Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster (13 page)

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.

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, breathe, 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.”

“Not even ice chips?” I whined.

“Noffing till Misser James say.”

Well, who on earth was this mysterious Mr. James?
Ooooh!
Maybe he’ll be gay, which would mean we’d instantaneously adore each other. Also, if he was gay, he might look past the fact that I stank worse than a vomit-caked bathroom in a frat house after a toga party. He’d adore me just for being revolting li’l ol’ me. I imagined a lifelong friendship: me, Mr. James, and his hot boyfriend, Mr. Allastair, arranging yearly trips to Ibiza, where. . .

Uh-oh, I was losing her.

“Well, where is this Mr. James?”

She looked at me as if I were nuts. Which I most certainly
was
, but
she
didn’t know that yet.

“He in
surgery.
Misser James your
surgeon.
” Oops. “I can’t give you noffing till Misser James
say.
”

Okay, I heard you the first time, you nasty wench.
I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t call my surgeon “doctor.” I found out later that in the UK, doctors were called “doctor” and surgeons were called “mister.” Don’t ask me, I’m an ice cube lover.

“Doctah Smyjoes will check on ye t’morr.” She started to leave, her duty done.

“Wait, sorry. Who’s Dr. Smyjoes? I mean. . . maybe you could call him?”

She gathered the little strength she had left. “He’s part of your team, ’ssisting Misser James on your case.” With that, she left, shutting the door behind her with finality.

That did it. I finally gave in and burst into baby tears.
Poor ME.

I think we’re alone now, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around. . . .

Time passes at a hellish pace when you’re not only feeling sorry for yourself but you can’t eat, talk, breathe, drink, smoke, read, walk, sit up, or stand. It’s just you, you, and more you. Mr. M is busy dealing with intestinal stuff, so He can’t help. No one can. I remember looking at the clock on my bedside, which said 13:15 p.m.

Hours passed.

I looked again.

It said 13:18 p.m.

Dammit, I wanted to be
home
, where 13:18 meant 1:18.

I wanted to be
home
, where I could handle a bitchy nurse, and where doctors were called doctors and where my friends could visit me and bring me
People
magazines and pace with worry instead of cramming my tiny room with thousands of flowers, as if I were already dead.

An uneasy feeling washed over me, one that I knew all too well. I didn’t mind being
alone
, but this was a kind of alone I’d felt only once before and didn’t want to feel ever again. My biggest and most terrifying bout of depression slammed me right after
3rd Rock
hit the airwaves. Which was perfect, because as I think we’ve already established, I’m obviously quite skilled in the art of
bad timing.
I knew I should be HAPPY, SUPER-DUPER HAPPY. Everyone was THRILLED for me. After all, hadn’t I worked my ass off my whole life for this? Wasn’t this everything I’d ever dreamed of, surpassing even my wildest fantasies? Yep. And yet I was only filled with anxiety and grief.

Not until years later did I understand why. I no longer had the one thing that safely protected me from having to look too closely at myself: I no longer had ambition.