The Sugarless Plum: A Memoir (14 page)

I never had another low blood sugar episode as extreme as the one in Copenhagen. Yet I did have them, since I still hadn't learned precisely how much insulin I needed at any given moment and sometimes took too much.

During some performances, I'd shake. When that happened, I'd hope that my sugars weren't dropping so precipitously that I wouldn't be able to maintain my form and dance well. The moment I had an exit from the stage, I'd dash to my dance bag and swallow a handful of glucose tablets, hoping that no one would notice. If anyone did notice, I never knew it.

It was a trying time for me, and the nights were particularly scary. What if I overdid my shot and didn't wake up? By now Romy had moved into her own apartment and my mother was sharing my apartment while I looked for a smaller, more affordable place of my own. Although we had completely separate lives and didn't see each other during the day, I couldn't have had a better, more supportive roommate than my mom. Just knowing that she was there at night was a great comfort.

 

For a year and a half—from the fall of 1988 until the spring of 1990—I continued on my rigorous insulin regime. But the constant blood sugar fluctuations were affecting my mood and my dancing. I was trying to get stronger, but it took a while to recover from each low blood sugar episode, and that was taking a toll on me both physically and psychologically. I was trying to prove to myself and to the company that nothing had changed. But I was looking progressively weaker. As much as I liked my doctor and appreciated the value of his protocol—I came to believe that I needed a different approach.

Looking back, I should have handled the situation differently. Had I been more communicative, I could have told the doctor I was having too many low blood sugars. I could have asked him if there was any way we could adjust my insulin dose, and he most likely would have found a way to work that out. But, at the time, it seemed easier to start over with a new doctor than to tell this doctor it wasn't working. As nice as he was, the prospect of confrontation made me nervous and uncomfortable. Instead, I took the coward's way out. I just never went back to him and started all over with someone new. After all that he'd done for me, I regret that I didn't have the tools to explain why his program wasn't working for me.

My new doctor wasn't a diabetes specialist, and couldn't have been more different in his approach. He didn't believe in aggressive insulin therapy to avoid complications. Instead, he leaned toward “looser” control, letting the blood sugars run higher
rather than risking the danger of constant lows, which was the therapeutic norm at the time.

When I told him I was taking insulin shots for levels that were just above normal and that I was injecting myself during performances, he gave me a look that said, “That's just ridiculous!”

“It's crazy to play with your health that way,” he muttered.

When I told him about my no-carbohydrate diet, he said I should start eating more normally.

“Your diabetes is just not that severe,” he told me. “Stop taking the insulin injections. It's far more dangerous for you to be taking insulin and sending your blood sugars so low than it would be to let them be a little bit high,” he told me. “Take a break from obsessing so much about everything. And while you're at it, put your meter away as well and stop checking your blood sugars all the time.” It was clear from what he'd said that he thought I had type 2 diabetes. And although he didn't state it, his tone let me know that he thought I was being neurotic, obsessive and verging on hypochondria.

I left his office as intimidated as I would have been if he were Jerry Robbins.

It was a spring day in New York City with birds chirping and cheerful people strolling. But as I walked down Park Avenue, I was unaware of my surroundings and more confused than ever. How could I have gone so far in the wrong direction? Was this doctor right? Did I have type 2 diabetes, after all? Could I stop taking insulin? Stop the blood sugar checks? Eat more carbohydrates? At that point I didn't know what to believe. It had taken all my
willpower to convince myself that I had insulin-dependent diabetes. Now, was I supposed to convince myself I didn't have it?

I wanted to believe that I wasn't a severe diabetic. My longing to feel normal, that ounce of denial I still harbored, overcame my apprehension. “He's right,” I told myself. “Stop being so neurotic. Let go, live, have fun again.”

Soon, I was eating pasta, bread and fruit. I was going out to restaurants. I was eating the whole apple and not fretting about it, going to salad bars and actually eating crackers and bread with my tuna fish. It wasn't just the taste of the food I loved so much. It was the freedom of not having to calculate all the time. I loved not having to prick my fingers in order to check my blood sugars at every given moment, or poke myself with a syringe. I loved that I didn't have to worry before I went to bed. For a brief time I felt like my old self, smiling and laughing.

But not for long. The symptoms of high blood sugar returned almost immediately: the hunger, thirst, frequent urinations, infected blisters and brain fog. The moment those symptoms started, I should have gone straight to my meter and checked my blood sugar levels. But I convinced myself that this was normal because, according to my new doctor, it was okay for my sugars to be a little high. My denial was strong enough and my brain was foggy enough to maintain the delusion. I didn't just hate having a disease, I hated the way I handled it. I wanted to get away from the part of myself that had become so neurotic. And I was able to justify not picking up my meter by telling myself that I was following doctor's orders. As rigid as I had been about
following my previous doctor's protocol, I was now equally rigid about never going back to taking insulin and possibly losing consciousness while I was dancing.

 

As much as I would have preferred to eat whatever I wanted, I knew that it was important to eat as healthily as I could. I had to get strict again about my diet. I believed in Grandma's diet, but Grandma wasn't there, and I knew that I did best when I not only followed a specific plan but also had someone to guide me through it. I remembered that one of the books I'd read when I was staying with my grandmother had been about macrobiotics and diabetes. I decided to give that a try.

I met with a macrobiotic counselor, who gave me a list of exactly what foods I should eat at every meal. She seemed convinced that I could control my diabetes with diet; she said she'd seen it done over and over again. Those success stories were all about people with type 2 diabetes, and that's what we all now thought I had. I decided to give it a try. The counselor gave me a list of foods and dishes I'd never heard of. To learn how to prepare them, I took cooking classes on Mondays when we had our day off. Soon I was pressure-cooking brown rice, sautéing burdock and lotus root, steaming my fish, boiling my carrots and putting ginger compresses on my pancreas. My diet was very high in carbohydrates, and even though they were the good, complex ones, without insulin, my blood sugars must have been hitting the roof.

I didn't feel well and I was becoming emaciated. What with the
high blood sugars, the strict high-carbohydrate, no-fat macrobiotic diet, and my performing every night, my weight dropped to below ninety-five pounds—and I am almost five six. In addition, my skin turned orange from all the beta-carotene, and my muscles became stiffer and stiffer, to the point where no amount of massage brought relief.

My teachers at SAB, Suki Schorer, Susan Pilarre and Kay Mazzo, whose classes I still took, were noticeably concerned and constantly asking me how I was doing. Kay, who had been a great Balanchine ballerina, had just retired from the stage and joined the faculty of SAB when I first arrived. Now she is the co-chair of the school's faculty. She, in particular, knew what I was going through, because her own daughter had been diagnosed with insulin-dependent diabetes when she was just thirteen months old, and she was constantly urging me to see her daughter's doctor, Fredda Ginsberg. I kept assuring them all that I was fine. Since I was following my doctor's orders, that's what I chose to believe. I didn't think I was any thinner than other dancers who got a bit too thin, and I was dancing a full schedule. But of course I wasn't fine.

Before performances I'd go to Marika, the main company physical therapist, and wait until all the other dancers had been helped. Marika had such healing hands that as soon as she put her hands on my solar plexus my entire body began to relax. I appreciated her taking the time to work on me, but she could only give me temporary relief because, even though I didn't know it, my blood sugars were out of control. I tried not to let anyone
see how much pain I was in, but I was so stiff that I looked as if I were wearing a corset and I could barely move.

I looked weaker than ever, and I was in so much muscle distress that I barely slept. I told my new doctor, but he didn't seem alarmed. He just prescribed sleeping pills that didn't work and that left me feeling drugged on top of everything else I was feeling.

Ninety-five pounds, looking, feeling and dancing like the Tin Man, I knew there was no way Peter would pick me for any new leading roles. Why would he?

I hated what my body was doing to my life.

I looked terrible and felt just as bad, but I was deluded enough, and determined enough, to decide never to go back on insulin, and I came up with any excuse I could think of
except
uncontrolled blood sugar to account for my worsening condition. Still convinced that I had somehow created my situation, I needed to come up with some way to un-create it. And I had no idea that I was endangering my life.

Among other things, I convinced myself that a big part of my problem was dancing so much. I was now twenty-five years old and had been with the company for seven years. Very often, corps dancers who have paid their dues, as I had, don't have to dance in every single ballet, and they get to perform more highlighted corps roles. They might even get an evening off here and there as the soloists and principal dancers do. I was getting some of those highlighted roles, but I was also dancing the simpler parts—I wasn't being excused from anything. Consequently, I was rehearsing all day and dancing in two to three ballets each night,
and I believed that if only I could have an evening off to rest my muscles, I'd look and feel better.

Every day I thought of going into Peter Martins's office and explaining that I looked so bad because I needed an easier schedule, at least for a while. I rehearsed what I would say in my head, but how could I ask him to make me a special case? If he gave me nights off, my muscles might relax, but I'd be proving that I couldn't handle the workload and I could say goodbye to the hope of ever being given another solo role. I told myself to forget about being a soloist; just tell him the truth so I could enjoy being in the corps.

In the end, however, I just couldn't do it. Why couldn't I ask for what I needed? Partly it was because if I couldn't keep up, what was I doing in the New York City Ballet? Some dancers who were among the most favored did speak up when they needed a lighter load. But I didn't feel I had yet proved myself enough to deserve that privilege. And even if I did deserve it, I had other emotional issues that held me back. I still remembered the frightening repercussions of my having spoken up to Dave all those years before. And I still had the lingering fear of being seen as the “bad Zippora”—the problem child, the troublemaker.

Also, and equally important, as much pain as I might have been suffering offstage, when I was onstage I still had moments when I felt like a normal, functioning person, and I was still dancing those great Balanchine ballets. Should I continue to struggle and go for those moments in the hope that I might get better parts one day, or should I accept a lesser but more realistic alternative? That was my dilemma.

I knew Peter wouldn't fire me if I asked for special treatment, but would he suggest I join another company that didn't dance as many months and seasons? Most companies had shorter seasons than NYCB; some were only a few weeks long. But looking and feeling as I did, I couldn't imagine starting all over again, auditioning and proving myself. And, in any case, that's not what I wanted. I only wanted the repertoire I was dancing. Otherwise I'd rather quit dancing altogether.

Maybe that's what I needed to do. “This might be the right time to think about quitting,” I told myself.

People quit all the time for one reason or another. Catherine, who was an extraordinarily beautiful dancer, was struggling with her weight and Jerry wasn't casting her in leading roles, either. Many corps dancers had decided to leave when Balanchine died and Peter took over. Talented, artistic dancers with their entire careers ahead of them had chosen to stop dancing and do something else because dancing wasn't working for them anymore. Even Suzanne Farrell finally retired in 1989 when a hip injury forced her off the stage after more than twenty-five years.

Why couldn't I do that, too? Why couldn't I go home to L.A. and go to college? I couldn't, because dancing with City Ballet was the only thing that still made me happy. But when I wasn't onstage, I wasn't happy.

I couldn't help comparing myself to the dancer I had been and lamenting my unrealized potential. Most of the dancers who had been in the cast of
Les Petits Riens with me were now soloists,
and although I was happy for their success, it was difficult to be left behind.

I knew I was drowning in self-pity, and I knew that compared to the majority of dancers, who wait tables at night to pay for their classes and who never get to perform, I was extremely lucky to be a member of one of the greatest companies in the world.

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!”