The Old Dancer Can Do This

Ballet was the worst mistake of my life. From age six to fifteen, a return at eighteen, and one final push from twenty-one to twenty-two—I blew my knees out at twenty-one trying to find my way back to the stage.

The truth? I sucked at dancing. But I made lifelong friends, and I lost my knees.

Years later, during a high-risk pregnancy, I gained eighty pounds. I thought the weight would just come off, but I never saw 140 again. By the time Pop died two years ago, I was 276. I wept at the scale.

But then, I started losing.

I’m 240 now—and that’s after finally fitting back into a size 18. My ortho is awesome; he tells me every pound lost is a gift to my joints. Right now, it’s bone-on-bone. I’m thirty pounds away from qualifying for knee surgery, but life doesn't pause for a medical timeline. I have to return to work. When I find a teaching job, I’ll have to make it through a year and pray these knees can hold out a little longer.

I’m 54.

The other day, I fell. At this moment, my "good" knee is under a special ice pack. I’m upset, I’m scared, and I have a million things racing through my mind. I know the stakes: I have to get lower to qualify for surgery. I have to take care of myself. My ortho is proud of my progress, and I know I’m on my way.

Right now, I have two old socks filled with ice cubes, tied tightly and perfectly balanced under three stacked pillows to keep the swelling down.

The old dancer can do this.