The Sugarless Plum: A Memoir Read Free Page B

uncontrollably as other dancers gather around me. I have to pull myself together. I need to lighten the tension. “It’s a good thing my makeup is waterproof,” I say. The others exchange looks.
    I know what they’re thinking, “Why is she freaking out?”
    I wipe my cheeks and pinch my false lashes to be sure they’ve weathered the storm. The curtain rises. The ballet begins with a line of eight corps de ballet women positioned in a diagonal line facing the audience. We wear blue costumes with flowing chiffon skirts and sparkles across the neckline. Facing us are eight corps de ballet men. Their backs are slightly to the audience. The music becomes gentle and soft. The men walk toward the ladies.The dancing begins. Tears flow down my cheeks throughout the entire performance.
    As I dance, my mind is racing…losing limbs, kidney failure, heart disease, stroke, going blind.
    I just need rest, I tell myself, and my blood sugar levels will go back to normal. The long winter season has been too demanding. It’ll be over in two weeks. Then I’ll have three weeks to recover before the spring season begins. Anyway, I’ll bet the diagnosis is just a lab error. There’s no way I can have diabetes. I’m a twenty-one-year-old dancer with the New York City Ballet. Things like that don’t happen to people like me.

TWO
    Although I’m still determined to get through the end of the season, once I receive my diagnosis it becomes harder to ignore the physical symptoms that have been plaguing me for so long. I’m constantly licking my lips, which are painfully dry. No matter how much water I drink, I’m always thirsty. I can’t wind down, and I’m barely sleeping, which is probably why I’m spacey all the time.
    But at nine-thirty the morning after my doctor visit and my onstage meltdown, I have to ignore how I feel and get myself to company class as I do every day. No matter how accomplished a dancer becomes, we never stop taking class, and we’re expected to be there on time. As I hurry down the hallway, I hear piano music in the distance. Class has begun. This is the first time I’ve ever been late.
    I sneak in between two dancers at the front barre. Holding the barre with my left hand, I join in the morning ritual. It begins with pliés: in a plié you bend your legs, slowly lowering yourself nearly to the floor, and then rise up again while keeping yourback straight and your knees over your toes, which ensures a turned-out position. We practice pliés using four of the five positions of the feet in ballet. There’s also a third position, but it’s never used; in fact, Balanchine hated third position. He thought it was ugly.
    I look at Suzanne Farrell at the barre across from me. The best-known Balanchine ballerina of her time, she was also his greatest muse.
    Suzanne is my favorite ballerina. Today she is serene as always, wearing her signature Spanish-style shawl, which is brilliantly colored in deep blue, red, green and orange. She wears the shawl wrapped and tied at her breastbone; it flows with every motion of her body.
    I’ve always been flattered that Suzanne seems to notice me. Now, in class, I pray she doesn’t look my way. When barre ends, I rush to the bathroom. In the six hours of rehearsals that follow, I’ll be in and out of that bathroom again and again. Somehow I make it through the day. The toughest part will be getting through this evening’s performance.
    I can’t let myself think about how bad I feel. I have to keep pushing. Before putting on my makeup, I wait in line to see the physical therapist, hoping to gain some relief from the piercing pain in my muscles. A dancer’s muscles are always sore, but the pain that I am experiencing has become excruciating and I have no idea why.
    The physical therapy room is small, a space maybe ten-by-ten feet that houses a physical therapist, a massage