"Okay Cygnets, one more time from the top," said Loipa Araujo,
a world renowned Cuban ballet coach, sternly, as she gestured to the piano
player to repeat the same sequence of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. Managing a fake, polite smile, I gripped at every fiber
of my being to not collapse on the floor and shake my legs. I had been
experiencing daily calf spasms for more than a year that grew progressively
worse and seemed to have no cure. Exasperated by the hard floors I was dancing
on, the nine to five rehearsal schedule, and the disturbingly cold temperature
inside the theatre, my calves showed no mercy as I was doing my best to
showcase my art at the Carreño Dance Festival. Despite the state I was in, I had
been chosen from more than fifty girls to be one of the four little swans, a
soloist role in the excerpt of Swan Lake in the end of festival production
which featured principle dancers from top companies around the world such as
Sarah Lane and Jose Manuel Carreño. Arriving to class an hour early to warm up,
memorizing every combination while attempting to apply all of the corrections
given by the coaches, and performing every combination as if I was dancing the
lead role in a company production, I was still forced to hobble over to the
wings of the stage between every exercise to lay on my back like a flipped
turtle and rest my legs. As soon as I was back on my feet, the pain would
resume. I felt horribly embarrassed that I had shown weakness, and was frustrated
that I could not manage the pain other dancers seem to cope with. Feeling like
a problematic sissy, I could just imagine audience members watching me,
whispering to each other, "What is wrong with her? If she can't handle a
thirty second exercise, she definitely can't dance professionally." Nobody
understood what was going on in my legs, not even me.
Ever since the pain began, my parents and I made every effort to cure
it. Little did we know, it was not a simple case of shin splints assigned by
both an orthopedist and a chiropractor, a hydration problem as suggested by an
endocrinologist, something treatable by vasodilators as prescribed by a
cardiologist, a bout of panic attack related muscle tensions as stated by a
psychiatrist, nor even spoiled laziness as accused by my Cuban, private coach.
It was not until I took it upon myself to research "Daily anterior and
lateral calf spasms" that I found the true cause, chronic compartment
syndrome. As I nodded along reading all of the symptoms, a deluge of happiness
poured out of me as I realized that I was not alone, and my afflicted state
without reason. This abruptly ended when I read that the only cure was surgery,
or amputation if went untreated long enough. "No, no, that is ridiculous,"
I chuckled to myself, scoffing off the importance of the situation, attempting
to convince myself that I was a hypochondriac. All the doctors I went to agreed
that the symptoms were text book of compartment syndrome, but could not believe
it could happen to a ballet dancer. They shooed me away because I was not a
football or soccer player. What I trained in was not considered a
"real" sport. All doctors that is, except Alejandro Posada, an
Orthopedic Surgeon and Sports Doctor.
Within five minutes of me describing the pain, he diagnosed it as
compartment syndrome, and recommended pressure testing. He went on to say that
I would need bilateral fasciotomies, where a cut down the fascia would be made
in both the anterior and lateral compartments of both my calves. My mother was
shocked, and proclaimed that he was a money hungry psycho. She could not come
to grips with such an intense situation so quickly. Instead of jumping to the
more invasive option, I decided to take a month off of ballet to see if the
pain would go away. It never did. Even after a month of absolutely no dancing
or exercising, my calves were as hard as stone, as if they had seen Medusa
herself. All out of hope, I returned to Dr. Posada's office, where he agreed
that my time off had no effect on alleviating my condition. He proposed that I
have a compartment test done, to measure the pressure in the compartments.
The night before I was scheduled to have the testing done, I walked into
my parent's room to find my mother teary eyed. Having read up on the procedure
and seen a video, she was completely petrified, not wanting I, her daughter, to
experience such an event. I tried to ignore it, and push the worries to the
back of my mind, but curiosity got the best of me. I searched on the internet for
a video of the testing and stumbled upon a video with the title "Here we go again! Chronic Exertional Compartment
Syndrome Test with Pressure Gauge". It
showed a man's calf, ventral side up, about to
be punctured by a 14 gauge needle, which looked more like a straw to
stir your coffee than something to inject yourself with. As the needle entered
the skin at a perfectly perpendicular angle, it appeared to be pushing downward
with great force, sliding inwards swiftly after the initial entrance stab, as
if the man's calf was a balloon that was being popped by a pen. To make things
worse, the doctor kept the needle in for more than thirty seconds, moving it
slightly in and out, and squeezing the muscle occasionally. He then repeated
the process a few more times. Watching the video in awed terror, my palms began
to sweat and my stomach churned. Comments on the video of people who had
experienced it made it worse. The general consensus was that it made big men
cry like little girls because it was done sans anesthesia. However, I knew that
no amount of pain from this 20 minute procedure would be enough to make me not want
to end the physical and mental hell I had been living for the past year that
turned my love for dancing into dread.
Accompanied by my "support group" which consisted of my
parents, sister, best friend and her husband, I arrived at the doctor's office
at 7 am, right on time. I sat there and did what one normally does in a waiting
room, nervously skim over magazines. I prepared myself as the doctor prepared
the testing station. He then called me in and instructed that only one person
could accompany me. I chose my father because of his logical, calm demeanor and
his medical knowledge, thanks to his profession as a psychiatric doctor (which
yes, does come in handy often in my household). The doctor lead me into a cold,
yet oddly inviting room and I sat down on the patient's table. I gripped at my
father's hand as if I was once again a five year old girl going to see the
circus. He then went on to explain how the procedure would be executed and
informed me that if the pressure in my calves was above 15 mmHg at rest, above
30 mmHg after exercise, or above 15 mmHg five minutes after exercise, I had
compartment syndrome. Sterilizing my skin with an orange liquid called betadine
and ensuring me that everything was going to be ok, he pulled out the infamous pressure
testing monitor. Its needle seemed to be even larger in person, but I laid on
my back and closed my eyes, still holding onto my father's hand. "This is
it," I told myself. The needle entered my skin, making a clicking noise as
it broke through the top layers of epidermis and slid into the muscle. It was
painful, but not nearly as terrible as I had imagined, likely due to the
adrenaline pumping through my veins. He held it there for thirty seconds,
moving the needle and squeezing my muscle occasionally, just as I had seen in the
video online. He explained to me that he did this to ensure that he got an
appropriate average of the pressure. I then moved my ankle around until my
muscle was in a burning spasm, and he inserted the needle for another thirty
seconds. I waited five minutes, and he inserted the needle once again. This was
done in both the lateral and anterior compartments of my left calf. The results
showed that in my anterior compartment, I had a pressure of 14 at rest, a
whopping 42 after exercise, and 37 after five minutes. In the lateral
compartment, I had 29 at rest, 35 after exercise, and 27 after five minutes. My
diagnosis of compartment syndrome was finally confirmed.
With my diagnosis determined, I was
practically given three options: quit dancing, keep dancing and increase the
necrosis in my calves until I need my legs amputated, or have surgery. From the first
instance, my mind was made up, I was going under the knife. "Here goes
nothing," I thought. The procedure took place on October 13th, 2011.
Although I exited the hospital that day in a very fashionable manner (drugged
and passed out in a wheelchair), it was not long until my wannabe Hoveround was
put out of commission and replaced by a cane, and I was off of the pain killers
prescribed by my surgeon. After I regained the strength to walk, and had my
stitches removed, I began to frequent the gym daily, for hours on end. By early
January, I was back to ballet, and by May, I had regained all my strength,
along with more mental maturity, and a clear goal in my mind. That same month,
I performed an excerpt of Coppelia as
"Swanilda", the principle
role in the ballet, Spectre de la Rose,
a pas de deux, and the "Jardin
Animado" scene of Le Corsaire. The
following week, I attended World Ballet Competition, was a third round
finalist, and was offered a traineeship with Festival Ballet of Providence.
Needless to say, I did not, and still to this day do not, regret my decision to
take the risk of surgery, and am proud to say that I both recovered from it,
and came back stronger, emotionally, and physically.
