MONDAY,MARCH9,2020| THEGLOBEANDMAILO A
I
’ve seen them out of my peripheral vision. I’ve
always seen them, even when young. Never
have I turned to look at them head on. White
straggly hair, bony shoulders, eyes on the
ground, slow progress along the sidewalk. Women
using walkers.
Thesewomenembodyoneofmyfears.Old,bare-
ly getting around with a clunky piece of equipment
that screams infirmity. Women invisible to all but
those who, like me, fear their condition, see them
and avert their eyes. Well, not quite all. These wom-
enarealsovisibletothosemoreenlightenedthanI–
those who don’t see a stereotype, but a person.
Sometimes I have coffee with a man who is the
ex-fire chief of my city. He likes to pass on tips he’s
learnedinhislonglife.“Alwaysstopatthetopofany
stairs,”he’stoldme.“Transferanythingyou’rehold-
ing in your banister hand to the other. Take hold of
the railing.”
Often, I ignore good advice. But this man’s words
carry authority. In his 93 years, he’s seen it all. And
histoneispleasant.ItbecomesalittlehabitIenjoy–
“hearing” his voice, stopping, transferring.
OneFridayevening,I’mwearingahousecoatand
pyjamas. In my right hand, a bottle of
glassescleaner.Istop,transferittomy
left, grip the banister. I’m on my way
down to watch Netflix with my hus-
band.
Near the bottom, something hap-
pens that transforms me in an instant
from an active, well-groomed woman
into a helpless, dishevelled crone. I
fall, try to grip the newel post to save
myself, spin and crash into the hall-
way.Istrikemyheadhardonthebath-
roomdoor,blackenmyrightarmfrom
wrist to elbow and fracture my right
hip.
There is instant recognition that
I’ve broken my hip. Then instant for-
getting of this fact. The amazing pow-
er of denial. After all, I’m the person
who has gone around telling my
friendsnevertobreakahip.It’sthebe-
ginning of the end, I’ve said. The downhill stretch. I
tell my husband that it’s strained, that’s all, ask for
two extra-strength Tylenol. I’ll get on the couch; we
can still watch Netflix.
Foranhour,Iwormmywayacrossthefloor,then
try, with his help, to get onto the couch. Where
there’sawillthere’saway,Ialwayssay.Butthistime,
willfailsme.Yes,ittakesanhourtounderstandthat
the only way out of this is an ambulance.
I phone 911 and ask them not to use the siren,
there’s no real rush.
I ask my husband to unlock the front door, to
bring my toiletries and makeup from upstairs.
Shoes. My box of pills and list of prescriptions –
readied back when I turned 70, in case I ever had a
stroke or heart attack.
Flashing lights alert me to the ambulance’s arriv-
al. A man and woman enter, carrying equipment.
They ask questions and discuss how to get me out.
Anhourpasses.Everytimetheytrytomovemeinto
the position they need, an involuntary scream es-capes me. I ask them to give me something that’ll
knock me out. We’re not allowed, they say. Finally,
theyuseaseatthatlookslikeapieceofhorsesaddle
and carry me, one on each side, over thick ice to the
curb.
I see our neighbours’ shadows in windows and
experience myself as I imagine they see me. Greasy
hair due for a wash. Housecoat with a milk stain. No
makeup. An old woman being carted away to the
Beginning of the End. I’ve become one of “them.”
Yet the real me still exists, under this disguise –
just as, I realize, the real “them,” the crones with
walkers,stillexistsunderthisdisguise.Whyohwhy,
I berate myself, does a thing always have to happen
to me before I truly understand it!
Thereisawaitinthedraftyareaoftheemergency
roombeforeapromotiontoacurtainedcubicleand
achairformyhusband.X-rays.Thenaprocessionof
polite young men in white coats. The news that yes,
it’sbroken.I’llneedsurgery.At2a.m.,myhusbandis
finally persuaded to leave.
I’m sent to a ward. Nothing to eat or drink. Sun-
day morning at 10, I hear the news that I’m going
down for surgery. The wait has been 37 hours. A
young man appears at my stretcher:
“Do you want a half or a whole hip re-
placement?”
I’veneverwantedhalfofanything.I
tell him that I swim 30 lengths regu-
larly, walk 40 minutes most days,
shovelsnowforourcornerlot.Hesays
he’ll give me a whole.
After six days, my sister and broth-
er-in-law arrive at the hospital with
edible food and clean clothes. They
drive us to Wingham, Ont. This is
home. My sister lives here, my brother
is near, the graves of my parents and
ancestors, as well as my living rela-
tives, all close by.
My sister produces a raised toilet
seat, a shower stool, a walker, a cane,
special shoes and a physiotherapist
from town. She and her husband cook
us nutritious, delicious meals. She
stands over me while I do a painful set of exercises,
threetimesaday.Shecorrectsme,chidesme,insists
on my best.
She keeps us for two weeks. As a result, four
weeks later, I will hardly know that my hip was bro-
ken.
The day we arrived in Wingham, my sister put on
her bathing suit and got into the shower with me.
Shewashedmybodyandmyhair.Childless,shesaid
later that she had never washed anyone but herself.
She said it was almost a religious experience.
My sister was born when I was almost 9. I walked
the floor with her, fed and dressed her, taught her
everything I knew. She was the best thing that had
ever happened to me.
Now, as in Robert Munsch’s classic picture book,
Love You Forever, the roles are reversed. Once again,
thecycleoflifeopensitspeacocktailanddisplaysits
inevitable unfolding.MarilynGearPillinglivesinHamilton.THECRONE’S
DISGUISE
ILLUSTRATIONBYCHELSEAO'BYRNEIusedtofearbecomingafrailoldwoman–andwhenIbrokemyhip,
Ithoughtitwasallover.ButnowIrealize,underneaththegreyhairand
thewalkers,we’restillthesamepeople,MarilynGearPillingwritesFIRSTPERSONIseeourneighbours’
shadowsinwindows
andexperience
myselfasIimagine
theyseeme.Greasy
hairdueforawash.
Housecoatwitha
milkstain.No
makeup.Anold
womanbeing
cartedawaytothe
Beginningof
theEnd.Haveastorytotell?Pleaseseetheguidelinesonourwebsitetgam.ca/essayguide,
[email protected]FirstPersonisadailypersonalpiecesubmittedbyreadersTODAY’SSUDOKUSOLUTION TODAY’SKENKENSOLUTIONNEWS |L
es Ballets Trockadero de
Monte Carlo was welcomed
back to Toronto Saturday
nightbyafullhouseattheWinter
Garden Theatre. Brooke Lynn
Hytes (Canada’s Drag Race) also
madeherreturntotheTrocksasa
special “uninvited” guest. The
Trocks, the all-male troupe danc-
ing en travesti, have made an art
formofballeticparody,takingthe
camp and downright silly ele-
ments of the ballet to new and hi-
lariousextremes.Knownfortheir
renditionoftheclassicSwan Lake,
the Trocks have serious reper-
toire, which they presented on
this formidable mixed bill.
Swan Lake, ostensibly the tale
of a man who falls in love with a
swan, and a spellbound woman
who dances as a bird, encapsu-
lates many of the underlying ab-
surdities of ballet. It is no wonder
the Trocks have made this their
signature work. The opening
gambit of evil sorcerer Von Roth-
bart dragging a pathetic card-
board swan across the stage is a
sign that you’re going to have to
suspend disbelief here, folks. This
is Odette with attitude, swans
that fight back and cosmically
vacuous Prince.
The principal performances
were stellar, but people come for
the Pas de Quatre, the unusually
thorny choreography done with
the four “petite” swans linking
hands.Thisversionwasaugment-
ed with chorus-girl high kicks,
shoulder rolls and eye-rolls when
it all gets too hard. Priceless.
Swan Lakewas only the appe-
tizer. What other company can
say that? It was followed by a sen-
sationally performed tarantella,
after Balanchine’s diabolical duet
with tambourines, mixing Italian
folk accents with rapid-fire pirou-
ettes and jumps. Next came
Grand Pas de Quatre, a recreation
of Jules Perrot’s grand divertisse-
ment canonizing the four leading
ballerinas of the Romantic era,
Marie Taglioni, Carlotta Grisi,
Fanny Cerrito and Lucile Grahn.
In the puffiest of powder-pink
Romantic-style tutus, the four
ballerinas cluster together, fram-
ing Taglioni. Now of a certain age,
Taglioni hops and minces about
the stage with her index finger
pointing at her chin in fixed re-
pose while the other ballerinas
stay out of her way. Particularly
vexatious toward Grisi, a rival in-
terpreter of Giselle, Taglioni does
all she can to remain in the lime-
light.
Hytes performed the iconic so-
lo, The Dying Swan, with a peren-
nially malting tutu – within min-
utes the stage looked like the af-
termath of a pillow fight. Hytes,
glamorous and radiant even in
avian death, took a moment to
acknowledge her fans from the
footlights, who had turned out in
force to see her return to the
stage.
And finally, the Trocks per-
formed an impressive staging of
Valpurgeyeva Noch after the Bol-
shoi Ballet’s version by Leonid
Lavrovsky. Valpurgeyeva Noch
presents a bacchanal, replete
with randy fauns and maidens, a
mischievous Pan and nymphs oc-
casionally getting tangled in their
veils.
Bacchante is held mightily
aloft by Bacchus, the god of wine,
in the ultimate celebration of So-
viet balletic camp.
The hardworking ballerinas of
the Trockaderos even stayed to
delight us with an encore, round-
ing out an evening of serious
laughs with this glorious troupe.SpecialtoTheGlobeandMailTheTrocks
raisethebarre
bytaking
balleticparody
tohilarious
extremes
PENELOPEFORDBALLETREVIEWBrookeLynnHytesmadeareturn
toLesBalletsTrockaderode
MonteCarloforaperformanceat
Toronto’sWinterGardenTheatre.