Suddenly, my bed seemed to crash-land in some sort of anteroom outside the “operating theater.” Which sounds much more exciting than “operating room.” It made me feel as though an audience were going to ooh and aah at every deft move my swarthy surgeon made. I hoped he’d have a good show today.
This thought sent a shiver of terror down my spine, and as I waited and waited (for the audience to find their seats?), I suddenly knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the anesthesia wouldn’t work properly and I would be one of those rare people who feel everything during the entire surgery, yet can’t say anything. I remember truly believing this would happen, with every fiber of my being. Panic began to overwhelm me. I suddenly realized they must’ve told Mr. Morphine he had to stay in the waiting room. Oh, no. . .
Just then, an older man in scrubs walked into the anteroom to grab a vial of something. As he turned to go back onstage, he saw me lying there. “Well, hello you!” he said, as if we had bumped into each other while having tea at the Dorchester.
“Are you a doctor?”
He must have picked up on my abject terror and walked over to me. “Why, yes. I’m Dr. Blankety-Blank. I’ve just finished a small operation, and now I’m helping them prepare yours. Why do you ask, darling?”
I love how in England a complete stranger can call you “darling” and somehow you’re charmed and flattered, even in the scariest moment of your life. I began to weep like a little girl as I told him I was certain I’d be awake during the operation.
He then did one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me (up until then, that is). He gave the object he’d come in for to a passing ghostlike nurse, took his gloves off, and held my hand. His was large with salt-and-pepper hair on his knuckles. His grip was strong and reassuring. I began to calm down as I let his confidence pour into me. I’d no idea how desperately I needed it, the simple, caring touch of another human being.
Even though his name was immediately lost to me and I never saw him again, I’ll never forget what he did as long as I live. He stood there with me for a long, long time, soothing me. Then he removed the last of my fears by saying the magic words: “Don’t worry, love, you won’t remember a thing.”
Which immediately relaxed me; after all, that pretty much described my average evening. Some ghosts came in then to take me, and he had to let go of my hand. As I was pulled into the theater, I’m almost certain I heard him say, “Break a leg, darling.”
I tried to thank him for his kindness, but at that moment a ghost put a mask on my face. I felt something wet and cold on my belly just as I saw my gorgeous surgeon, and suddenly I realized I needed to tell him something impor. . .
seven
BLINK
. . . and I was someplace else now, in a hallway full of beeping machines and someone saying my name. I wanted to tell my surgeon something but I couldn’t see him.
Blink. I was immediately somewhere else, a curtain drawn around me, and I looked to my left and saw my English friend Joanna. How the hell did she get here? I didn’t call her. She appeared upset. I tried to say, What’s wrong?—but some object was in my throat.
Blink. Joanna was gone.
Blink. This time Malcolm, my stage manager from the play, was there. Hey, Malcolm! But he was busy arguing with a harried-looking Asian man in scrubs. This should be fun. Nothing better than a good Malcolm scrap.
“At least three weeks,” the man said.
“Oh, dear God,” Malcolm said as he slumped into a chair. Well, that wasn’t entertaining one bit. I was tempted to blink again, but my mouth was drier than it had ever been before and I was suddenly overwhelmed with a desperate need for water.
I tried to talk, but that weird thing was still in my throat.
“Wat. . .,” I croaked, and that tiny syllable was all it took for Malcolm to turn into Shirley MacLaine from Terms of Endearment.
“My God, man, hurry! Can’t you see she needs water?”
The Asian man said, “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not allowed.”
If I could’ve moved my diaphragm, I would’ve gasped in amazement. Oh, no you di’int! You don’t ever tell Malcolm no. Malcolm is a tall, elegant, imposing man with a wonderful laugh who would be as comfortable on a yacht as he would in the merchant marine. He’s the kind of gentleman who could run six blocks to catch a purse snatcher without losing the ash on his cigarette.
He drew himself up to his almost-seven-foot glory, and with an icy voice that could scare the crap out of the queen mum’s corgis, he said, “Young man, either you get her a cup of water, imm-edjate-ley, or I shall.”
“Well. . . I’m not supposed to, but. . .” Do it! Do it, man, if you want to live! “I suppose she could have a few ice chips.”
At the word ice I perked up. Ice turns into water, doesn’t it?
“Well?” Malcolm said imperiously. The man scurried off, dignity destroyed but balls intact.
Malcolm winked at me and sat back down. “There there, dear,” he said as he awkwardly petted my foot. I’m not sure he’d ever actually touched anyone before. “The ice will be here before you know it.”
Thank you, you don’t have to touch me anymore—
Blink. Malcolm was gone. The very relieved Asian man was offering me a cup of ice chips.
“Hello there, miss. Have a nice nap? I’m Eddie. You’re in the ICU, and I’m keeping watch over you tonight.”
He held out a Styrofoam cup full of little scrapings of ice, and I almost didn’t recognize the trembling hand that slowly reached out to take it from him. My skin was greenish, as if I’d been in prison for a year, and my wrist was shockingly tiny, with pinpricks and IVs everywhere and a medical ID bracelet.
I relished the ice as it drizzled into my mouth, but seriously, What was in my throat? Pointing to my throat, I signaled What? to Eddie.
He explained (and I paraphrase here) that it was a tube that was draining my stomach hoo-ha out. It started at the surgical site in my tummy, continued from there, and traveled all the way up my throat and through my right nostril, which is where it exited my body. It was attached to a clear pouch that hung with a bunch of other pouches two feet away. The tube was unfortunately transparent, and you do not even want to know the hibbidy-gibbidy craziness I saw move through that tube over the next few days.
Now, I’m the kinda gal that if you say, “I think my sore is infected,” my first question would be “Does it smell?” My second would be “Is there a lot of pus?” And my third and final question would be “Please let me see it?” But this was actually way too gross, even for me. At that moment, all it was draining was brown stuff, which looked rather harmless.
Eddie was continuing his cheerful explanation of all the tubes and wires I was hooked up to, which got rather boring. Just as I was about to blink, he said the magic word: morphine. He saw that it caught my attention, so he went into detail, saying that the enormous catheter jammed into my neck artery (okay, that kills) was how they were getting essential antibiotics and morphine directly into me. On second thought, it doesn’t hurt that much.. . .
Blink.
Eddie was holding a phone to my ear, saying, “Miss? Wake up, it’s your mum. She’s anxious to speak to you.”
“Ma?” I squawked.
“Oh, sweetie, are you okay?” My eyes welled up at the sound of her voice. I could picture her in her kitchen in Milwaukee, her beloved shar-pei puppies at her feet.
“Oh, I’m fine.” (I hoped I pulled that one off. Let me tell you, it’s harder than you’d think to sound fine with a tube draining sordid nonsense through your throat.)
“Really? Do you want me to come back?” She had just left London two days ago. I could tell she was crying. I despised making my mother cry. In fact, there might be no worse feeling on earth.
“No!” She can’t come. No matter what, convince her she can’t come.
“Sweetie, are you sure?”
“Yes!” I croaked cruelly, and handed the phone back to Eddie. Otherwise I knew I�
��d burst into tears, which would not only be painful, but disastrous.
You see, for some reason, ever since I was a kid, it had always been of the utmost importance to me to convince her, and anyone else dumb enough to love me, that I didn’t need them. That I wasn’t needy. I was pathologically obsessed with appearing as unneedy as possible.
I can’t tell you how many of my past romantic relationships started off with the guy thinking, This is the coolest, most independent chick ever! and ended with him shouting, “Why are you sobbing? You said you were cool with us dating other people! You’re fucking crazy!”
What they never seemed to grasp was that I wasn’t lying as much as I was presenting the person I wished I were. I can’t tell you how many miserable mountain climbs I’ve been on (“I love mountain climbing!”), or how many endless monologues I’ve sat through about subjects that meant less than nothing to me (“I’m completely fascinated by chess!”). Thankfully, this unfortunate habit ended when one of my best friends, John Benjamin Hickey, watched in amazement as I earnestly uttered this doozy to some hot guy: “I can’t believe it! I’m totally obsessed with fly-fishing, too!”
We laughed our asses off later, but underneath, it made me feel uneasy. I wondered why I felt this need to lie about myself to attract a man. Or why I thought that the real me wasn’t nearly enough. So, many years ago, before I even got sober, I managed to stop lying to guys (except about my drug and alcohol consumption). I hate football, and I will never, ever care about it. Sorry.
But one charming quality of mine wasn’t as easy to get rid of (and I still grapple with it, although I’m getting better). I refused to admit that I needed anyone. Especially my mother. I was completely unaware that by simply uttering “No!” to her, my fate was sealed for the next few months. In that second I committed myself to being alone. Little did I know that the next time I saw my mother it would be four months later, at Family Week at rehab.
I’m still amazed at the choice I made. At that time, I would rather lie alone, hour after hour, day after day, week after week, for almost two months, than to have to tell anyone I needed them.
You see, if I needed them, that would mean I was weak, which would mean I was flawed. And that would be unacceptable. A fate far worse than death.
Eddie hung up the phone for me.
I gestured to him to turn up the volume knob on the morphine drip.
“Thank—”
Blink.
eight
I THINK WE’RE ALONE NOW
a few years ago I saw this documentary about two best friends who had climbed some mountain in Peru together. One of them falls into a deep crevasse, and the other, thinking his friend is dead, cuts the rope connecting him and leaves him. There’s just a teeny problem—the guy wasn’t dead! He was just stuck a few miles down in some vast ice cave with a totally shattered body. He then begins to heroically inch his way back down the mountain, nearly dying of thirst, constantly reinjuring himself, and basically going completely nuts. It takes a week. But he survives.
What struck me the most was that throughout this horrific, endless nightmare, he can’t get this totally idiotic pop tune he hates out of his mind. He just can’t believe he’s going to die with this stupid song running through his brain. I sat there in the dark theater, chilled to the bone. Because for weeks, lying in that hospital bed, no matter what I did, I could not get Tiffany’s pop song “I Think We’re Alone Now” out of my head.
It was the first thing that popped into my head at 6:30 a.m. when the nurses would wake me up to check my vitals. Which was fantastic, I was desperate to get an early start on another day of pain and boredom. And Tiffany’s tune was the last thing I hummed as I tried (and usually failed) to fall asleep. It occurs to me only now that this song must have become some perverse way of expressing the bottomless crevasse of all-encompassing loneliness I had fallen into.
Thus, the battle not to feel sorry for myself had begun. This was probably easier for me than for most people because, while growing up, “feeling sorry for ourselves” was treated as a highly undesirable character trait by my parents, especially my father. Therefore, we were trained that “feeling sorry for one’s self” was unacceptable, as were any emotional states that didn’t resemble “happiness,” “contentment,” or at the very least “cheerful productivity.” If we were bored or upset or even slightly crabby, a nice brisk round of chores was immediately assigned. Nothing makes a kid stop crying faster than cleaning out the garage.
However, one unexpected component made my battle not to feel bad for myself even that much harder. You see, in London, feeling sorry for yourself is looked upon quite differently than in the United States. Instead of a flaw, the Brits seem to find it rather charming. In fact, the worse you feel for yourself, the more the Brits seem to adore you. Of course, they have a darling name for it. It’s simply called poor YOU.
This quality of the British I will forever most adore (comedic brilliance and a profound appreciation for the macabre run a close second). If any misery whatsoever were to befall you, ranging from being forced to walk a block in the cold to accidentally being tortured in Abu Ghraib for six weeks, it wouldn’t matter. Each unfortunate event would be treated with total equality and would be greeted with a heartfelt and utterly sincere “Poor you.” Sometimes, you’d get a darling tacked on, and you already know how I feel about that word. Or sometimes (ooooh, it gives me chills just thinking about it), you’d hit the mother lode and get “Poor you. Well, I, for one, cannot imagine that play without your performance, darling!”
But I had been trained differently. Not only that, I had done this to myself. How dare I ask my friends to drop their lives to come hold my hand when my selfishness alone caused this mess. So, I resisted the urge to feel sorry for myself with all my might. But I had never felt more alone, more meaningless.
My loneliness was compounded by the fact that Malcolm had apparently emasculated someone else and I ended up in a private room instead of a ward. Which I was exceedingly grateful for at first, until it became so mind-numbingly boring that when the old man down the hall performed his daily ritual of slowly hobbling by my door, exercising his brand-new hips, it was the highlight of my day.
I think we’re alone now. . . .
I had a television, which one could apparently pay sixteen pounds per day to watch, but I couldn’t even bear the thought of reaching for the remote attached to it, let alone fishing my credit card out of my enormous purse in the corner. Even if I could get the TV happening, I doubt I could’ve paid even the slightest attention to it. Despite the good, old-fashioned pain that follows having a chunk of one’s intestines removed, there was the joy of a large tube removing tummy blech through my throat and nose. Simply swallowing took a concentrated effort. Not that I had any reason to swallow, mind you. My saliva glands had obviously been removed by accident during the operation. I also stoically ignored the powerful current of pain radiating from my neck catheter because that’s how Mr. M was consummating our relationship. Although, even He was a disappointment because, as every addict knows, drugs are never fun when you actually need them. And I needed them badly. I had to fight the urge to be jealous of my intestines.
Another consequence of being an addict is that by now I had many, many friends, but no one who really knew me. How could they when I didn’t let them? But I got loads of flowers. Lots and lots of flowers. And phone calls. And e-mails. But again, it never occurred to me to ask my friends or family to come over. I’m sure if it occurred to them to come over, they quickly said to themselves, “Don’t be stupid. She would hate that!”
I can’t even imagine how different an experience it would have been to have been surrounded by people who loved me. To have felt worthy of that kind of love and care. I suddenly thought of the Indian family, and that lucky little boy. No wonder he was laughing.
I, however, was not laughing and couldn’t imagine ever laughing again. I never realized how much one uses one’s stomach. To sit, stand, b
reathe, reach, lie down, get back up, walk, talk, everything. I became still as a mummy, petrified to move even a tiny bit, for even clearing my throat would suddenly awaken my newly edited and fragile tummy.
After some time had passed (an hour? a day?) I suddenly, oh-so-slightly coughed, which after eight seconds of reverberating agony jolted my memory. Oh, my God, I completely forgot! I’m a pack-a-day smoker!
Uh-oh. I was instantly slammed with a brand-new NEED. A kind of NEED only smokers and ex-smokers will understand. It had been two days since I last smoked, and even though it was the first time I’d even thought of it (which shows you how truly distracted I was), it was as if a switch had been turned on and I suddenly wanted to smoke more than I wanted water. And I couldn’t even have that.
One of the nurses must have finally heard my incessant buzzing (which, by the way, even I could hear) and managed to extricate herself from the loud trash-fest she and another nurse were having. I heard her sigh, say something unintelligible to the other nurse, who laughed, and she slowly shuffled in, as if I were this enormous pain in the ass.
Which, I most certainly was, but she didn’t know that yet.
“Wot?” she said through her mouthful of gum.
Jesus, what if I had been dying for fuck’s sake? “Umm. . . I. . .”
“Yew in payun?”
After the briefest moment of deciphering, I croaked, “Yes!” (Well, I was.)
“Press bu-un, more med-cine.”
I looked to where she was pointing, a button near my hand that kind of resembled the buttons on a heating pad. Click. Oh, what a smashing idea. My very own bu-un! Clickity. Click. Click. . .
“Thank you,” I croaked.
She turned away.
“No, no, wait please. . . I really need a cup of water [cigarette]. Or chicken broth [cigarette] or even ice chips [cigarette].”
“You can’t have noffing till Misser James say.”
Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster Page 8
