<< Go Back

Nutcracker Cottage

By Stephanie Guerrero

Order Now!

Prologue
December 24,
Christmas Eve
Denver, CO

The terrifying sound of a loud pop rang out across the packed Denver theater. Searing pain accompanied disbelief, as prima ballerina for Nutcracker, Cynthia Andrews, landed her arabesque jump and crumbled into a mound of tulle. A collective gasp from the audience heaped humiliation on top of the pain. She could not move, could not breathe. The doctor’s dire warning about her spine and knees succumbing to endless, grueling attempts to go beyond pounded like a bullhorn in her head.
Your body has limits, Cynthia, and you’ve already passed them.
Instead, she’d pushed forward, worked harder, trained longer than ever before, and now... her finest hour transformed into her greatest disgrace.
Her dance partner offered to help untwist her broken body. Forcing the effort, she shook her head. A foolish decision to dance tonight landed her here. Only a wise, humble decision would save her.
Cynthia whispered, “Elias, I am not walking off this stage. Call early intermission... I need the EMTs.” With as much grace as she could muster, she stretched out her arms to make her fall appear natural and nodded to her partner. With understanding, he performed a mock bow and leapt toward stage right. A moment later, the curtain fell, and the house lights blinked intermission.
Whispers of the crowd wafted to the stage as medical staff rushed to her side. Good… some were checking the timing of intermission on their programs. At least their exit softened the blow. Attempting to move again, brought a muffled cry to her lips.
Her PT, Bart, appeared at her side with a shake of his head. “Call for the understudy. She’ll be the new prima ballerina,” he spoke over her head to the frantic director.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the stressed-out, little man run frantic toward the understudy’s dressing room. Panic began to rise. Rose Marie fought every day to push Cynthia out of her spot. The younger dancer sailed through every move with uncanny ease and grace.
“It’s not good, Cynthia,” her PT’s words added to the building panic and self-recrimination. Standing, he snapped his fingers for two paramedics to step forward with a stretcher on one side and jerked a nod toward someone she could not see from her broken angle.
“Careful with the spine as you untangle her leg, boys,” her PT flippantly directed.
“Cynthia,” he continued as a parent would scold a child, “I invited my esteemed college, Dr. Newcomb, to the performance tonight. I push and train dancers. He puts them back together. Does he have permission to treat you.”
Cynthia couldn’t see the man. The pain as paramedics untangled her legs set her world in flames. Fire consumed her bones, nerves and muscles. With monumental effort, she forced a “yes” through pinched lips and passed out from the pain.
Two days later, she awakened in a private rehab facility bed. An unfamiliar voice spoke through the drug induced fog. She struggled to focus on the words the deep voice mumbled.
“…twisted vertebrate, pinched nerves, muscle spasms… lucky. Right knee, torn ACL, surgery… success. Prognosis…” The deep voice paused. Cynthia held her breath… Why couldn’t she open her eyes?
The voice spoke softly again. “Ms. Andrews is very fortunate. With rest and therapy, a full recovery to normal capacity, even dance is highly likely, but in my opinion, recovery to the first position of Prima Ballerina is not probable. Dancers with fewer injuries will out-perform. She will find it continuously more difficult to keep up. Indeed, I believe she is already there.
“That being said, with muscle relaxers and crutches, I release her tomorrow with a prescription of rest and quiet, both for body and soul… away from the reminders of the ballet if just for this season.”
Cynthia drifted back into a listless sleep. With no family, no career, no one to care and nothing to dream about… where would she find refuge? A Bible verse from Jeremiah floated through her foggy brain. “Do not be a terror to me; Thou art my refuge in the day of disaster.”
A few days later, stuck in her apartment with no job and no one to care, Cynthia opened her Bible. Choices defined a person. She wanted to cry. She felt despair press in on all sides. She’d heard the reports… full recovery but not Prima Ballerina, not her dream… maybe not even professional dance again. Three choices loomed before her.
Work harder, fight longer, push for her dreams, soak herself in the Presence of her Savior: or listen to the doctors and find a new dream, or… curl up in a ball and cry. She wanted to do the later and pulled her fuzzy pink blanket tighter around her aching knee. With a glance at the clock, she tugged the t.v. remote to herself and turned on a happy romance channel. She would allow herself one week to cry, sulk and… start to heal. Ice cream sounded good, or maybe a tray of olives, cheese, carrots sticks and hummus.
She picked up her phone to order delivery… maybe some chocolate… hot tea… anything to drown her sorrows.
A week later, she took a cab to the office of her surgeon for a follow up appointment. She hobbled inside and immediately a staff member directed her to an appointment room. Five minutes later, the handsome surgeon whose face she barely remembered stepped into the room with a clip board and a scowl.
“Ms. Andrews, I’ll have you know, I pulled out all the stops, consulted with other colleagues and did my absolute best to give you the very best of care,” his tone felt defensive, and she didn’t know why.
“And I appreciate your efforts, Dr. Newcomb. I understand you rushed to my side the night of the accident. I’ve heard you are the best, so after you examine my knee, I look forward to hearing your best opinion.”
The serious man gave a curt nod before diving into the exam. Even his gentle poking and prodding brought tears to the surface. Cynthia shoved them back.
“Well, Dr. Newcomb, here is my question: I know by the nature of your work and a comment I heard earlier that I should make a full recovery. However, although that may be good enough for some, I’m sure you understand that I am hoping for more. My question to you is this… if I work hard, can I dance professionally again?”
Dr. Newcomb’s dark eyes shot to hers. Did she imagine the pain hidden in the depths of his gaze? Why would her case matter to him on such a personal level?
“I just… I don’t… know…” he stammered. “Excuse me for a moment,” and he rushed out of the examination room.
Cynthia waited impatiently for his return. Sitting still always challenged her self-control. Today, her emotions already felt higher strung than a soprano violin. Five minutes later, the doctor re-entered the room and seemed much more composed. The good-looking surgeon cleared his throat and offered a seemingly sincere apology.
“Forgive me, Miss Andrews. I saw you dance the night of the accident. You have a rare gift, for reasons I can’t put into words, I find this case a bit overwhelming. I want to see you dance again as much if not more than you do. The real test may be up to you. I’ve done what I can, even asked the Lord for help.
I can guarantee you an amazing recovery for normal sports purposes, but to dance professionally again… that’s fear that is out of my hands. Schedule another appointment for six weeks from now and we’ll see where you stand. The nurse will give you a set of exercises you may start at will. You know your own body. Don’t overdo it. I bid you good day.”
Cynthia sat stunned feeling back to square one. It appeared not even the doctor could tell her what she needed to hear. He would neither give nor deny hope. What should she do?
True to his words, a kind nurse came in with a few simple exercises to get her started. Therapy would be assigned after the next appointment if the good doctor deemed her ready to move forward. She stared at the directions. Prescription in hand, she hobbled to her waiting cab with directions to swing by for a grocery pick-up and take out.
Once inside her apartment she looked around. Her week of allowed pity-party over, she stared uncertain at the future.
God… what do I do? No one can tell me. You designed me. I have no hope, no anchor but You.
She stilled. The silence felt good. God wrapped His arms around her.
Work. Came the command.
With the orders came relief. Work… she could do that. She and work struggled many a night alone, so she would work. She knew her body… could feel its limits or its excitement.
Cynthia smiled for the first time in days. She would work and work hard and show the good surgeon what God could do with a willing heart. The future rested in her Savior’s hands; the work lay in hers.
She unloaded her groceries and sat down with her “take out”. Tomorrow, she started a new regime, a new diet. She would set small goals and reach them and then set some more. Excitement began to build as she outlined a plan until her next appointment.
Six weeks later, Dr. Newcomb stepped into the exam room, studied her knee and glanced up in surprise.
“This is coming along better than I hoped, Miss Andrews,” he murmured. “I’ll give the order for therapy right away. The nurse will see you out. Good job.”
And just like that, her six weeks of hard work were reduced to two words… good job. That was it? Pity wanted to take hold. She refused to allow it. Time for a chocolate reward and a new plan. She would work. She would achieve victory… until God told her differently.

Order Now!

<< Go Back