Sombre/Somber

Went to bed sombre, woke up, somber.

It was supposed to be a straightforward review of the broken arm.  

But once the doctor saw the x-rays, a shadow crossed the room.  A second opinion was quickly sought, then a third.  I sat in a quiet room with the very best in hand-elbow-arm in Singapore, listening to them discuss subluxation, compressed fracture, radial head, ulna, flexion, extension, rotation, physiotherapy, limited range of motion, surgery.

There's also a piece of bone, adrift.

When can I get back on a horse?  Will I ever be able to cartwheel again?  Kick up into handstand?  Do a push-up?  Move my arms like this?

It's one thing to halt a dance career by choice.  It's another to thing altogether to suddenly be confronted with the possibility/reality of losing the full range of motion of a limb.

I know not being able to cartwheel is not in the same category of true catastrophe; heartbreak, loss, sickness, disease, poverty, war crimes.  But being able to throw your body in a moving circular shape, on your hands instead of your feet, feels like a spontaneous smile- that simple, that joyful.

One of the kindest things ever said to me was what he said yesterday-

It's just the way it is with you athletes.  He didn't say anything else.  Instead he's put aside a few minutes in his morning routine to help me with my contact lenses.  He's bought a bucket and a ladle, set up an area for me to bathe.

The last time I hurt my other arm was right in the middle of production and a tour.  The show went on as it must.  I learnt to dance with that arm in a cast.

Backstage with YW, waiting to go on.

Early tomorrow morning, I am scheduled for surgery.  Post-op, I know there will be the usual pain, discomfort, vomiting and nausea.  I've asked for the option to return home.

And then the journey will truly begin.  Some combination of rest, and the re-educating of a mended arm to build strength, and move, move again.

photo credit- Eric Nakamura

Costume Change/ Broken Arm Season

 I'm doing the best I can.

 I still have one good arm, a great pair of legs, and when necessary, I hold things with  my mouth.

One of the bigger challenges each day is the once simple act of getting dressed.

The morning shower has been replaced with a hot bath, and every attempt to not slip in the tub while using my feet to manipulate the shower head and taps.

My broken arm needs to be kept dry.

My good arm does gymnastic feats and prevents me from drowning.

Then there is the wardrobe crisis.  

Aside from my favourite green dress-on-its-last-legs, I can't fit my arm into anything else; forget even attempting to pull on and button jeans.

Undaunted, we went back to the old hood in search of sleeveless, large pieces of clothing that I can crawl into and zip up with one hand.

Bruno waited patiently...

I got lucky.  At Helmut Lang, the SA gathered a long skirt into a hole for me to step into.  She then pulled the skirt up, smoothed it down, and folded the elastic waistband once over for a better fit.  She suggested three loose blouses to go with the skirt.  I chose the one with the largest arm holes.

Voila!  A new look.

I think the word is- editorial.

Because it took such a collaborative effort to get me dressed, I decided to leave the store in my new editorial outfit, and asked the kind SA to pack my old threads up instead.  Then I walked down the street to have tea with the London Besties, thinking editorial works at Grangier and Co, because Notting Hill netizens respond to style.  The restaurant was packed, but Broken Arm clad in editorial secured us a table.

And then the wonderful Myha at Matches called in a sleeveless coat for me.

 Together we found a way to get me into the coat.  She belted me up, knotting the ribbon towards the side of the body.
Do you like it, Tammy?  It's very, 'The Row'... I agree with you, it needs a heel...But you could wear it with-

I could wear it with leg warmers, I tell her.  On my arms.  It would take care of the cold.  It's editorial, I say, and don't bother taking it off.

*sleeveless coat- Isabel Marant

Dislodged

Dislodged- my left arm, I can feel it like a separate organ, hanging limply by my side.  I'm curled up, my shoulder is hiked too far up my left ear.  The ground is soft, wet, ah mud- my friend.

I can hear Dumpling, but I can't see him.  Voices buzzing around me-  There's been a casualty!  Get the ambulance!  Get the ranger!

Out in the Commons, I'm in everyone's way.  Call Ridgeway!  We can't have horses coming down the path!

Caroline holds my hand.  Someone else puts a blanket over me.  My body goes into shock.  The cold makes everything numb.

***
The pain is excruciating, audible.  I need the pain to subside before I attempt moving my legs.

Caroline again-  She's a tough woman, ordinarily she would just get up and get back on. She's a dancer. Her husband's a doctor.  She thinks she's broken something.

Dislodged- my arm, hanging without purpose by my side.
***

On the count of 3, I say, I can't get myself centred.  I need help.  One paramedic holds my disabled arm, the other cups me under my right armpit.  The ambulance can't be driven onto the dirt path.  The ground is too icy, there is mud everywhere.  I have to walk, my dislodged arm, carried like a purse close to me.  The pain, excruciating.
***

In the ambulance, they use a pair of scissors to cut off my jacket, my jumper, my long-sleeved shirt.  They need to get to my arm and my back.  Later at the hospital, I ask the trainee to cut off both sleeves, my attempt at symmetry.  After I rise from being sedated and having my elbow shoved back into its correct place, I find more of my shirt has been cut off.  I leave the hospital shrouded in one of their gowns.  When I finally get home, I cut off everything that's left.  It's the only way to get out of these mud-filled clothes.

It's been a long day.  I got a bit weepy hearing his voice.

I've sub-luxed my elbow, fractured the head of my ulna.  Shit happens to the best of us, and oh yes, horse-back riding is an at-risk spot.  But in moments like these, there's still so much to be joyful and grateful for.  The chorus of love, friendships old and new, the kindness of strangers and the kindness of friends.

Two summers ago, we journeyed to the Fallen Empire, and boy did I feel, dislodged.  It took a while to find my feet, build an ecosystem of sorts.  How long we remain, God only knows.  But while I'm here, breathing, moving with that newly disabled arm, I'm gonna give it, my all.

The Words Get In The Way

Bruno and I are still living in Citadines.  I've extended our stay.

I think I often confuse many people I meet in London, because I don't talk about my real work here.

A production company would like to cast Bruno and I in a promotional reel on behalf of their clients, to pitch a story for TV.  

"We'd like to film you in the morning walking Bruno... and then Bruno having a spa treatment... Bruno out in Suffolk, running through the fields, snuggling by the fire..."

"Pay?  Oh, no, there will be no payment I'm afraid..."

I'm happy to help.  But I find myself unable to rise to the excitement of those who so kindly thought of us.  Filming is not straightforward work.  Bruno's been unwell.  The lack of pay kind of bothers me because I know production work.  I don't know how to express all these thoughts to them gracefully.  I don't seem to even have the right words to explain, this is truly who I am, this is what I do, this is me.

photo credit-  Prestige Magazine, Singapore

Oh.  At the start of my career 30 years ago?  My face, sold soap.

photo credit-  The Straits Times

The words get in the way.  I'm listening to the producer enthuse, and my concentration wanes.

I've not read The Kite Runner.  But recently, I read Khaled Hosseini's And the Mountains Echoed.

It was a stunning experience!  It wasn't easy getting through some bits because I couldn't stop the avalanche of tears.  The writing is epic, and human, and sweeping.  I finished the book with a revitalised sense of love, the ties that bind and bind.

Number 14 trudges along Brompton Road, passing the Natural History Museum, 

and the V & A.

We get off at Haymarket, walk north-east along Shaftesbury, turn up Dean Street to meet K for Sunday Roast.

When K kisses me goodbye, I recall what I read-

Out beyond ideas

of wrongdoing and rightdoing,

there is a field.

I'll meet you there.

-Jelaluddin Rumi, 13th century

Mother Work

BBC Weather Forecast- 1 degree, dry, fog in areas.

(Thank you, God for the dry and cold weather that makes moving much easier.  I can brisk walk,  I can drag.  I can haul.  And my hair will keep its volume and shape.)

11:40am, Roland Gardens- Mom, your smile is kind of weird!

Summie, Mom is so tired, I feel like keeling over!

Mom, I love you!  You're amazing!  Mom, I don't want to go back to school!

12:37pm, An overcrowded train.  

Mom, where are my bags?

There.

But Mom, we are seated here.

There's no space here.  Don't worry about it.  Your bag is so freaking heavy, nobody would try stealing it.

(Grateful for a moving train, for two seats beside each other, for an excellently-behaved puppy, who stays unmoving for the next 2.5hrs, and oh, the fog outside providing great light for flattering photography.)

Summie, please send this picture to Daddy.

Right now?  

Yup, so he knows we are fine.

(*All Moms multi-task.  To keep long-distance marriage alive, one must strategically remind husband of one's photogenic presence.)

2pm-  Mom, when we arrive at Bristol, YOU take the bags and I will run up to check which platform we need to be waiting on for the next train.

Mom, will you miss me?  Mom will you still love me if I do badly in my exams.  Mom, I told Daddy I haven't really been studying...

!!!

Mom, at least the next train has 6 coaches instead of 4...

(I lift her giant bag of books onto this next train and nearly fell over.)

Mom?  I'll meet you on the platform when we get there.  I'm going to go find my seat.  Bye, Mom!

(Mom is left stranded with mountain of bags and Glasgow-bound commuters pressed too close.)

3:09pm- station, taxi, and one last flight of stairs.

Mom, you are right!  Superheroes wear leotards like dancers do!  Yay!  Mom, you are so amazing!  We made it!

Bye, Mom!  You take care ok?  Make sure you let me know when you get in, and make sure you eat something!

Eating something, Hotel du Vin (dog-friendly)

Mom, are you walking back to the station?

(Mom gets lost along the way because night has come and her eyesight is failing.)

Mom, I'm sure Bruno can't wait to have you all to himself again!

Mom, I hope you find a seat on the train!  Take care, ok, Mom?

Mom, I know when you left home at 18, you never went back... well, that's because you never had, you!  But I have you.  

So Mom, when I am an adult, can I come live with you?

New Year

                                                                      He's gone.

On the last morning of 2014, I experienced for the first time on horseback, a white winter.

The beauty of the morning was silencing.  Dumpling walked on, carefully picking his feet.  

2013 was a Mountain.  2014, the year of the horse.  2015?

2015 stretches before me, around me- a blankness.

Where am I going to live?  What happens next?  What am I going to do for the rest of- 

Andrew Edmunds in Soho and unexpected jazz at Blakes on New Year's Eve.

His hand covering mine.  His voice pulling me closer, closer.  

I know you don't believe in marriage, Baby, but I do, I do.

New Year's Day, we contemplated a tiny cottage for sale.  We visited SF, unannounced.

 In the afternoon, the day got sweeter.  We met British Aunt and Uncle for tea.

If he is like his father, then you are a very lucky girl- British Aunt said to me.

Don't jump ship!  Trace said.  They need you!

Mom?  Daddy and I are not trains on tracks.  We are more like two ships.  We take you for granted.  But without you, we are lost at sea.  Wherever the tide moves, we just get swept along...

At Terminal 2:  Should I take my jacket off, Baby, and pack it in?

No, keep it with you.  In case something terrible happens, you may need to stay warm.  And if anything happens, make sure you put the life jacket on and cover your wine glass with your hand.

Cover my wine glass?

Yes, so the wine won't spill all over you.

I made you laughed and you circled me tighter, tighter in your arms.

I want to live and live.  PS on the other hand, is quite happy to go even if now, British Uncle told us.

Yes, British Aunt said.  I've done so much.  I'm ready  Besides, I believe in the right to die.

Last night the wind rattled windows, and awakened from sleep, your legs entangled mine.

One day, I will be frail.  

No, Baby, you have your Popo's genes!

Popo is frail!

Only when she turned 94, and got sick.  But look at her now!

But I am accepting of being frail...

No, Baby, because who will take care of me, the way you do?

Time has speed I can't quite grasp.  

Too soon all I see is your back.  You turning, and waving, turning and waving. 

Then you are swallowed by doors, by distance.  I can't see you anymore.  The pain is as acute as it is familiar.  You are like your father.  And I am a very lucky girl.