“Edith Fisher?”
I nod in the direction of the guy who called my name.
In the months I haven’t been training, my turns would be off, my balance gone, my feet getting soft... I’ve lost the calluses on my feet.
It’s a travesty across the board. I’ve let myself cry and wallow for two months. Now it’s time to get my shit together, knuckle down, and get back on the stage.
(14th March – Day 77 Post Op)
Pushing myself to get back to class might not have been my best idea to date. I thought I was fine. I thought I knew my limits, that I was getting stronger, but something’s going on in my ankle, and I’m definitely not fine.
I was allowed to take barre. No relevés, or balancing on demi pointe on one foot. But I was back. Sort of. I was in the studio at least, doing the bare minimum. I was chafing so bad to get my pointe shoes back on, I couldn’t fight the lure. Once they slid onto my feet, something felt wrong.
I’ve fought the sinking dread in my stomach for a few days, but I’m sitting in my orthopedic surgeon’s office waiting to get called for the results of my latest x-ray.
PT said it was too soon.
Ortho said it was too soon.
Apollo said it was too soon.
I really,reallydon’t want x-rays to agree with all of them. Because while he’d never come right out and say it, “I told you so” would hang heavily between us.
I’m called back, follow my ortho to his office, and take a seat, my palms sweaty as I await my fate.
“It’s not good, Edith.”
Going back to dancing before an injury is healed and ending up reinjured is super common in my world, and from the grave lines on his forehead, and the sadness in his eyes, I’ve become a statistic.
“I know you wanted to get back to peak fitness by the end of the month for your audition, but...” He swallows, time hangs heavily, the weight of his tone suspended in the air between us. “I’m sorry, Edith. But we’re going to need to take you in for another surgery.”
My stomach plummets. My ears pop. I blink frantically trying to clear the debris from the bomb he’s just dropped on me. His lips continue to move, but I only hear every few words, “floating tibial piece...” “not healing correctly...” “metal plates.”
He can’t be serious. He can’t be telling me I need hardware in my ankle. So I pushed myself a little harder than I should have. A bad sprain, perhaps. But another whole surgery?
This has to be a sick joke, a twisted exaggeration of the truth to teach me a valuable lesson about letting my body rest and heal. Tears blur my vision as my whole body shakes. I’m not going to make my audition. I’m not going to get back to class any time soon.
As he goes through surgical options with me, my dancing career slips through my fingers like grains of sand. Being careless with my recovery has clearly come back to bite me in the ass.
If I've missed my chance at auditions this year, what are my options now? Do I try to find a college summer intensive for next year? Is there someone who does coaching online that I can hire? Maybe Progressing Ballet Technique, or a retired dancer from the long list I stalk on socials.
Could I teach? If I want to teach how do I get started? Should I do a certification? ABT's Teacher Certification would be the obvious choice for me. Do I need to change majors? Take a leave of absence from school? What major would I even change to?
So many questions. And not many answers.
Fuck.
Have I really ruined any chance of getting back into a pair of pointe shoes?
CHAPTER21
Apollo
(MARCH 20TH – DAY 83 POST OP)
Every goal is scored because someone makes a mistake.
Not even our three-on-one breakaway was enough to even the game last night against the Cyclones.
