The Dance Class

This essay, published in This Path in October, is not really about dancing or surfing. It's about life and the twists and turns it takes. I was moving along fine, until a routine mammogram turned up a "new finding." I've blogged about this before in greater detail, but the point is you never know when your turn will come to face serious illness. Which is why I've been so incensed about the US Preventative Services Task Force recomendations to delay the age of onset of screening and to decrease the intervals between screenings. If I'd had cancer, I'd have been dead if those recommendations were followed. I know a lot of women who didn't get good news like I did. I still need to go for imaging every six months--that will be January--and I'm not looking forward to it. But the alternative--finding out I waited too long and the consequences are worse.

If anyone would like an autographed copy of This Path please contact me at carole@caroleannmoleti.com

To read an excerpt of "Endless Possibilities", published in the same anthology, hop over to my other blog http://caroleannmoleti.livejournal.com/24658.html

I sat with nine others, naked from the waist up, shivering in a white gown decorated with blue flowers, specially designed to tie in the front, allowing one breast at a time to be exposed, squashed, and twisted. The odds were that at least one of us would get bad news. Was it wrong for me to wish it was someone else?

The tech pressed and contorted, a tight-lipped smile on her face. "I'm sorry, I know this hurts."

Just do it! I wanted to scream. "That's okay." I flashed an identical false smile.

She took the films to the radiologist, told me to wait, and ordered breakfast.

The sonographer traced the offending breast in radial strokes, the machine clicked and whirred. How many of them are there? I thought, lying in the darkened room with my name and future illuminated on a tiny screen.

"Does it hurt?" She saw me grimace.

"It does now," I answered.

"I'm not supposed to tell you, but it looks good." Her smile was real. "I'll get the doctor."

Too many minutes passed during which time I shivered but didn't feel cold. I studied the image of the offending breast containing two dark round blobs, still not daring to believe.

"Good news," the radiologist walked in and announced. "Just two simple cysts which don't need biopsies."

He talked for a while, but I recall little more than something about hormonally active breasts and his parting words, "We'll see you in six months."

That will be just before my next birthday. I remembered how good it felt in the summer of my life, when my body behaved the way it was supposed to, and I could count on good genes and lifelong fitness.

My midwinter lips chapped, cuticles cracked and bleeding from the cold, I don my leotards and walk into adult ballet class at a midtown Manhattan studio. The room is filled with women and men too old (or not good enough) to make it in the dance world. Professional dancers from the City's best companies teach there, allowing us to dream to live piano accompaniment.

I pull on leg warmers to keep my muscles limber. Black power stretch tights hide the varicose veins. I flex and extend my feet, coaxing them to curve correctly despite an orthotic in my left slipper to keep pressure off an old stress fracture. Dancing, particularly on pointe, isn't kind to aging ballerinas, even the ones who have earned the right to call themselves that.

All the regulars are there. Most are forty-somethings, or older, hair pulled up into buns frosted with gray. I emulate the younger, pony tailed dancers, but they no doubt find comfort in the fact that youth gives them an advantage they don't have when competing with wrinkle-free peers. The men's tights reveal sagging behinds and the precise orientation of their frontal anatomy. My sheer black skirt provides no more than an illusion of a flat tummy and cellulite free thighs. This is a group who has long since passed the stage of caring what the hell anyone else thinks.

I'm not the only one who has escaped the riptides and undertow. The anorexic Goth with multiple piercings and tattoos no longer looks like a skeleton, but keeps glancing in the mirror at what she must think is a huge butt.

A blonde beauty, my age, still wears a slinky, backless leotard with no skirt. As she exercises her feet and stretches, I notice worry lines carved deeply into the face that last summer, held up a confident, smiling chin. She must have donated ten pounds and twenty years to the anorexic; her skin looks dry and leathery, dotted with bruises and band-aids over venipuncture sites. I feel a pang of guilt and suspect she was one those who didn't get good news. I want to hug her, but she's not here for a pity party.

The instructor prances in on the balls of her feet and does une chasse around the studio, greeting the class.

"Carole, how nice to see you back."

I explain my absence, leaving out a lot of details.

"Take it easy, no jumping or twisting that knee." She gestures to the pianist, and he begins to play.

We do our barre routine, and she corrects body position, adjusts an arm here, tips a chin up there, praising our efforts. The blonde struggles to hold her balance.

"Don't push yourself," our teacher whispers, stroking a battered arm.

"Very nice body position. Beautiful feet. Show the rest of the class how combré is supposed to look."

The anorexic smiles with pride and demonstrates the exquisite deep back bend that only a younger body can achieve.

"Gentlemen, your flexibility is increasing." She turns to the pianist. "Something up tempo please."

"Carole, lead the group across the floor. You know the combination. Five, six, seven, eight."

Can I do it? It's been months. I know the steps, but my brain doesn't communicate with the feet. Try to keep up and don't fall down.

"Thank you all for your time and effort." The instructor ends the class with reverence.

We perform the prescribed graceful arm and leg maneuvers, bow to her and the pianist who, in his own musical rapture, remains oblivious to our struggles. We rush back into the freezing headwind of real life.

©Carole Ann Moleti, 2009. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced in any form without permission of the author.