The Sugarless Plum: A Memoir (16 page)

Once I let go of Dr. G, things started heading in a direction I could never have anticipated. As it turned out, all of my fears about losing his help and advice were unfounded. In fact, I discovered that I was stronger and healthier than I'd thought.

Now it was time for me to take responsibility for myself and work with my doctors. I needed to become a full member of my health-care team.

I also needed to stop lamenting and start appreciating where I was in my career. Yes, I might be in the corps de ballet for my entire career, and yes, I'd hoped for something more. But I had accomplished a lot. I was successfully balancing insulin-dependent diabetes with dancing as a member of the New York City Ballet. Even though my salary was modest, I was able to support myself in New York City, making my living from something I loved. How many people could say that? It was time to stop blaming myself, to trust in myself and be grateful.

I now understood that many factors must have contributed to
my contracting diabetes: genes, environmental factors, stress and quite possibly a virus. Yet I still believed that I had done something to bring the diabetes on, that it was my fault, some terrible karma. It was time to stop thinking that way and to have more compassion for my body and for myself.

If I could accept that I was not perfect and that my blood sugars would not always be balanced during my performances, I could be more patient with myself. If I did these things, I could go a long way toward understanding that true health is about more than a physical state of being; it is an awareness and acceptance of one's body. I could learn to live with diabetes and be at peace with the way that my life was unfolding.

 

Interestingly, it naturally occurred that as I came to accept myself as an imperfect dancer, enjoying every moment and grateful that I had not given up, I also became more interested in what lay beyond the world of the New York City Ballet.

As it happened, a number of professors at Fordham University were offering to teach classes on Monday evenings, making it possible for NYCB dancers to take college courses on our one day off. Romy and I, along with many other members of the company, signed up for the program. Over the next several years, I would take one course per semester. In time, I studied English, chemistry, art history, biology, math and psychology. Taking those courses expanded my mind and my soul.

At the same time, I was also becoming involved with Continuum Movement, a new modality created by a former dancer
named Emilie Conrad that was based on a series of wavelike movements affecting different systems and parts of the body, including the circulatory system. When I practiced those movements, I could feel the oxygen getting to my muscles, which relaxed as I spiraled and undulated. In time, through daily practice, I would later come to love these movements as much as I loved the experience of dancing on the stage.

 

As I was expanding my horizons, something else extraordinary happened to change my life even more. Some people say you find love when you stop looking for it. I wouldn't say I'd ever stopped looking. I'd just stopped looking for it as a way to feel complete. Ironically, it wasn't long after I left Dr. G that I met the man with whom I would spend the next five years.

Ulf and I met dancing in
The Nutcracker
in Amarillo, Texas. Peter Boal and I had been invited as guest artists to dance the roles of Sugar Plum and her cavalier with a regional company/ ballet school. Ulf was also a guest performer dancing the Arabian Prince, a role for which he was perfectly suited. He was tall—six two—German by birth but more Scandinavian in looks. He had blond hair and blue eyes, a dancer's body and an artist's soul. I noticed him immediately. He was so gorgeous, how could I not? I tried not to stare, thinking that a man as handsome as he would never be interested in me. During the performance, I watched his dance from the wings as I warmed up in preparation for the grand pas de deux. He was commanding and mysterious, completely lost in his character. I was so impressed that when I found
myself standing near him after his dance, I leaned toward him and took his arm. “I wanted to tell you how wonderfully you did. You were great.” I whispered loud enough for him to hear over the music for the “Waltz of the Flowers.”

He looked surprised. “Can I talk to you sometime?” he asked. “I'd love to get some advice from you.”

“Sure,” I replied, but I didn't have much time. Peter and I were the guest stars and hadn't flown in until the last minute. At that point, we'd only be there for two more days, and we had plans for both evenings. I told Ulf that Peter and I were being taken out to dinner by our hosts after that night's performance, but I could meet him after dinner if he didn't mind that it would be late.

I knew we were in the same hotel, so it was easiest if he just met me there.

“Why don't you come to my room?” I said. I was tired and figured that would be the easiest thing for me. It didn't occur to me that he might find me attractive or assume anything more about the invitation than what I had meant.

“Should I bring anything?” he asked politely.

At the time, I was drinking dark beer to unwind. Dr. G had suggested it and it seemed to work, so just because I'd given up Dr. G didn't mean I had to give up my Guinness stout.

“Sure,” I told Ulf. “Bring some beer.”

I was so naive at the time that it didn't even occur to me that I might be sending out a sexual signal. I was just trying to find a good time to talk, and I could use a beer.

Ulf, on the other hand, told me later that he'd assumed I was
this hot ballerina who was used to having guys come over to her room and sleeping with them. When he showed up at midnight with the beer, he was clearly nervous. It was late, I was exhausted, and we had two shows to dance the next day. When I started asking him questions, he quickly realized he could relax.

I sat on the bed and he sat on the floor with his back against the dresser. I could tell he liked me, and I liked talking to him—so much that we talked until 5:00 a.m. We could have talked longer, but I had to get at least a couple hours of sleep. Except I couldn't sleep; I was excited. This guy was not only gorgeous, he was intelligent, interesting and had the heart of a poet.

After our final performance, I figured that I'd never see him again. I had no idea where he lived, and I thought this was goodbye. But I was wrong.

As it turned out Ulf was living in New York and was actually going to be on the same plane as Peter and I.

On the flight back to New York, Peter and I sat together. Ulf was several rows back. He wrote me sweet notes and gave me his phone number. I really liked this guy, and his actions told me he felt the same way. I knew he would call.

 

Back in the city, Ulf wanted to see me every day. If I had an hour or a rare evening off, he was waiting at my doorstep. I wanted to be swept away, but I was a guarded person and it wasn't easy for me to fall blindly in love. I was afraid Ulf would get discouraged, but as it turned out, Ulf needed me as much as I needed him.

A month into our “courting,” which consisted mainly of hanging out in the park or at my apartment, he came to me one evening scared and concerned. He was in New York on a student visa so he wasn't allowed to work. He was doing some catering from time to time off the books, but he wasn't earning very much money. Now he was being kicked out of the room he'd been renting and he couldn't afford anything else. He had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Would I let him live with me? If not, he would have to go back to Germany.

I felt enormous pressure. I wasn't sure if I could let this person I hardly knew move in with me, but I wasn't prepared to lose him either. I was finally in an intimate relationship. On the one hand, although I was excited about the chances of my having a future with this man, I was not prepared to start living with him yet. On the other hand, I had waited my entire adult life for a relationship, feared I'd never find someone to love, and had even let my doctor take advantage of me.

Back and forth I went. After everything I'd been dealing with in terms of my health, was I ready to have someone in my space, my one-bedroom apartment? I worried about whether I would still be able to do what I needed to do to maintain my routine and continue dancing with diabetes. But I knew that Ulf was passionate about health. He loved to cook organic and healthy meals. We were compatible in many ways. The more I had come to know him, the more comfortable I felt. I said he could move in.

In the years to come, we shared great times and much love. In
many ways we grew up together. This was the first real long-term relationship for both of us. I learned a lot from Ulf, but it wasn't always easy.

As with every relationship, there were areas of tension and compromises to be made. I had wanted someone who was interested in the offstage me, and that's what I got. But I didn't anticipate how hard it would be for him that I spent so much time at the theater and was home so little. He resented the long hours, the toll dancing took on my body, what I was going through with my health, and, most of all, the time it took away from us.

For my part, I was learning for the first time how to have an intimate relationship, and, at the same time, I was dealing with my own health issues. I needed to figure out how much I could reasonably share with him about what I was going through on a moment-to-moment basis. How much should I involve him? How much should I tell him? We lived in a small one-bedroom apartment. There was no way that he wouldn't hear my meter beep or see me at the refrigerator at odd hours. Should I tell him every time my sugars were either too high or too low?

I'm not one to hide anything. I wanted him to know why I was shaky and why my mood might suddenly change. But because I still tended to be hard on myself, it was easy to get testy with whoever happened to be around when I was annoyed with myself. My tone was sometimes snappish or condescending when I didn't mean it to be. When I was exhausted, it wasn't just from dancing
all day and all night, it was from being high or low all day and night. I wanted him to understand that, but I didn't always say it nicely. I was still angry at myself and still working on trying to show myself more compassion.

I'd been with Ulf for about a year when rumors started to circulate throughout the company that promotions would be announced toward the end of the spring season. For me, this season was different from the others. As much as I was grateful I hadn't quit sooner and was enjoying my days and nights, if I didn't get promoted, I was now prepared to move on.

Although dancing was still my passion, I could see myself continuing only if I had the opportunity for full artistic expression, which would come only if I were made a soloist. Without that opportunity, I no longer had the will to put myself through everything I needed to do as a person with type 1 diabetes just to get myself onstage.

On the day promotions were announced, the chosen dancers were called, one by one, into Peter's office, and told the good news. One dancer's promotion was announced over the backstage loudspeaker in the middle of a rehearsal. I heard nothing, loud or otherwise. I spent the day congratulating other people
and trying to look as if I didn't care, although it was obvious to some of my friends that I was being passed over. When they came up to me individually and said they were so sorry, I held back my tears.

The day seemed to drag on endlessly, and by late afternoon all I wanted to do was get out of the theater, go home, have a good cry and start to figure out how I would move on with the rest of my life.

All of this was spinning through my mind as I dressed to go out and get a snack before the evening's performance. I was just getting up from my dressing table when Peter's secretary came over to me.

“Peter wants to see you. He's in the theater,” she said.

As I made my way down to stage level and into the theater, I was so prepared to deal with my disappointment that I was almost wishing he wouldn't have good news.

Peter was sitting alone watching a final rehearsal. As soon as he saw me, he stood up and threw his arms around me.

“Congratulations!” he said. “You're a soloist.”

Then he studied my face for a moment. I don't know if I looked annoyed or relieved or amazed or if it was just that he could see I'd been stressed.

He smiled. “Did you think we forgot you?” he said.

So, that was it. Six years after my diagnosis, in my ninth year with the company, I had been promoted. I walked out of the theater reflecting on my long journey. I thought about how I'd tried to hide what I was going through, how much I'd wanted to be able to function in this world where, although we were
delicate, we were also strong, resistant and tough. Had I really become what I was so determined to be? As a soloist, I'd consistently be given roles in which I could express myself and grow. Could I now relax, knowing that I would be nurtured and fulfilled? One of my remaining concerns then—as it would always be—was whether I could continue to function at the level I expected of myself.

Being a soloist was, in fact, everything I had dreamed it could be. I was being given new and wonderful roles to dance. Performing them night after night brought me to a level of comfort onstage I had not experienced as a corps dancer who did featured roles only from time to time. Although as a soloist I had the added pressure of always being “out there” and exposed, not being able to hide among the rest of the corps, I was confident enough to take on that pressure. I was proving, not only to myself but also to Peter, that I was strong, consistent and could maintain the ballerina's lifestyle while taking insulin. Now I just had to be in the moment and enjoy what I had achieved.

 

Still, I had to be vigilant and responsible about taking care of my health. Each day was different, but after so many years, I'd found a general routine that worked for me. Most important of all, I had to check my blood sugar levels throughout the day, before every rehearsal and numerous times before the performance.

I needed to rely on my monitor and make smart decisions about when to take a shot. Psychologically, I also needed to accept the fact that I wouldn't always have a great performance, and that was okay because it was better to let my sugars be a little high than to risk a low blood sugar by taking a shot.

I always started my day with a hot shower because the water soothed my aching joints. If my feet were really sore, I'd soak them for ten minutes in Epsom salts and then dust them with powder to keep my toes dry.

One of the most important things I had to do as a person with diabetes was to take care of my feet. Like all dancers, I was constantly getting blisters and corns from the rubbing of my pointe shoes, and occasionally one would become infected. Although the infections weren't caused by diabetes, they—like the terrible sores under my arms when I was dancing
Petits Riens
—took longer to heal because of my poor circulation. While my poor circulation may or may not have been related to my diabetes, higher blood sugar levels along with poor circulation make wounds and sores slower to heal.

It had taken me years, but I'd finally realized that, in addition to controlled blood sugar levels, as soon as an infection started, I needed to stay off my feet. It was hard because, as always, I feared being seen as someone with injuries, and all dancers are always performing with corns and blisters. So, in the early years, I'd dance on the infection, which meant that it got so bad I'd be at risk for an infection that could spread into the bloodstream or an amputation if the sores didn't heal. Eventually it would get
bad enough that I'd have to go to the doctor, who would then order me to stay off my feet, and the healing process would take longer than if I'd done the right thing in the first place. After a while, I learned that missing a performance or two when I first got an infection was better than dancing on it and then having to miss a couple of weeks.

One of the things that helped to prevent me from getting infections was always wearing white cotton socks under my point shoes in class and in rehearsals, and changing them throughout the day. Another precaution I took was always to wear flip-flops when I showered in the group dressing room. Most dancers wear adhesive tape or Band-Aids on their toes to protect them from blisters and corns. I was especially careful to do this, and to put moleskin and corn pads anywhere there was uncomfortable pressure from wearing a tight shoe all day. Sometimes I actually cut a hole in the shoe, which wouldn't be seen from the audience, to try to relieve the pressure.

One of the luxuries of being in a company is having toe shoes fitted to your feet and made to order. My shoes were made exactly to fit the specifications of my feet, and I was constantly changing the specifications, trying to find the perfect fit. It was a long process that never ended in all my years in the company.

 

As a soloist, I shared a dressing room with four other soloists. We each had a dressing space where we applied our makeup. We also each had a black theater case that was always left open, where we stored our clean tights, trunks and pointe shoes for that
evening's performance. Beyond that, there were massive amounts of pointe shoes and rehearsal clothes strewn all over the room.

When I arrived in the morning, I'd change from my street clothes into my leotard and tights and head up to the studio for class. Some dancers don't need as much time, but I always needed at least thirty minutes to stretch and warm up my body before I was ready to start moving. The first plié of the day was always hard for all of us. Some dancers sighed, we all giggled, everyone ached from the night before, and it helped to know we were all experiencing it together.

By the end of class I'd worked out my soreness and was ready to give my all in rehearsals, which lasted from noon to 6:00 p.m. with an hour break for lunch at some point. Since we never knew when that break would come, I always had food in my dance bag—dried fruit for lows and nuts and seeds in case I was too hungry to make it through to the lunch break.

Sometimes, when I didn't have a full day of rehearsals, I might even get a few hours off in the afternoon. In that case I would go home for lunch, relax and spend some time with Ulf before heading back to the theater to put on my makeup, re-warm-up my body, and then perform. If I was just in the first piece in the program, I might be home by nine-thirty and could have a nice dinner with Ulf. But if I were on last, I might not get home until close to eleven-thirty.

Looking back on that time, I sometimes wonder how any of us could have kept up with that schedule day after day. There were occasions, after a day of class and rehearsals, when all I wanted
to do was go home and collapse just at the time when I needed to summon up an even higher level of energy for the evening's performance. But then I would remember the inspiration and energy boost I got from the backstage atmosphere—the musicians warming up, the stagehands getting ready, dancers changing into their costumes—as I was preparing to go onstage, not to mention the sheer excitement and joy of the performance itself.

Different dancers have different pre-performance routines for warming up. Mine began at home when, if I had time, I would visualize myself the way Suzanne Farrell had taught me so many years before. I would see in my mind exactly how I wanted to dance, including all the details that would be necessary for giving a great performance. At the theater, I would make sure my body was thoroughly warmed up. I always did a nice, long warm-up even though I'd had class and rehearsals all day. Finally, in the ten minutes before the curtain went up, I'd go out on the stage, where I'd do the actual steps over and over until I felt comfortable with them and my body was extremely warm and ready to go.

Sometimes, when I was particularly nervous, I'd picture Sheila, the way she held her chest up, how overflowing with enthusiasm she was. I forced myself to remember why I was there, to love my experience, to not be afraid of imperfection. I reminded myself how many dancers would never be given this opportunity. I could not let my nerves rob me of being as great as I could be. I could not let my excuses, my fears, even if they were valid, interfere. I would not!

Each day I had to go out there and dance to the best of my ability as a soloist with the New York City Ballet. If coping with
diabetes was an added factor in my ability to achieve that, taking care of my health was also my responsibility. Except for checking my sugars, taking insulin or eating something sweet if I needed it, I never thought of myself as being different from any other member of the company. I never used my diabetes as an excuse. In fact, I went to the other extreme, never letting anyone except Ulf and Romy know what I had to do to get myself out on the stage and dance well.

 

One of the things I especially loved during my years as a soloist was working with new choreographers and, especially, having someone create a role specifically for me. One of my cherished experiences was working with Lynn Taylor-Corbett, who has choreographed not only many ballets for various companies, but also hit Broadway shows including
Titanic. Her
ballet
Chiaroscuro was
a mood piece featuring the phenomenal Jock Soto, with five other dancers coming in and out of his “dance.” Lynn had a clear vision of each character, and she wanted me to dance one of them.

During my six years as a soloist, I was cast in roles I never thought I'd be privileged to dance, ballets that had astounded me with their beauty and grace when I was a student and a young corps de ballet dancer. One of the most memorable for me was Balanchine's
Liebeslieder Walzer,
in which I was once again partnered by my close friend Ben Huys.

Another highlight of those years was dancing in the 1993 celebration Peter Martins had arranged to commemorate the tenth anniversary of Mr. B's death. For this event, the members
of City Ballet were joined onstage by leading dancers from the world's premier companies.

I was honored that, for the celebration, Peter chose me to dance the pas de trois of
Agon
with Kathleen Tracy and Peter Boal. This is one of the thirty-three ballets that comprise the epic collaboration between Balanchine and Igor Stravinsky, and, like all Balanchine ballets, it is a work of movement wedded to music. Balanchine wasn't trying to tell a story. “Dancing,” he said, “isn't about anything except dancing.”

 

No two parts could be more different than the fierce and fiery role I danced in
Agon
and the classically graceful Sugar Plum Fairy. Unless I was injured, I was cast in Sugar Plum every
Nutcracker season until I retired.

As the years passed, I became more nervous dancing Sugar Plum in her beautiful pale green tutu than I was about any other role. When I was young, it was easy and exhilarating to step into her gracious heart. I experienced her as not only gracious but also pure and wise, one who appreciated and respected every creature in her kingdom.

Although it was always one of my favorite roles, and I believe that I grew technically and artistically in the part, with time and age also came more and more self-consciousness and doubt. I was worried that I couldn't live up to what I'd once been in the role. Once I stepped on the stage, my fears disappeared and the dancing took over, but not without a week or so of extreme anxiety and sleepless nights.

In truth, I always felt pressured when I danced in a tutu. Because of the stiff bodice, you can't move as freely in a tutu as you can in a leotard, and even though my body was suited to a tutu, I felt extremely constricted and boxed in. For that reason I always preferred leotard—or fully skirted ballets—and whenever I danced Sugar Plum, I pretended that I was dancing in a leotard. In the end, despite my nerves, it was always a joyful experience.

 

By the mid 1990s, when I was promoted, City Ballet had changed in significant ways from the time I joined the company. It was now Peter's company and he was making it his own. The year I was promoted, he let go of many older corps dancers who had worked with Balanchine and developed their work ethic and aesthetic from him. At the same time, many other dancers—including some that Peter very much liked—left the company unexpectedly. In the wake of that exodus, the composition of the company changed dramatically.

The women and men who had worked directly with Balanchine were slowly disappearing. Gone were Suzanne Farrell, Patricia McBride, Ib Andersen and Karin von Aroldingen, and, inevitably, other dancers were dancing their roles. At first it was difficult for me to watch other dancers performing their signature pieces, but I came to appreciate that different dancers brought something special of their own to these roles and that this is what kept the ballets fresh and new. When Balanchine was alive, he had continually created new works that kept the company dynamic and alive.
But he had always maintained that when he was dead, he did not want City Ballet to become a museum. Besides the new ballets that were being created, part of what kept it from becoming that was seeing new dancers reinterpret roles he had created.

The company's ranks were being filled with dancers of my own generation, artists of great talent who were now coming into their own, bringing their own special gifts, experiences and emotions to every role they danced.

 

In January 1996, Lincoln Kirstein passed away. This was a huge loss and his absence was deeply felt. Then, two years after Lincoln, Jerome Robbins died.

Even though Jerry had long ago stopped casting me, he hadn't stopped noticing me. Whenever he passed me in the hallway, he would make it a point to stop and ask about my health. I always appreciated his attention and particularly remember the day, long before my promotion, when he came over to me while I was warming up my muscles before a rehearsal and said, “I've been watching you from the audience, trying to figure out what it is. Don't think so much about the audience. Get more into your body. Just be inside it.”

I was incredibly touched that he had taken the time to figure out what was keeping him from using me. As a rule, Jerry didn't do that for people. He didn't have to do that for me. I knew what he meant. At the time, my muscles were in so much distress that they wouldn't respond. As a result, I was having to put so much energy into my performance that I was probably overperform
ing. Although it was embarrassing to know that my trying so hard had looked to him as if I were trying too much, I appreciated the fact that he cared enough about me as a person to try to understand why he was disappointed in me as a performer.

Although I'd never really worked directly with Balanchine, and Jerry had never nurtured me in the way I'd hoped he would, I was, nevertheless, touched and influenced by their presence and their genius. Throughout my career, older dancers told me how sorry they were that Balanchine passed away before I had really gotten to work with him. As the years went by, however, I came to appreciate what a blessing it had been to work with him even for a moment, to have witnessed him, and to have had the privilege of working so closely with the people who had spent their lives working directly and intensely with him. I was lucky enough to have come in at the tail end of what was a period of astounding creativity and a confluence of larger-than-life talents and personalities in the world of dance.