  With the insulin, my sugars came down immediately, and within a month or two, my blood sugars normalized and so did my weight. The good news was that I was getting healthier and no longer ignoring what my body was telling me. The hard part was that, once again, I had to learn to juggle shots of insulin with my schedule, and that wasn’t any easier now than it had been the first time I did it. The difference was that this time I was going to be smarter about it and learn how to do it properly.

  Certainly I looked better and was dancing better than when I wasn’t taking insulin, but I couldn’t help asking myself if I was crazy to try to dance all day and perform every night while trying to walk the tightrope of balancing my blood sugars with insulin injections. Was it really worth it? I had to ask myself if I was being realistic. Maybe I needed to admit that I’d had a good run in the world of George Balanchine and Jerome Robbins and the time had come to graciously bow out.

  Although Peter Martin
s had been pleased with my performance in Four Gnossiennesand cast me in the role a number of times the following season, he was clearly hesitant to consistently cast me in leads the way he would someone whom he was grooming for promotion. Once again I was tired from dancing so much, and I was emotionally exhausted from trying so hard to prove that I was the same dancer I had been before I was diagnosed.

  With brief exceptions, like the nights I danced Four Gnossiennes, I was not the same. Performing in the corps de ballet night after night, I felt that I had drifted further and further from the pure, expressive dancer I once was and longed to be.

  Once again I thought about scheduling an appointment with Peter Martins and announcing my decision to leave. And, at the same time, I tried to analyze my true motivation. Had I finally come to terms with the reality of my situation or was it a copout? I’d get to the theater each morning wondering which path I was going to take—down the hallway to Peter’s office or the one to the main rehearsal hall. Every day I’d be in the rehearsal hall and every night on the stage, wanting just one more ballet, one more chance to experience the greatness of the world I was in. For months I struggled, and all the while I tried to figure out why I couldn’t just make the decision.

  Finally, I arrived at a moment of clarity. I’d been telling myself that I was tired of the struggling with insulin doses and blood sugar ups and downs, but in truth I wasn’t just tired of struggling with diabetes. I was more tired of constantly struggling to become the dancer I might have been. I was tired of feeling that I wasn’t living up to my potential.

  While dancing was better than not dancing, I wasn’t experiencing the innocence, elation and purity of heart I once had. Although those moments onstage were still the times when I felt most alive, they were also the moments that reflected to me the dancer I had been and wasn’t any longer.

  I told myself that I hadn’t been on the right diet and insulin regime for very long. I had to give my new routine a chance to work. If I left before I did that, I would never know how much I could really achieve. I had to give myself that opportunity. I made a commitment to myself to give it more time to find out what was possible. If I tried everything I could, if I gave it enough time, and if it still was too much for me, that would be the time to quit. But first I needed to confront my fears and frustrations and see what I could do.

  THIRTY-ONE

  As it turned out, I was right not to quit. Almost as soon as I made my decision, things began to improve in large ways and small. Finally I had found a doctor with whom I felt comfortable and whose balanced approach to diabetes was one I could live with. I was in the embryonic stage of learning how to dance with diabetes, but already I looked better, moved better, felt better, and my weight had returned to thin but healthy.

  I was taking two kinds of insulin. My short-acting insulin, which worked within two to six hours, was to be used before meals and whenever my sugars were too high. Today, short-acting insulin works in just fifteen minutes.

  In the evening, I also took long-acting insulin, which remained in my body for up to twenty-four hours but which wasn’t as consistent as the long-acting insulin we have today. Rather than providing a continuous, even output, it often kicked in with a surge, lowering my sugars at various hours of the day and night. Since I couldn’t really predict how the lingering effects of all the exercise I’d been doing would affect my system, it was difficult to know how much I should be taking. I’m a light sleeper, and night after night when I awakened in the small hours, I’d check my blood sugar and, if it was low, drink some juice and wait for my levels to return to normal.

  Low blood sugars were still a constant concern because they were so dangerous. High blood sugars, on the other hand, affected my ability to dance well. Both affected my ability to enjoy what I was dancing.

  Sometimes, before a performance, I’d mistake the shakiness of anxiety for the shakiness of low blood sugar. Sometimes the adrenaline rush caused by pre-performance nerves caused my sugars to rise. When that happened, I would have to make a judgment call as to whether or not I should take a shot. Many factors went into making that decision: How high were my sugars? Were they dangerously high, or just high enough to make me feel spacey and out of touch with my body? How aerobic was the ballet I’d be performing? How large was the role I was about to dance?

  Some roles required much less stamina and output of energy than others. How many times would I be exiting the stage? If I had a lot of breaks I could check my sugars and make sure I was okay, or eat something sweet if I wasn’t. Some roles, however, kept me onstage throughout the entire piece, which meant that I didn’t have an opportunity to do that.

  Most of the time, I resigned myself to having a higher blood sugar than I would have liked. In consequence, my blood circulation was sometimes impaired, my body wouldn’t be as warm as it could or should be, and I would lose that exquisite connection I needed to have with every part of my body in order to perform at my highest level. But I was no longer trying to be perfect. The best I could do would have to be good enough.

  Even though it wasn’t easy, it was worth it. I was beginning to feel like a semblance of my old self onstage again. My insulin regime seemed to be working, but because of my ever-holistic approach to health, I believed I could do more to help my progress with a good diet and proper supplementation. I was still having sleep problems, and my muscles still hurt more than I thought they should. As usual, I was reading everything I could find on the subjects of diabetes, insomnia and athletes. I also read about vitamins and herbs that help conditions like sleeplessness and muscle pain. I finally found out that people with diabetes are more prone to higher levels of lactic acid, which causes the burning you feel during and after a workout. Fluctuating blood sugar levels can also make it more difficult for oxygen to get to the active muscle. Now I understood why I was in such pain. The question was: what could I do about it?

  There were so many vitamins and herbs to choose from. How could I be sure that I was taking the right one or the right combination? I knew I shouldn’t try it all on my own.

  At about the same time, a friend told me about a doctor who practiced a form of holistic medicine that I had heard very good things about. Dr. G practiced out of the apartment he shared with a woman who was both his life partner and his assistant. On my first visit, I filled out a long form on which I listed all of my ailments. Dr. G explained his treatment program, which involved baths and massages with various oils, specific drinks and herbs, as well as a specific diet designed especially for me, which would first detoxify and then rebuild my body. He said he could help with all my problems. It sounded great, and I agreed to give it a try.

  In the past, except for Grandma, I’d never felt that anyone had given me the support I needed to figure out how to implement whatever protocol they’d prescribed. As a result, left to my own devices, I’d continually wound up going overboard in the wrong direction.

  Dr. G appeared to be interested in every aspect of my well-being and was totally available to help me. No more trying to figure out which vitamin was good for my diabetes, which herb might help me sleep. He gave me supplements and worked by my side, following my progress on a daily basis, teaching me how to cook the dishes that were best for my body. He took me to the market and introduced me to many new foods. Previously, when I’d tried to cook the foods on my macrobiotic diet, I could never be sure I was doing it correctly. Now, the doctor invited me to come for dinner, and he prepared the meals while I took notes. I loved the food he cooked and loved learning such exotic recipes. I started to relax and didn’t feel so alone. The doctor and his girlfriend and I became good friends. But our relationship wasn’t always completely comfortable.

  I sometimes felt that Dr. G was a little too available. I couldn’t exactly put my finger on what was bothering me, but something just didn’t feel right. Still, for the first time I was feeling like myself again, and I wasn’t about to allow what could have been nothing more than my own imagination to keep
me from working with someone who was there for me and really helpful. So I just tried to put it out of my head.

  That turned out to be a big mistake.

  By now my mother, Romy and I were all living separately, and even though I was sleeping better on Dr. G’s regimen, I was still afraid to be alone at night. I couldn’t help worrying about what might happen if my blood sugar went too low and my body didn’t wake me up. What if I took an herb to go to sleep and relaxed myself so much that I didn’t wake up when I was low?

  This was a real concern, since over time people with diabetes sometimes develop what is called hypoglycemia unawareness. Their body becomes so used to lows that when one occurs the body doesn’t signal that something is wrong.

  Since I lived alone and didn’t want a roommate, Romy thought that, at the very least, I should adopt a cat. On our day off, she took me to the ASPCA. It seemed that the cages held either litters of newborn kittens that I couldn’t imagine separating from one another or cats that were fully grown. But finally Romy saw a four-month-old black cat alone in a cage and looking scared. She took her out and held her. Then she put her in my arms.

  We took her home and I named her Kayla. I hadn’t bonded with an animal since Gent, so it took Kayla and me a while to get used to each other. But once we did bond, I never wanted to be without her. Anyone who has ever bonded deeply with an animal knows how important it can be in your life.

  Like many animals, Kayla truly had a sixth sense and often seemed to know when my sugars went too low. Today, dogs are trained, using their sense of smell, to sense changes in blood sugar levels and alert their owner. There are also new devices that alert you whenever your blood sugar is too low or too high. But those devices didn’t exist at the time, so Kayla became my sensor. There were many nights when Kayla nudged me awake with her paw, and I’d force myself to get up and check my sugars. Invariably when she did that, I’d see that I was low and I’d go to the kitchen and eat or drink something sweet.