“I was hurting so much I couldn’t move,” I continued.
The admitting nurse started laughing hysterically. “Oh yes. That’s great, it’s hilarious. Oooooo, I’ve got an idea. Tell the rest of it like you’re on the phone with God. That would make it really funny.”
So after I made it past the admitting nurse, they had me sit on these extremely uncomfortable plastic chairs (they were rejected by Greyhound bus stations for being too painful) in the waiting area again until they could find someone to help me. Everybody else there was watching TV. They finally wheeled me in to see a doctor because my crying and screaming in pain was ruining people’s TV-viewing experience. “Keep it down, we’re trying to watch Jerry Springer!”
They gave me a number of tests to try to figure out what was wrong: blood tests. X-rays, ultrasound, temperature, algebra. Some tests seemed valid; others seemed to serve no purpose at all. Like when one doctor had me sit on a pony and whistle the theme song from Mission Impossible. “Why do I have to do this?” I said between whistles.
“We just want to rule out whistling pony disease,” he replied, “and anyway, Dr. Jones brought the pony in so we figured we might as well use it.”
What was really bad was when this guy tried to hook me up to an IV. He kept on missing my vein. He’d stab at me and miss; there was blood everywhere. I got really nervous when I looked down and saw his Seeing Eye dog.
I told the nurse I didn’t think this guy knew what he was doing and I’d prefer it if she put in the IV. She looked at me surprised. “I’m sorry, I thought you wanted him to do it. I have no idea who this guy is.”
The doctor came in later. He said that my blood looked good and that my urine was clear and looked good too. That calmed me, until I realized that I hadn’t even had a urine test. Either he had looked at somebody else’s urine or he found me attractive and this was one of his pick-up lines. Maybe I was supposed to tell him that his urine was clear and looked good also.
I was tested until midnight. Everybody looked at me. At one point, a doctor’s neighbor’s nephew’s son was examining me. If that isn’t wacky, I don’t know what wacky is. Eventually, by doing an ultrasound, they discovered that I had a cyst that the doctor said was the size of a really, really big cyst.
Finally, at midnight, I was wheeled into my hospital room. It was a little disappointing. No mint on the pillow, no view, no HBO. And believe me, this place wasn’t cheap either.
Shortly afterward they brought me my first meal. Now the food in hospitals is the stuff that’s so bad that it doesn’t even make it onto airplanes. They brought me broth and Jell-O, which ironically is one of my favorite meals. If it’s fixed right, it’s great. I think it’s bad when broth and Jell-O taste exactly the same.
Another thing that’s awful is the gown they make you wear. It doesn’t fit right, and it’s completely open in the back, leaving exposed an area of my body that I traditionally keep covered with clothes. You walk down the hall and it’s just flap, flap, flapping in the breeze—the gown, that is; the part of my body I traditionally keep covered wasn’t flap, flap, flapping. If it was, I’m sure I’d be one of the first people to know. All I’m saying is that the gown was humiliating. But, on the bright side, since the hospital is in Beverly Hills, my gown also had shoulder pads. So, it was slimming and degrading at the same time. I think Cher wore one to the Oscars last year.
I was depressed when I woke up the next morning. Because besides being sick, it was my birthday. There’s nothing like spending your birthday hooked up to an IV and trying to keep your gown closed in the back to make you aware of the aging process, the inevitability of death and decay, and countless other happy, carefree thoughts.
They did cheer me up, though, when they brought me my breakfast: broth and Jell-O. Somebody must have known it was my birthday because they put a candle in the broth.
It wasn’t my worst birthday, though. That would have to be either the year I decided to eat my age in hard-boiled eggs, the year I thought I had gotten tickets to see the musical Tommy but instead ended up seeing a one-man show based on the life of Tom Bosley, or when I turned twelve and fell off my pony while whistling the theme from Mission Impossible.
On the other hand, I did lose five pounds a lot quicker than I would have by dieting, and I had someone cute tell me that my urine looked good.
Luckily I was able to go home after just one day. But I had to rest for a long time. We lost a week of production on my show. And, to be honest, the first week or two that I was back I don’t think we made the best episodes. My character was always lying in bed with her feet slightly elevated. Every now and then they would cut to me and I would just react to whatever action was taking place and say something like.- “Wow, that’s crazy” or “You don’t say” or “You learn something new every day, don’t you?”
It was heartwarming going back to the set for the first time after recuperating. Everybody was so happy to see me. Well, everybody but Erik Estrada. He had been promised my role if I didn’t make it back and had already started rehearsing. I think it would be a completely different show, him playing Ellen instead of me. I’m not saying worse, just different.
The whole experience of being sick and going to the emergency room has really made me value how good life is without a cyst. It has also made me appreciate the little things in life. Like … Actually, I can’t think of anything right now. All that popped into my head was “mashed potatoes.” And, well, I like mashed potatoes, but I can’t honestly say I appreciate them more than I ever did. Oh, I guess I do appreciate having clothes that aren’t open in the back.
On the down side—if there can be a down side to having a ruptured cyst—I’m now much more of a hypochondriac than I ever was. For instance, just the other day I was sure that I had an awful stomach ulcer. It turned out that I had just left one of the pins in my new blouse.
So, my advice to everybody reading this is simple: Don’t have a cyst. Believe me, it’s not all the fun and kicks it’s made out to be.
one step
closer to god
or
one step back,
you do the hokey-pokey
and you turn yourself around
Like most of us humans (if you’re a nonhuman and are another species of animal instead, like a llama, screech-monkey, or whatever, then congratulations on learning how to read), I am always searching for answers. Sometimes I don’t even know the question, and yet I need answers. Sometimes I know the answer and I need the question, but that’s only when I’m watching Jeopardy!
Some of the answers I search for are to questions like: What is the meaning of life? How did it all begin? Is there such a thing as infinity? (It boggles my mind that there is no beginning or end to the universe, only a big middle that’s probably the result of too much starchy foods.) Now, don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t think about this stuff constantly. Sometimes I just sit in my den and watch Wheel of Fortune. That Vanna White sure seems like a sweet girl—so happy and upbeat.
But right now I am thinking about those big questions, because right now I’m thinking about God. That’s because there’s a woman, who by the looks of her is either from India or Sweden, about one hundred yards away from me (I say one hundred because I’m sitting under one field goal and she’s under another; so I’m guessing one hundred). She has been sitting on a tree stump rocking back and forth with little beads and a tiny book in her hands for two hours—praying sort of out loud. I can’t really hear what she’s saying, but man oh man, two hours? What could you possibly pray about for two hours?
I’d like to tell her, “Excuse me, Miss, but he’s busy—or she or whoever. Keep it short. There are people in Yemen who would like to talk.”
I think that when you pray, it’s like you’re leaving a message for God. You don’t want to have God check her answering machine, hear your rambling prayer, and say, “Two hours, two hours?! There will be no time for miracles today. That’s for darn sure.”
I try to keep my prayers simple, like: “Hey, God, what’s up? Thanks for everything in my life. I’m so grateful. Thanks especially for helping me find that parking space today. That was sweet of you. Hope you’re doing okay. Sorry for the mess we’re making here blah, blah, blah.” (I literally say, blah, blah, blah—don’t ask me why, it just feels good.) I’m finished in less than five minutes (saving God time so that she can have a personal life).
Sometimes when I’m driving I get so angry at inconsiderate drivers that I want to scream at them. But then I remember how insignificant that is, and I thank God that I have a car and my health and gas. That was phrased wrong—normally you wouldn’t say, thank God I’ve got gas. I meant gasoline for my car. But some people who have strange diseases may actually be thinking “Hey, if I only had gas, I’d feel lucky.” So, like most things in life, it’s all relative.
I was raised a Christian Scientist and was taught to believe that we could heal our bodies through prayer, that sickness was an illusion that could be defeated by the power of the spirit. Since my family were Christian Scientists, we probably saved a bundle, no aspirin, no medicine at all. I didn’t take my first aspirin until I was in my teens and even now I feel a twinge of guilt when I go to the pharmacy—I feel as if I’m in an opium den. (Though, to be fair, I’ve only been to an opium den twice and I was so stoned I barely remember what it was like.) We never had to buy any of that stuff. Also, we didn’t need medical insurance. It would have been a waste of money because we never went to the hospital.
I don’t recall much about my religious upbringing. I remember I wore a bonnet to church, but I don’t think it was a Christian Science thing to wear bonnets. It was just me and maybe a few other girls (and this guy named Owen who wore a bonnet because he burned easily and was allergic to all other kinds of hats).
Sometimes I wonder what God is like. We picture God to look like us. Not exactly. I mean, I don’t think we picture God to look like Wink Martindale, for instance. More like Bob Barker. But we assume God has some human form. Maybe God looks more like those drawings of aliens that people have supposedly seen with large heads and huge, black eyes. Maybe God is a huge sphere with millions of ears or antennas like a satellite dish for excellent reception. Maybe God is a giant bug, and when we die we’re going to have to account for every cockroach and ant we’ve killed. Maybe God does look like Wink Martindale.
I believe that there is a lot to be learned from the Bible. But I don’t believe all the stories can be taken literally. Because nobody was writing things down as they happened. Instead, one person told somebody else, who then told someone else, who told Shem, who told Hosea, who told Sinbad, who told Fabio, who told somebody else. So, what started out as a story about Moses going to the beach to get a little sun and maybe go snorkeling became the Red Sea parting and all that stuff.
That being said, here are two of my favorite Bible stories:
God is in a department store and he asks a woman where the hat section is. I don’t remember the woman’s name, so I’ll call her Linda, because I have a friend named Linda who works in a department store. Now this story took place a long time ago—when department stores had huge hat sections. I don’t remember what kind of hat God was looking for either. Probably something with a snap brim. So Linda tells God, “Go to the …” I’m sorry. Linda tells God “Thou shall go to the third floor. The hats are right next to the Laura Ashley accessories.”
You know, that might not be a Bible story. It might just be a boring story that Linda told me once. (I think it was about her selling a scarf to Charles Nelson Reilly. I kept falling asleep, so I must have dreamed the God part.)
This, however, I’m pretty sure is a Bible story. Jesus enters the temple and he’s steaming mad because there are moneylenders in there. I forget what they were doing, probably lending money. Well, Jesus turns over their tables and exits in a huff, leaving the door to the temple wide open. So, one of the moneylenders yells out, “Hey, what’s a matter, Jesus, were you born in a barn?” Which is ironic, because he was.
Note: I wanted to put a story here that I used to do in my stand-up act about a phone call to God. It was a signature piece of mine, meaning that when I would sign a check I’d write out the entire routine instead of my name. It would take about a half hour, so it was usually better for other people to pay my bills.
The piece is very funny. I start off saying how I feel that everything on this earth is here for a reason, that there are no mistakes. If you don’t understand why one thing is here, you find out later that it works with the ecosystem somewhere else. (In case you’re wondering, this wasn’t the funny part, this was just the setup.)
I went on to say that I don’t understand why we have fleas here, because fleas do nothing at all beneficial. I thought it would be great to be able to call up God and ask, “Why fleas?”
What followed was my imaginary phone call to God. I would say my lines and hopefully you’d be able to imagine God’s. God and I would chat, he’d tell me a few jokes (e.g., Knock, Knock. Who’s there? God. God who? Godzilla), and explain to me why there are fleas (to support people in the flea-collar industry). This was the funny part. If you’ve never heard it, take my word: huge laughs every night.
So why aren’t I writing it out here? There are two reasons. One, as funny as it is to see and hear (If you don’t believe me, maybe this note from my editor will change your mind. EDITOR: She’s right, it’s very funny!) it doesn’t read well on the page. So much of the routine depends on nuances of timing and my delightful facial expressions (EDITOR: She’s right, they’re delightful). (Why, thank you.)
The second reason is that I got a letter from God, well, actually from God’s lawyers, saying that if I printed the routine, they’d sue my ass (their words, not mine) from here to Jerusalem.
So, that’s why I’m not even going to mention my phone call to God.
the ellie-gellie
If you know me personally, or watch my television program, then you know I love to dance. I really do, y’all. (Y’all is a New Orleans expression that I felt obliged to include at least once in this book to show that I haven’t “Gone Hollywood.” There, I’ve used it. Now no highfalutin’ critic can say that I’ve forgotten where I came from.)
Anyway, like I said, I love dancing. You know that expression, “Cleanliness is next to Godliness”? Well, I believe that, but dancing is next to cleanliness, and singing along to the radio in a convertible with the wind whipping through your hair is next to dancing, and walking down a country road at sunset is next to singing along with the radio with the wind whipping through your hair, and walking down a country road at dawn is next to walking down a country road at sunset. Actually one is virtually indistinguishable from the other, but the dawn one requires getting up really early, so I’d rather just walk down the country road at sunset, unless I had to be up anyway, say if I had to pick up an old friend from the airport or I had to take somebody to the hospital or even if I just couldn’t sleep. Then I guess I’d prefer walking down that country road at dawn and just getting it over with.
I have a good dance background. I’ve probably got a more extensive dance background than a lot of people, just to tell you something about my skills. I rarely missed Soul Train while growing up. And although I was never actually what you might call “on” the show itself, my friends all said that I “could’ve been” if I hadn’t been born quite so “white,” as they put it.
Since I feel blessed in this area, I think it’s only right that I share my gift with you, the people who may not have been born with the same sense of rhythm. I’m going to teach you a simple yet hip dance I invented. I call it the Ellie-Gellie.
Alrightee, first thing we have to do is get into our dance gear. That could be a leotard, sweats, glittery tights, whatever …
Hey, I like that. It looks good on you, accentuates your body in just the right way. It’ll work perfectly.
Next we need to do some stretching.… Good. You don’t want to overd
o it.
And now you’ll need to send away for my song, “The Ellie-Gellie Song.” I wrote it specifically to do the Ellie-Gellie to. It works better than any other song for this dance, and although you can do the Ellie-Gellie to some other song, I can’t guarantee the results. And you’ll probably look rather silly doing the Ellie-Gellie to another song.
But if looking asinine doesn’t bother you, then, hey, it’s your life, you’re obviously Mr. or Ms. Big Stuff, so go right ahead. You probably can’t dance anyway, so it wouldn’t make any difference either way if you used “The Ellie-Gellie Song” or some other stupid song. I don’t even know why I bother trying to do something nice for someone like you. Even if I could teach you the Ellie-Gellie, which I highly doubt, you’d probably screw it up while dancing at some club and everyone would see you and say, “Man, the Ellie-Gellie is really a bad dance. That Ellen DeGeneres is sure a terrible dance inventor.” So, it’s just as well that you don’t send away for “The Ellie-Gellie Song.” And if you did send away for it, I’d send your money back. You couldn’t get my song now no matter how much you paid for it.
All right, everybody else except for that creep ready?… Good, let’s get started. Hit play on the CD player, tape player, record player, or whatever kind of player you happen to be using, and crank up the volume!
Not quite that loud. Turn it down just a bit.… There, much better. Now we’re ready to D-A-N-C-E!
First, throw your left arm up in the air and shake your head up and down, but not too much. Still too much … still too much … what are you, stupid? Stop all that ridiculous shaking! I said to shake your head mildly!… There, that’s better.
Next, with arm still up in the air, do something with one of your legs. There, very good. I like that.
Now, do a different movement with the other leg.… No, no! What’re you doing?! Is that supposed to be cool or sexy or something? You look like one of those big ol’ ostriches at the zoo, flopping around all gangly and everything! Just stop it and start “The Ellie-Gellie Song” over again.
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