The Sugarless Plum: A Memoir (18 page)

A year after I stopped dancing and left New York, my relationship with Kip ended. It wasn't my decision, and even though I knew that I, too, bore some responsibility, the breakup left me feeling bereft. It had always been through dance that I had been able to sort through my feelings. Dance had helped me through every major event in my life. Without it, I had to face an emptiness I'd never before experienced. I felt lost.

I no longer had a life or a job in New York, which had been my home for twenty years. Los Angeles wasn't a place I had thought I'd ever live again, but my entire family was there. My mother had moved back a few years before to be closer to her grandchildren and was now living around the corner from Romy. When I asked if Kayla and I could come stay with her, she didn't hesitate for a moment. I'd never needed her love more than I did then. It was the place I needed to be.

 

Now that I was alone again, I also needed and wanted to work. I needed something to focus on to keep me sane. I called Susie
at the Trust and let everyone I knew who taught ballet that I was ready and willing to work. One of my friends from City Ballet was soon to be the new director of the Norwegian National Ballet, where I subsequently flew to teach company class and lead rehearsals. Ib Andersen had become the director of the Arizona Ballet, where I also staged ballets and taught company class for months at a time.

Over the years, the Balanchine Trust has continued to give me work, and I have had the honor and privilege of staging Balanchine ballets throughout the United States and in many other countries.

I never thought that anything would be as important to me as dancing. Nor could I have predicted how much meaning I would find in working with other dancers and giving back.

While I myself was struggling, I had been too busy hating my struggle to see beyond it. Teaching, more than anything else, made me grateful that I hadn't given up. The lesson I had learned about persevering is one that I now pass on to my students. We all experience rejections, we all have failures; the point is to learn from them, to move through them, to continue to grow and thrive.

 

At the time I moved in with her, my mother was still working as a physical therapist. She'd rub my feet after I'd been teaching all day and I started to rub her back. Not one to complain, she had been suffering back pain that she assumed had been caused by lifting a patient, and I was hoping to help her feel better, as she had helped me on so many occasions. Beyond that, neither
one of us thought much about it. We certainly didn't think it was anything more serious than a muscle strain.

It was about a year later, while I was in Sweden rehearsing a Balanchine ballet, that Romy called to tell me she had taken Mom to the emergency room in the middle of the night. Apparently while Mom was asleep my cat Kayla had been kneading on her the way she often kneaded on me when I had low blood sugar. Mom woke up gasping for air and barely able to breathe. In the hospital the doctors drained her lungs, which had filled with fluid. Then they ran a series of tests.

Two days later, I finished my work in Sweden and went straight to the hospital. Soon, there was a diagnosis: cancer. It would be a few weeks more before we learned the worst: the cancer had eaten away at her rib, hence the pain in her back where I was rubbing. My mother had stage-four lung cancer with six to nine months to live.

I stopped traveling altogether and taught only at the local ballet school so that I could be totally available to her. It was as if everything I had been through was preparing me for this moment. Finally, my own health struggles stood me in good stead, helping me to be present for my mother and to understand that she was incapable of knowing which decisions to make in light of such a dire diagnosis.

Michele, Romy, Gary and I, along with my father and both my aunts, pulled together, educated ourselves and worked as a team. Since I was the person living with her and the one most able to devote my time and my life to her care, I took the lead. Since her
diagnosis was terminal, we took chances and followed unorthodox protocols as well as traditional ones. We got her to the right doctors and I got her on a good diet. In short, I did for her everything that I had done for myself.

She lived three more years—three good years with new grandchildren and her loved ones around her. Even though I'll always wonder if I could have done more and wish that I could have had her longer, I feel deeply grateful for the time I had with her and the unconditional love we shared.

As far as my own health was concerned, I'd been blessed, since moving back to Los Angeles, to find Dr. Anne Peters, a professor of medicine and director of the USC clinical diabetes programs and the author of
Conquering Diabetes
. A doctor whose compassion and understanding are as extraordinary as her medical expertise, she is a healer in the truest sense of the word.

I found her name in a newspaper article about Gary Hall Jr., an Olympic swimmer who'd been diagnosed with diabetes and was told that he would never be able to swim competitively again. The article went on to say that when Hall consulted Dr. Peters, she was as determined as he was to at least give it a try. With her by his side, he went on to win ten Olympic medals before retiring in 2008.

The article was accompanied by a photograph of Dr. Peters standing by the pool Hall was training in. I only wished that I'd had someone like her standing in the wings while I was performing. Today, there are diabetes educators whom you can call for help at any time of the day or night. They were around back then,
too, although there weren't as many as there are now, and, in any case, I didn't know about them. If I'd had that kind of constantly available source of information and support, I believe it would have made a big difference for me.

When I finished the article, I called Dr. Peters's office, and she's been my doctor ever since.

 

While I was still performing, several articles had been written about me in different diabetes publications and I often teamed with the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation to bring kids to see me perform. Afterward, I'd speak to them about how I took care of my diabetes and I always enjoyed inspiring these children and encouraging them to follow their dreams. But I was too consumed with my life as a performer to give any more than that.

Everything was different now. I was feeling ready to do more, and to give more. As happens so often in life, one thing has serendipitously led to another, and doors have opened when I least expected them to.

Dr. Peters introduced me to Dr. Steve Edelman, founder and head of a nonprofit organization called Taking Control of Your Diabetes. He invited me to be the keynote speaker at one of their conferences, where, for the first time, I spoke in depth about my experiences of dancing with diabetes. Like with teaching, I instantly found meaning in sharing my story, and motivating and connecting with others.

For these events I have created a series of movements that are fun and easy and that anyone can do. Many people with diabetes
don't exercise, so I like to show them how good it can feel to move their bodies to music. We start small but I encourage them to keep at it, and to incorporate some sort of movement into their daily lives. It's another way for me to pass on the gift of dance that I've been so privileged to have.

My friend Kari Rosenfeld introduced me to Children with Diabetes and to Novo Nordisk. Children with Diabetes is a wonderful nonprofit organization that provides information and support to children and teens with diabetes and their families, and with which I have had the pleasure of working for many years now. Novo Nordisk is a world leader in diabetes care and working with them I've traveled all over the world, from South Africa to Israel, sharing my story.

I have also worked closely with Dr. Francine Kaufman, a past president of the American Diabetes Association, a professor of pediatrics at USC and the author of
Diabesity,
a fascinating book about the relationship between obesity and diabetes. Fran is an amazing and dedicated physician who has inspired my advocacy work, and who has helped me reach thousands of children and teens with diabetes.

Through these dedicated healers and educators, I have been given the opportunity to write another chapter in the book of my own life. As a dancer, I had expressed myself through my body. Now I was learning how meaningful it could be to use my voice in order to share my story. From that first talk I gave at the TCOYD conference, I felt a great sense of purpose, and in the years since, it has become one of my greatest passions. Instead
of hiding my struggle, as I had for so many years, I am now using it to connect with people and help give them hope as to what they, too, can accomplish if they take proper care. And I am using my love of dance to get people up and moving.

It has been especially fulfilling for me to see how meaningful it is for children and teens to meet someone who has been able to persevere and go on to lead a passionate life with diabetes. For many kids having diabetes is a label they live with, something that sets them apart from others. To help counteract this feeling, I do one exercise I call Stand Tall and Proud, where I have kids lift and stretch as tall as they can, and to let their breath fill up their bodies as they walk around the room. It's a great sight to see a group of kids prancing around like this, and I tell them not to be afraid to “take up space”—conveying the message that diabetes is nothing to be ashamed of.

The teenage years are among the most challenging—with or without diabetes. I especially enjoy doing movement with this age group because they seem to especially appreciate my honesty. At an age when everything is so dramatic, adding diabetes to the mix only compounds the anxieties of adolescence. When I share my story with these kids they see that I, too, struggled with my illness, and I don't gloss over this to my “happy ending.” Most of all, though, I think they see that having diabetes doesn't mean their life can't be normal, which is what so many teens strive for. I show them that it's possible to be happy, and healthy, and that having diabetes shouldn't stop them from doing anything they want in life.

 

When I began to speak about my life, I didn't want my story to just be “girl overcomes obstacles to live her dream.” It was important to me to discuss and share my diagnosis, my denial, my fears and all the hurdles I encountered, and I have been amazed to see how many people are affected and motivated by my story.

One of the hardest things to do is motivate other people. What I say to those with diabetes is equally applicable to anyone who has encountered an unexpected obstacle or whose life path has not turned out to be what he or she expected.

My message is simple: Passion is what motivates us and gives our life meaning. My passion for dance gave me a reason to be healthy. Each one of us needs to find our own passion in life and use that to motivate us to take care of our health.

Never let anyone tell you that diabetes will stop you from what you love, but don't—as I did—put your heath at risk for the sake of achieving success.

Try not to think of exercise and following a healthy diet as things you
have
to do because you have diabetes. People with diabetes are not cursed while every other person gets to pig out on banana splits. Everyone needs to eat right and exercise. Find ways to move because it feels good; maybe just turn on some music and dance around your living room or bedroom like you did when you were a kid. I know it's not always easy. But try to remember how lucky we are to have devices and therapies that help us live full and passionate lives. Be healthy and keep moving in your heart and on your feet. Get enough rest and take care of your emotional health.

Live your dreams, live your passions, let this life be full of meaning and connection and don't let anything stop you. Your passion could be a profession, or it could be simply spending time with your loved ones, playing with an animal, smelling the roses or all of the above. Whatever it is, anything you care deeply about can inspire you to take better care of yourself and make your life matter.

Remember that when your blood sugars are too high or too low it's easy to get stuck in habit patterns that will keep you from realizing your goal.

Try to eat as healthfully as you can (I focus on organic foods) and by all means get enough sleep. As a result of my own sleep problems, I've come to recognize how important it is to do whatever you can to get the rest you need for optimum emotional and physical health.

Equally important, find doctors you trust and with whom you are comfortable communicating. Among other things, this means making sure that your doctor is educating you on the most recent advances in the field and discussing with you the best protocols for your particular situation. Given my own unfortunate experiences, I never envisioned that my medical team would one day be such an important part of my life or that my relationship with my doctors would become so meaningful.

And finally, I hope that everyone has the opportunity to discover how meaningful it can be to bond with a pet. My cats—first Kayla and now Marley—have brought me both joy and comfort. Today, Marley puts me to sleep with her purring. While
Kayla had a knack for warning me of a low blood sugar, Marley has a knack for helping me sleep.

While I will always teach dance, much of the work I do now is with diabetes. My hope is always that hearing what I was able to accomplish despite my struggles and doubts will motivate people to look at their own choices, take charge of their health and live life to its fullest.

Dance taught me how to give my heart and soul to everything I do. It taught me to take chances even when that meant falling down. It taught me, when I did fall, to get up, move on, and even shine. It taught me to value every moment, that journeys are as important as results; it taught me how to keep my balance. It taught me to let go, let the moment take over and let the magic happen.

Yes, my life was difficult, but without that experience, I could never have become the person I am today.

There are, of course, certain areas in which I'll always be working to improve—balancing my sugars, handling stress, eating as healthfully as I can and communicating better, whether in an intimate relationship, professionally, or with my doctors. Still, I'm grateful that I've come so far with so few repercussions. Because of my mistaken belief that taking insulin was somehow an admission of failure and my stubborn refusal to take it, things could have turned out very differently. I now understand that insulin saved me, as it has saved countless others before and since.

Each time I give a talk, I appreciate anew that my illness took me on a path I can now value and cherish, even though I hated being on it at the time. I recognize that in the midst of struggle,
we all feel alone. Yet, in talking to others, I see how universal our feelings really are. It's the sharing of those feelings that provides the strength to move forward. Diabetes is a day-to-day, hour-to-hour disease, and that means that it can be exhausting. It's hard to always stay in control and feel that you're doing what you need to do. Knowing that others are having similar experiences is comforting.

I'm not saying it's easy and I'm not saying I wouldn't jump for joy if there were a cure found tomorrow. But I can honestly say I feel blessed to live in a time when there are so many resources that allow me and so many others to live full, healthy, passion-filled lives.

 

Recently, I found a couple of refrigerator magnets that had belonged to my mother and are now on my own refrigerator door. One reads, “The person who says it cannot be done should not interrupt the person doing it.” The other reads, “I do believe that for every door that closes, another will open…but these hallways are really a drag!”

I keep walking toward the open door.