A section from the Flawed Daimond.
The Ballet lesson
It was a warm summer’s day and on my feet were a pair of new pink ballet slippers. The soft pink satin wrapped around my tiny feet and was held fast with a thin strip of elastic. I wore a pink leotard and my hair was tied into a bun on the top of my head; the mass of curls still desperately trying to escape. I was five years old and so excited. For weeks now all I had been thinking about was my first ever ballet lesson. Lianne, my best friend, who lived across the road from our house, had started her ballet lessons weeks ago. I had asked my mum a hundred times if I could go with Lianne, but the answer was always the same, ‘I will think about it.’ Until one day my mum said smiling, ‘yes.’
Standing in a large reception room filled with excited children spinning and waving their arms around, I waited to be called into my class. I could feel the butterflies fluttering inside my stomach and when the ballet teacher finally opened the doors to call my group in, I thought my heart would burst out of my chest with excitement.
The dance room comprised of a large almost empty space with a wooden barre, which stood proudly from the mirrored wall. There was a single chair that sat alone in the far corner and a row of dorm windows, which allowed a shaft of sunlight to warm the fluorescent light that illuminated the room.
We all stood in a circle, holding hands, as the ballet teacher clapped and instructed our feet what to do.
‘Ok girls, now walk around in a circle and as you do, point your toes as you lift your feet. That’s right girls well-done, now skip… a little bit faster… that’s lovely, well done,’ she said rhythmically, to the clapping of her hands.
At first I had felt fine, but the more I skipped and danced the more breathless I began to feel; finally the teacher said we could sit and I flopped to the ground with relief. My heart was beating so loudly I could hear it thud inside my ears; it was so loud I could hardly hear my teacher’s voice, as she spoke softly to me.
‘Are you ok Sara?’ she whispered concerned that I had become ill.
‘Yes Miss,’ I uttered breathlessly as I smiled enthusiastically, in the vain hope that she wouldn’t call my mum.
Looking down at my beautiful ballet slippers, the fluorescent lights flickered in the satin, as black dots, which always came just before I blacked out, started to dance in my vision. I focused hard on my satin slippers until those dots disappeared while my classmates pointed and lifted their toes, repeating the words ‘Good toes, Naughty toes.’ But it was clear that I was not ok and before the class had ended, my ballet teacher took my hand and walked me back into the reception room to mum. Mum looked shocked to see my appearance. My blonde curls had escaped and had stuck to my head with beads of sweat. My tiny hands were ice cold and blue at the tips. My lips and nose had also turned a deep blue, almost purple and I was as white as a sheet.
Soon after the disaster of ballet, my parents were informed that I had been born with artery stenosis defect, a hole in my heart, something the doctors had decided not to mention before.
‘We thought that it would have only caused you further distress,’ the doctor had said.
I never went back to ballet but I still have those beautiful pink satin slippers.
Thunderbolt Tricycle
Standing in the playroom, cascaded in pure white light, stood a little tricycle. Etched on both sides of its bright, shiny, blue frame were two tiny red thunderbolts. It had two big, fat, black wheels at the back and one sitting proudly underneath the handlebars. Before my operation I was only allowed to sit on its soft black seat and push myself gently back and forth; but not today. Today I was going to ride this wonderful tricycle as fast as I possibly could, and why not! I was all better now.
‘What are you doing young lady? You should be in bed,’ a voice echoed after me, down the corridor.
Catch me if you can, I thought, as a sped down the long corridor.
I was finally riding that wondrous trike and no one was going to stop me.
I had been happily riding up and down this long corridor for some time. I could feel my heart beating against my chest and my lungs catching each breath, desperately trying to keep up with the motion of my skinny little legs. The corridor was lit by a row of high windows and the light from them cast a mottled pattern across the white floor, which blurred as I flew past. My blonde curly hair flew in the wind I had created; I was soaring. Then there was a sudden stop. White, thin, hands with long graceful fingers and two shiny rings had hold of the tricycle.
‘Enough now, you can play later,’ my Mum said in her firm but gentle way, as she picked me up and carried me back to my bed.
I was to regret my eagerness to ride that tricycle only a few hours later, when my lung collapsed and there was a sudden hustle and bustle of nurses in my room. I clung tightly to Annabel my teddy, in fear one of the nurses with their sincere faces wanted to take her away from me.
‘I’ll just be outside sweetheart,’ Mum struggled to say. ‘Grandad’s here; look.’
There he was, my Grandad, this tall lanky man, with fine, frizzy, dark grey hair, which sometimes stood up, as if he had rubbed a balloon on top of his head. His eyes appeared small behind his thick, black, rectangular glasses. He had a soft, gentle tenor voice, which always sounded so calm and loving, and he always smelt like tobacco smoke. He carried a packet of smokes in his shirt pocket with his lighter. His 40 a day habit had stained his long fingers a yellowy orange and the colour had soaked into his nails, which had deep ridges carved into them.
Leaning over me, he kissed my forehead.
‘It’s all right sweetheart, you’ll feel better soon I promise,’ Grandad said tenderly, as I struggled to catch my breath.
‘Here you go Sara, why don’t you draw me a picture,’ said a young faced nurse, as she handed me a large thick tube with three fat pens inside it and lay a piece of paper on the rolling table over my bed.
Opening the tube, more out of curiosity than anything else, for I really did not feel like drawing, I found a red, a green and a blue pen.
‘Here let me help you,’ Grandad said pulling the lid of the blue pen and handing it back to me.
As he lifted the lid of the pen, a violently strong smell floated up my nose, like the smell of Vicks as it hits the hot water. The smell made me want to take a deep breath in, but my lungs were unable to inflate. I wanted to smell it again but wasn’t sure if I should.
‘They smell funny don’t they?’ the young nurse said.
I nodded and smiled weakly as I concentrated my attention on these big smelly pens; completely unaware that a doctor had pushed a small plastic tube into my chest.
‘You can smell it again, it won’t hurt you,’ she added.
So I brought it closer to my nose and took a big breath; this time I could breathe easily.
‘Well done Sara, you were so brave,’ said another nurse said.
‘I was? Why?’ I thought now, freely breathing in the pen and feeling much better as my Grandad had promised.
Turning to Annabel who by now had been crushed under my arm, her little bonnet askew, I put the pen to her hard solid nose and I noticed two new tiny stitches in my chest.
Seeing the puzzled look on my face, Grandad said ‘It’s Ok sweetheart, your lung was poorly but it’s all fixed now.’
Then mum came rushing back into my room, her eyes red and arms out wide, ready to give me a big hug.
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