by Cindi Pearce (Thu Jan 14, 2010)
I know
I'm never going to be Shakira, but if I'm lucky I may eventually be able to do
a fair (or, more likely, shabby) imitation of her belly dancing moves. I've
always wanted to learn how to do it, but I could never find a class in my neck
of the woods. Belly dancers aren't a dime a dozen in Appalachia. And then I
came across a class in a town that was within driving distance. I concluded, on
the spot: I'm going to do this.
Forget
the fact that I'm 56 and my body aches and creaks like the stairs in a decrepit
antebellum mansion. Or that my first thought upon awakening each morning is: ‘Damn
it, run over by that Mack truck once again,' as I get out my figurative oil can
and grease up like the Tin Man in 'The Wizard of Oz.' Although I hadn't
consciously set out to reinvent myself (as a belly dancer of a certain age)
this opportunity happened to coincide with the end of one year and the
beginning of another, and I thought that was serendipitous.
The
chance to belly dance for the first time also happened to arise on the same day
that I was going to find out my fate: Did I have breast cancer?
I had
undergone a breast biopsy two weeks before. I was still sore and bandaged, but
I opted to keep this latest potential calamity tucked securely under my hat,
choosing to go about the business of living. I danced in a pre-Christmas
community show and orchestrated the annual Christmas family bash without
announcing to the world that I might be in deep shit. After all, it was my shit to deal with, and I wanted to
keep it that way.
I
debated: Do I really want to belly dance for the first time a few hours after
getting bad news? On the other hand, perhaps it wouldn't be bad news. And, then
again, why not dance even if the news is bad? More reason than ever to take the
bull by the horns. It might prove therapeutic to shimmy in my coined hip scarf,
clicking my finger castanets, allowing the earthy and exotic music to transport
and distract me from the grimness that lay ahead in 2010.
For six
weeks I had been bouncing back and forth between mammogram and ultrasound
appointments, consultations with the radiologist and the surgeon and then, at
long last, finally having surgery. Fifteen long and tortuous days passed
between the time of the biopsy and getting the news. No woman should have to
wait that long for...anything! Do not have a medical emergency over the
holidays. Your life or death sentence gets put on the back burner while your
doctor takes her holiday vacation.
I could
either eat myself up with anxiety or...dance.
I opted
to dance.
Fortunately,
I received good news and was able to fully breathe for the first time in six
weeks. I don't have cancer, merely pesky fibrocystic breasts, and I've got the
scar to show for it.
My first
night of belly dancing was a celebration of healthy breasts and another year
that wouldn't involve surgeries, radiation and chemotherapy.
That's a
pretty good start to the New Year.
