I take a bow and the crowd erupts with applause. I’ve just finished my first solo belly dancing floorshow at a local restaurant and can’t wipe the smile from my face.

My mind wanders back two years. A friend calls. “I’ve just started belly dancing classes. It’s so much fun. You must come along and give it a try.”

I feel depressed, no energy, believing that caring full time for my daughter is all I have to look forward to. It’s so long since I’ve done anything more energetic than lift my daughter or push her around the lake in her wheelchair. However, she’s just started school so I finally have some time to myself. “Okay, I need some exercise.”

At first, the coordination is difficult, trying to follow the teacher who is moving her hips and her arms at the same time. Soon, it becomes easier but as soon as the teacher says, “It’s free time, move your body how it wants to the music”, I freeze. What if I make a fool of myself? Why am I so self-conscious?

More than a year goes by and I can dance three times as long before puffing. New moves come easily. I seem to have a natural talent but “free time” is still torture. We are preparing for a Christmas performance in which each class is doing a group piece but the teacher asks if anyone is willing to do a solo as well. Maybe this will push me through my inhibitions. I volunteer.

The teacher gives me extra time after each class. My routine comes together and with her encouragement, I feel myself expanding. I buy a sewing machine so I can make a costume.

My daughter becomes very ill and is hospitalised for two weeks. Feeling slightly guilty, I decide not to sleep over in the hospital each night as in the past during her numerous stays. She’s older now, six, and the ward isn’t too busy. The nurses know her well and will call me if there is a problem. I leave the Base Hospital each day at around 6pm and drive the 45 km home to sew and rehearse. Arriving back at the hospital by around 8:30 am, sometimes I bring in the costume to hand-sew the trimmings. During my lunch breaks I prowl the aisles at Spotlight looking for more fancy materials and trims.

The big night arrives. The belly dancers have hired out the whole restaurant. My daughter is discharged the previous day so she comes along, my mum volunteering to sit with her while I’m dancing. Rather than nerves diminishing my performance, the presence of the crowd pushes me to new heights! The owner of the restaurant is surprised. He’s only seen me in dowdy clothes pushing around the wheelchair.

“Would you be interested in doing a whole performance here on a Saturday night, say about 40 minutes’ worth?”

I’ve just worn myself out doing a 4 minute solo! It just pops out, “Yes, but I’ll need lots of time to prepare.” He’s willing to wait until I feel ready.

It’s time to get really fit. I sneak out of the house before my daughter wakes up in the morning and jog around the block. Surely she’ll be all right alone for 15 minutes. I do yoga stretches while she is having her tube feed for breakfast, stopping to mop up a vomit from time to time. I shift her therapy equipment out of the way in the living room every chance I get and dance and dance. I’m careful not to swish the veil in her face as I fling it around or bump into her chair as I practise my spins.

The weight is falling off. I haven’t been able to wear these jeans for a few years! As my muscles strengthen, lifting my daughter becomes easier. My lower back pain is now gone. During one of my monthly appointments, the chiropractor says, “Your back has improved dramatically!”

I’m still often tired after the broken sleep when my daughter needs to be turned or vomits in the middle of the night and I have to strip the bed but mostly I feel optimistic. There is more than just caring.

Five months later, I’m ready. The restaurant is packed and I perform the dance of my life.

Anne Huxtable (aka Elizabeth Anne Huxtable)