Belly Dancing and Beating the Odds: How one woman’s passion helped her overcome breast cancer

HarperTrueLife

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

77–85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpertrue.com

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperTrueLife 2014

FIRST EDITION

Text © Yvette Cowles 2014

Cover photo © Shutterstock

Cover layout © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Yvette Cowles asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Find out about HarperCollins and the environment at

www.harpercollins.co.uk/green

Ebook Edition © October 2014 ISBN: 9780007585649

Version: 2014-09-17

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book:

To anyone whose life has been touched by cancer;

To all my belly dancing buddies for their laughter, friendship and inspiration;

And, of course, to my mother, Mrs Doreen Cowles, ‘my rock’, without whom none of this would have been possible.

Epigraph

‘When it rains it pours. Maybe the art of life is to convert tough times to great experiences; we can choose to hate the rain or dance in it.’

Joan Marques

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1: The Seeds of an Obsession

Chapter 2: Cancer – Round One!

Chapter 3: Escape to France

Chapter 4: Cancer – Round Two!

Chapter 5: Cancer – Round Three!

Chapter 6: Sequins on My Balcony

Chapter 7: Mobility Issues

Chapter 8: Ten Lessons I’ve Learned (The Hard Way!)

Further Information

If you liked this, why not try …?

Moving Memories eNewsletter

Write for Us

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

The Seeds of an Obsession

Little did I know when I first discovered belly dance that it would turn into a life-long obsession, take me to far-flung places, provide me with the best friends I could ever wish for and keep me going through some of the darkest periods of my life. My first encounter with belly dance took place in the exotic surroundings of St Étienne, a town in eastern France best known for coal mining, bicycles and a moderately successful football team.

My love affair began while I was round at Samira’s house, enjoying mint tea and cake with the girls. Samira had put on some Arabic music and Naget picked up a hip-scarf and started to dance to it. Her hips shimmied so vigorously that the coins rattled and the fringing flew. While she danced the rest of the girls clapped and ululated – a sound known as the zaghreet – enthusiastically. It was captivating.

So it was that I discovered my passion for Arabic music and dance. At that time I was 22 and teaching English as a language student in a multicultural secondary school in St Étienne. My colleagues were pleasant enough but quite reserved, and I was quite perturbed when one of them gave me a signed picture of Jean-Marie Le Pen, president of the Front National, as a welcome present. I was lonely and homesick, but Samira, Naget and the other North African girls in my class took me under their wing, invited me round to their houses for mint tea and welcomed me into their world.

When Naget finished dancing she handed me the scarf. I was petrified! My legs turned to jelly, I was rooted to the spot and my hips wouldn’t budge. But, little by little, thanks to the warmth and encouragement of my new-found sisters, I learned to shed my inhibitions, let go and enjoy myself. My hips happily made the circles and ‘figure eights’ that the girls taught me, and my shoulders shimmied as enthusiastically as theirs. After years of stressing about my weight, and struggling with anorexia and bulimia, at last I had discovered a sensual and mesmerising dance form that celebrated the female form and could look beautiful whatever a woman’s age, size or shape. I was completely entranced.

Those afternoon dance sessions became a regular fixture. I loved those girls and their families; they made me feel that I belonged. And I saw belly dance as an expression of that sisterhood and sharing. For them it was just something that women did when they got together. But then they didn’t know the white middle-class London suburbs where I was brought up! By the time I left France I was desperate to stay but the academic year was over, my contract was finished and I had to go back to Exeter to complete my degree. And there were no belly dancers there. So the sparkly scarf that the girls had given me as a leaving present was put in a drawer, where I almost forgot about it.

After leaving university I hadn’t a clue what to do next so gave in to my mother’s persistent pestering to do a secretarial course. How I hated it! But thanks to my newly acquired secretarial skills – and the fact that my star sign was compatible with that of my new manager – I got my first job: Promotions Assistant with a well-known London publisher.

It was 1987 and part of my job – pre-Internet – was to scour the papers for reviews of books by our authors. One day, as I was flicking through the Sunday Times, a headline caught my eye: ‘Belly Dance Classes for Health and Relaxation’. They were being run by Tina Hobin at Pineapple Dance Studios, just around the corner from the office! So began the second chapter of my dance story …

I dusted off the hip-scarf, started going to regular classes, and immediately became hooked. And I wasn’t alone. I had fallen among fellow addicts who, like me, just couldn’t get enough of the intoxicating music, sensual dancing – and the dressing up, of course! The more we danced and studied, the more we realised how much there was to learn, so we went to as many classes and workshops as we could to improve our technique and extend our repertoire.

We started practising our shimmies and hip-drops at each others’ houses, sharing cassettes of Arabic music with each other, and eagerly devouring clips of the stars of Egyptian dance on VHS – video cassettes copied so many times that the picture was grainy and the dancer barely distinguishable. But it didn’t matter; we loved what we could see, and those stars, Samia Gamal, Tahia Carioca and Fifi Abdou, became our idols.

A friend asked me to dance at her father’s birthday party, which had an Arabian Nights theme.

‘Oh no, I’m just a beginner,’ I protested, ‘I’m really not good enough.’

‘But Yvette, you’ll be great,’ Sarah pleaded. ‘Just dance for a bit and then get everyone to join in. It is Dad’s fiftieth, after all. There must be some consolation for being that old!’ I had to agree that 50 was pretty ancient, so how could I refuse?

I enlisted my mother to help me make a costume. Before she got married, she had been a seamstress with a London couture house and had been constantly in demand from friends and family to create dresses for weddings, christenings and other special occasions. She would make the off-cuts into stylish creations for me and I would dance around my bedroom, wafting chiffon scarves and spinning as fast as I could to make my skirts swirl. My dressing-up box was legendary in my school. And, thanks to Mum, I acquired a life-long passion for silk, chiffon and other fine fabrics. No drip-dry crimplene for me! Although my mother was completely bemused by my passion for belly dance and viewed sequins and spangles as rather ‘vulgar’ and ‘showy’, between us we came up with an eye-catching pink two-piece (known in Arabic as a bedlah). The bra and hip-belt took me weeks to decorate with jewels and swathes of bugle bead fringing and, when combined with nine yards of chiffon skirt that floated and swirled as I danced, the result was a labour of love that made me feel like a princess.

The night of the party didn’t start well. I was so anxious that I got lost, drove the wrong way down a one-way street and nearly collided with a van. Thinking that the other driver was going to get out and punch me, I reversed at speed, driving my car into a large oak tree. When I arrived, Sarah’s house was much bigger than I expected; and there were dozens of cars outside. So much for the ‘small, intimate gathering’ Sarah had promised me! By the time I plucked up the courage to ring the door-bell I was in quite a state. My hairpiece had dislodged, my make-up was halfway down my face, I’d lost one earring and I looked wild-eyed and slightly unhinged. The look on Sarah’s face as she opened the door spoke volumes. The sea of Aladdins, sultans and harem girls parted for me and I dashed upstairs to a bedroom to repair the damage.

Half-an-hour later I emerged, make-up and dignity restored, enveloped in a gold and pink sequined veil. I walked downstairs with all the enthusiasm of a woman about to face a firing squad. I’d given Sarah a tape of the music; I just prayed it would work. And that my costume would remain intact; in rehearsal the day before my bra strap had come unhooked as I practised my shoulder shimmies. The assembled friends and family were all sitting in the ‘large reception room’, the size of a barn. There was a magician on just before me and I could hear the laughter and chorus of ‘Abracadabra’ two floors up in the bedroom. Oh well, I thought, at least everyone seems to be in a party mood.

As I waited in the hall for the strains of Aziza, my entrance music, I felt a sharp twinge in the pit of my stomach. My hands were shaking so much that I kept dropping my veil. I thought of the legendary Fifi Abdou, one of the stars of Egyptian dance, and my greatest inspiration. What would Fifi do? It was obvious; she would command the stage and have the audience hanging on her every hip-drop. A hush descended. I took a deep breath and made my grand entrance.

The next 15 minutes are something of a blur. I just remember snatches – the smiling faces, roars of appreciation and applause, plus the pure, unadulterated pleasure that I experienced. Every fibre of my being tingled with energy; I had never felt so alive! I shimmied and sashayed around the room, twirling and spinning with my veil, before draping it over the astonished birthday boy and coaxing him to dance with me. By the end of the second track the whole room were on their feet and I was teaching them to zaghreet – the high-pitched sound of appreciation that Naget and the girls had taught me – and camel walk across the floor. I finally made my exit to a chorus of cheers, and remained in a euphoric daze for several days afterwards. A delighted Sarah told me that my first solo gig had been ‘a triumph!’

My first performance had been such an intoxicating experience that I was soon hungry for another fix. My new-found sisters and I formed a group and started dancing at school fêtes, retirement homes, shopping centres – basically, anywhere that would have us. We didn’t mind the wet and windy weather, the filthy dance floors, the less than salubrious changing conditions, or even the leery men – we were girls together having a great time! I felt the same sense of sisterhood and sharing that I had with my North African friends.

I had always loved dancing. As a child I went to ballet classes but I had a ‘sticky-out bottom’ and didn’t fit in. I tried ballroom dancing but felt desperately self-conscious being ‘in hold’ – especially with boys! I liked to put on my favourite pop songs and dance freestyle, choreographing little routines and imagining myself catching the eye of the cameramen on Top of the Pops. That all changed when I reached adolescence, a miserable period that brought exams, stress, self-loathing and the onset of anorexia. Instead of dancing around my bedroom, I cocooned myself in it all day, writing poems about death. Happily, in France my passion for dance had been re-ignited, and better still, I had found a dance style that really suited me. Not only did I love the music, the costumes and the fact that I was continuing a strong female tradition, but my body enjoyed the movements – at times sinuous, at others percussive – and took to them quite naturally. And once I had acquired a repertoire of movements, I could put them together to express the music as I really felt it.

Through our teacher, Tina, I met a group of other professional dancers and formed an association, MEDA-UK, designed to promote belly dance and give dancers an opportunity to meet up and share information about classes, performances and other activities. For some reason, I was made chairperson. I was only 24 and the least experienced dancer there, but the consensus was that if I worked in publishing I must be quite intelligent, well organised and therefore up to the job. I did tell them that my current responsibilities didn’t extend much beyond filing and tea-making, but it didn’t seem to matter. Or maybe, unlike me, they knew what I was letting myself in for; at times managing such big personalities really put my diplomatic skills to the test. But that certainly proved very handy in later years when dealing with some of my more temperamental authors!

One of MEDA-UK’s biggest achievements was our charity fundraising. Ironically – given how much support I would receive from them myself in later years – one of the most successful events was a fundraiser at Chelsea Harbour for the Royal Marsden Hospital. But the ones I am most proud of are the Belly Dance-Ins that we ran for three years in the Covent Garden Piazza. Without the benefits of emails and social media, we gathered together over 100 dancers from all over the country, had great fun and raised lots of money for charity. Two of our leading members, Vashti and Jill Chartell, pulled strings, called in favours and got big names involved with amazing media coverage. Our friends and families rallied round and even my rather bemused parents weren’t safe – they got roped in to selling Turkish delight, my dad in a rather fetching galabeya and fez. It was a magical time.

I started going to other classes and eventually started classes of my own, where I could share my passion for the dance and encourage others to find theirs too. Many of the women came out of curiosity; some of them were businesswomen, some mothers eager for a break from the kids and a night out with their friends, some of them were looking for a form of exercise that was a little more exciting than keep-fit, others were inspired by dancers they’d seen on their holidays to Egypt or Turkey. A number were very lacking in confidence and obviously very self-conscious. I knew that feeling! They arrived in baggy t-shirts and leggings and looked askance when I asked them if they would like to borrow a hip-scarf. But a few weeks later they were fighting each other for the most sparkly and jangly one to wear.

And so my dance and publishing careers carried on in parallel. They each fulfilled a different need in me. I loved working in publishing because it was such a creative environment and I learned something new from every author and colleague that I worked with. I was given more and more responsibility and bigger campaigns to work on. I loved the challenge. It enriched my mind every single day. But belly dancing was the antidote to all that – I felt it reconnected me with my body and nourished my soul. Whatever their merits, both lives were all-consuming and, what with classes, rehearsals, shows and publishing conferences and launch parties, left little time for anything else. My biggest problem was that there were only 24 hours in the day, and I did need a handful of them for sleeping. Even being in a relationship didn’t deter me. ‘I’m very low down the pecking order, aren’t I?’ sighed my boyfriend, as I went off to yet another dance weekend somewhere around the country. I felt a pang of guilt, but it didn’t stop me. There was so much to do, and I was determined not to miss out on any of it.

Chapter 2

Cancer – Round One!

I was leading a charmed life – and then in 1996 my luck ran out. While I was showering one day, I felt a lump. I went to the local Well Woman clinic and they thought it was a fibroadenoma, commonly known as a ‘breast mouse’. The doctor assured me that there was no real cause for concern, but given that my mother had had breast cancer, she referred me to the Royal Marsden Hospital to be checked out anyway. At that time the Breast Diagnostic Unit was housed in a portacabin.

‘Has it been here long?’ I asked the receptionist.

‘Twenty-five years,’ she replied.

I had the breast biopsy and blood tests, but again nobody seemed very concerned. And then, I received a call from one of the nurses, asking me to come back as there had been a mix-up with the tests and they needed to re-do them. My boyfriend offered to come with me but in the circumstances I couldn’t see the point. It was only a few tests. When I went back and was shown into the consulting room, I took off my top and waited for the consultant to appear. He looked puzzled when he came into the room.

‘Why have you got undressed?’

‘Because you’re re-doing the tests, aren’t you?’ He looked rather awkward.

‘We really don’t need to. We already know the results. And I’m afraid you have DCIS, or ductal carcinoma in situ. It’s the earliest possible form of breast cancer.’

I could barely register what he was saying. I had genuinely believed the nurse, but it had merely been a ruse to get me back without causing me undue alarm. Cancer. The very word made me shudder. And I’d supported my mother through breast cancer four years before and was only too aware of what she’d been through. But she had been 60 and I was only 31. The consultant went on to say that, although DCIS isn’t a life-threatening condition, if left untreated it may develop the ability to spread into the surrounding tissue and become an invasive breast cancer. For that reason I would need a lumpectomy and then, once the cells had been examined, we would discuss further options such as radiotherapy and hormone treatment.

After the appointment I called my mother, my boyfriend and a couple of close friends. I thought that by telling them it would feel more real, but I was still numbed by the news. That evening I was due to drive up with a colleague to a sales conference in Market Bosworth. In spite of my mother’s misgivings, I decided to go. I had to keep busy and not have too much time to think. Ironically though, one of the titles being presented was a book on breast cancer. During the presentation the editor reeled off a handful of statistics. ‘One in nine women will get breast cancer in their lifetime’ was one; ‘80 per cent of women who develop breast cancer are over 50’ was another.

I was devastated. ‘Why me, and why so young?’ I asked myself. I didn’t know anyone my age with cancer. Besides, I just didn’t have time to be ill. I had loads of deadlines coming up at work, not to mention a dance show and classes to prepare for. A few days after being diagnosed, I went to see the surgeon at the Royal Marsden Hospital, who told me that I would have to come in for surgery the following week. My boyfriend looked on in horror as I told the surgeon in no uncertain terms that it would be impossible as my assistant was going to be on holiday. The surgeon shook his head, ignored my protests and I was admitted a few days later.

I was really anxious about being disfigured. Before the operation, the surgeon marked the area to be removed with a black marker pen. It looked like a sizeable chunk to me. ‘Do you really need to take away that much?’ I asked him. Apparently they did. I came back from surgery heavily bandaged up and the nurses were sensitive to my concerns, only removing them when I felt ready to see the scars. There was a noticeable dent but it wasn’t so bad; I had prepared myself for worse.

It was a small ward and my fellow patients were lovely. They were different ages and at different stages of their treatment, but we all supported each other. I also had an endless stream of visitors, including my belly dance buddies. They transformed my drab little cubicle into a sequined boudoir and bought a flurry of much-needed fun and colour. Their antics really cheered me up – not to mention the rest of the ward. My close friend and dance partner, Margaret, even turned up one day carrying a huge black bin-liner, with a pink plastic arm protruding from it. With great glee she removed an inflatable man – complete with a strategically placed banana and a pair of her three-year-old’s underpants. We nicknamed him Dick Rogers and he became the ward mascot, moving from one bed to another as they became vacant during the course of the week. In fact, by the time I left, the nurses had become so attached to him that I thought it only fair to leave him in their capable hands.

During my operation the surgeons had removed some lymph nodes under my arm, to see if the cancer had spread. Thankfully, they were all clear. We then had to decide on the course of follow-up treatment. Because the cancer had been at such an early stage, there were several options open to me: radiotherapy, tamoxifen – an anti-oestrogen drug – both of the above, or neither. I opted for both, as I wanted to give myself the best possible chance of ensuring that the cancer didn’t come back.

Radiotherapy was a daily business. The treatment itself lasted only a few minutes but the whole procedure could take ages if you had to wait, or if, as happened sometimes, the equipment broke down. I was lucky that I worked in Hammersmith and could commute to work afterwards. It was fine at first, but I did get progressively more tired as the course went on. But my manager and the rest of the team were very supportive. I even managed the odd dance class, although I just went through the paces and had to be careful with my arm.

I was just grateful that the cancer had been caught at a very early stage and that I’d got away without a mastectomy and chemotherapy. I was also immensely relieved that I was being treated at the Royal Marsden. I knew I was in safe hands there, and getting the best care that the NHS could provide. And I supplemented all the medical treatment with a course in acupuncture and some spiritual healing. I felt tired and rather fragile, but listening to Arabic music and choreographing new dances in my head, plus the support and camaraderie that I got from my students and fellow dancers, really got me through a difficult time and made me determined to get better so I could perform again.

Just as importantly, the dancing helped me reconnect with my body. Like a number of women I’ve spoken to, I couldn’t help feeling that my body had let me down. How dare it do this to me! My complex about my weight, my generous bottom and other perceived defaults, was now compounded by concerns about the big dent in my breast and the ugly scar in my armpit. But allowing myself to enjoy the flowing and sensuous movements made me feel better about myself; it was a relief to know that I could still feel womanly.