Through her sharp, green eyes I finally saw what I really looked like. And it was NOT GOOD. I watched those horrified eyes as they slowly traveled from my tremulous smile to the thick tube coming out of my nose, down to my enormous neck catheter, then finally to my bandaged, IV-scarred arms, which is where they stayed for a beat, then closed as the full ramifications of my state walloped her so hard she had no choice but to fall into a nearby chair.
I can’t even fathom being the producer of a huge show, spending loads of money on a West End theater, bearing the enormous cost of flying actors over from America, taking care of their lodging, and issuing paychecks for everyone in production. Not to mention the many thousands of pounds spent on press. All gone, in an instant, simply because you were stupid enough to hire a drug addict. (Although in her defense, she just thought she had hired a smoker who was having a run of very, very bad luck.)
The other thing about being a patient is that all you talk about when people call or visit is WHAT HAPPENED. Once that story’s told, with slight embellishments each time, just to keep it interesting for yourself, there isn’t a whole lot either of you seem capable of discussing.
In Sonia’s case, however, she wasn’t the least bit interested in what happened. (Which was a shame, really, because this time they were going to bash the door in to get me.) I had barely begun my tale when Sonia looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Kristen. How long?”
Something made me say, “Two weeks, tops.”
“Is that what they said? I mean—” She waved toward the piles of accoutrements I was wearing.
“Yes. Sonia, I heal really fast. In fact, I may be back sooner.”
I convinced us both, and thus the show went on, with my insanely miscast, twenty-three-year-old understudy taking my place. This brave young girl was the understudy for both myself and Neve Campbell, and to me it was amusingly clear which actress they thought might have had a sick day or two. Because never, in any universe, would this lovely young English lass be cast as the take-charge, demanding, workaholic New Yorker in her forties who has had a long, unhappy marriage to Michael McKean. She could have played our au pair perhaps, if the playwright had been generous enough to give us children.
So there I stewed, still as a mummy, as every night my role in the hit play I had worked so hard on was performed by someone else. Someone who wasn’t a stupid drug addict. Someone who, miscast as she was, actually deserved to be working. I had only two things to keep me warm on those long, mind-numbing days and endless, ice-cold nights: my morphine drip and my tiny nemesis, Nurse Wretched.
Well, that’s not completely true. After the first week, I gave in and figured out how to pay for the television, which generously offered three stations. I was happy to discover English soaps are as dumb, if not dumber, than ours. I was begrudgingly becoming invested in pudgy Beatrice’s unrequited love for the gorgeous, and clearly gay, Tomás, when, like manna from heaven, all shows were interrupted by the news that some asshole had decided to become a serial killer in the English countryside.
I couldn’t believe it.
My friends have always marveled at my endless fascination and thorough knowledge of almost every serial killer who’s ever existed. Most find it disturbing, but I know that the seeds were innocently planted by my mother, who adored all murder mysteries.
One day, my father, who was equally devoted to both travel and frugality, bought a houseboat called Big Toot, which we would sail up and down the Mississippi River for weeks every summer. Big Toot was moored somewhere near St. Louis, I think. So just to get to the boat we’d all be living on for weeks meant we’d already have spent days together in the car.
The best part of these road trips (besides their glorious completion) was when my mother could be coaxed into telling us every detail of whichever Agatha Christie or Sherlock Holmes murder mystery she was reading at the time. I’ll never forget the spectacular fear and excitement we all felt once she gave in and began to tell the tale of The Hound of the Baskervilles for the sixth time as our wood-paneled station wagon raced through the moonless Midwestern night.
Thus, a crime freak was born. Now, I love all books, fiction and nonfiction, with equal measure, but my favorites have always had a macabre leaning. In terms of television, if you saw what I have taped on my DVR, I think there’s a good chance you’d back quickly out of my apartment and run for help. Chances are you’d see titles like Nightmare on Blood Mountain, The Dark Side of Daniel, Serial Killers: Up Close and Personal, or The Mind of Manson. As well as every episode of 48 Hours, Dateline, and 20/20.
To be honest, I’ve never thought much about this little quirk of mine. I know I have no desire to kill or to ever know a serial killer, and I have zero admiration for them. I suppose that watching these shows brings me back to the excitement I felt every time my mom would say, “Well, it all began on a very dark and foggy night on the moors. . ..”
That’s why, safely mummified in my London hospital bed, I gratefully lost myself in the search for the Suffolk Strangler. Instead of being creeped out, I felt safe and snug, almost as if I was with my family again, together in our station wagon as it raced toward “Big Toot.”
It didn’t matter that they’d run the same fuzzy photo of the same victim a hundred times an hour. I was transfixed when they found the bodies of victims number four and five in the woods, even though they’d endlessly replay footage taken from a helicopter so far away that it could’ve been of a family having a picnic in Arkansas. None of it mattered. I was enthralled. Entranced. Other.
Even though I’m terribly sorry for those poor prostitutes and their grieving families, that fat, crazy, murderous fuckhead did one good thing in his whole sorry excuse for a life: he unknowingly helped a lonely American pass hundreds of friendless, cigarette-free hours in a London hospital. Suddenly, it was time to remove my tummy tube. Thankfully, I have no memory of how that was dealt with. I just know it was gone, which meant I could swallow, which meant I could drink water. Unfortunately, Nurse Wretched would bring me only occasional tiny cardboard shot glasses filled with lukewarm, slightly sulfuric-tasting water. Not exactly the ice-cold bottle of Poland Spring I’d been fantasizing about for the past week.
As I’ve made clear, I’d been bitching to anyone that would listen that I needed food—cigarettes—for a week, and I’m sure I drove them bonkers. When I was finally given permission to eat, I realized that all they’d had to do to shut me up in the first place was to simply put that tray in front of me. Honestly, it was so disgusting and smelled so vile, my appetite ran as far away as fast as it could and wouldn’t be seen again for almost a year.
The food in England has thankfully evolved greatly from the days when I visited London with my family as a child, when blood pudding was the favored dish in most restaurants. Once, when I was around five, my family had for a few months rented a house close to Hyde Park. Other than a deep, powerful, and thankfully brief crush on Ringo Starr (mostly just to be contrary), the strongest memories I have of London consist of a magical afternoon my mom took us to a movie theater to see a rerelease of The Sound of Music, and that I hated all of the food. And I was no picky, American, french-fries-only eater. I loved absolutely all food, ranging from vegetables and fish to fast food (which we were rarely allowed). My mother was a fantastic cook who actually read Gourmet magazine for fun. I was a fan of steak tartare by the time I was a toddler. But in London in the early seventies, all food, even the candy, which always left one with a suspiciously plastic aftertaste, was disappointing.
If this book ever makes its way across the pond, I’d probably be about as popular there as Jane Fonda would be at a Vietnam-veterans’ convention. However, I’m counting on the fact that the British seem to have a sense of humor about themselves that most Americans do not. They kind of love “taking the piss” out of themselves. I hope they remember that if they stumble across this book in the ninety-nine-pence bin. Ironically, I adore London; next to New York, it’s my favorite city. (I’d say
Paris, too, but I’ve only been there with my parents, which kind of sucked all the romance out of it.) I’ve spent quite a bit of time in the UK, and never had a bad time there. Until my guts blew up.
I was happy to discover that the food in England got better and better each time I went there. Pre-burst, I’d been living a few blocks from King’s Road, which had plenty of delicious food shoppes. Wonderful cheeses, meats, soups, fish. . .. and hundreds of different wines. I’d haul my bloated, fat ass over there after every rehearsal and buy every little thing my rotting tummy desired. I’ll never forget my last meal before: it was a smoked-salmon roll with cream cheese and a bottle of a crisp, light pinot grigio. If I’d known that it would be almost two months before I had anything resembling a meal, I would’ve at least had dessert.
But to describe the food at the hospital as disappointing would be a true understatement. Nauseating, unpleasant, and downright gruesome would be far more accurate. On the hospital tray was a single plate, and one glance at its contents, a glob of runny yellow and a glob of mushy beige, and my appetite was gone in an instant. When I was told the two piles were eggs and porridge, I had to carefully look away and with pleasant urgency quietly beg them to remove the tray as quickly as possible. Vomiting right now just simply wouldn’t do.
It took me a month to want food again. It would be two years before I experienced the sensation of hunger. Even after I was out of the hospital, I couldn’t seem to muster up the ability to eat much of anything. It was as if the surgeons had accidentally messed with my taste buds while they were in there, because everything—whether a bowl of chicken broth or a salad—all food seemed to carry the unappetizing stench of beef stew. (This all led to my eventual label of “ANOREXIC!” Which was hilarious because an eating disorder is pretty much the one issue I’ve never grappled with.)
After two weeks, I was able to meander up and down the corridor unassisted. I took grim satisfaction the day I managed to outhobble Mr. New Hips in the hallway. Watch how the youngsters do it, old man! I was healing nicely.
Too bad they didn’t offer a free lobotomy at the same time, because even though my body seemed to be healing rapidly, my brain was still pretty fucked up. Every day someone from the show would call, anxious for my status. It became clear that they were losing bucketloads of money each show I wasn’t in. Unfortunately, this wasn’t because I’m some huge theatrical draw, but it turned out most people wanted to see the play with the full cast the director rehearsed. I couldn’t take the guilt anymore, so I finally simply took the bull by the horns and, much to the disapproval of my surgeon, announced to everyone that I WAS LEAVING!
I convinced the hospital staff that I wouldn’t go back to the play for another week (lie), and that I could recuperate much faster at home (true). I had a friend who was staying with me (lie), and home was the best place for me so I could eat real food and gain some weight back (offensive but true).
Two days later, just before Christmas, I packed up my meager belongings, signed myself out, made sure I got my painkillers (with three refills. Just in case. Better safe than sorry), and got into a cab just before I almost fainted and ruined my escape plan. I’m only guessing here, but I think a face-plant into some old lady in a wheelchair would not have helped my cause.
Finally, freedom. I rolled down the window of the cab and let the gloriously crisp winter air rush in. As I rode through the streets of London and giddily watched the Christmas bustle, my mind drifted to wee Nurse Wretched. She was on Christmas break and had sadly missed my dramatic departure. I wondered what her reaction would be when she clocked in for her shift in a few days. Would she sullenly saunter toward my room, practicing her eye roll? She probably wouldn’t even notice. And if she did, she probably wouldn’t even care.
I couldn’t believe that thought actually depressed me. I guess it was because she was the only person alive other than my mother who had both washed my hair and tucked me in. She had a bad attitude while doing these, it’s true. But like all true lunatics, the meaner someone was to me, the more I adored them (see: almost every one of my ex-boyfriends).
I had the cab wait as I shopped for food, which ended up being six boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese, a box of saltines, and a twelve-pack of Coke. London cabbies are way better than New York cabbies. They speak English, and they actually know the city. Plus, they’re usually really nice, most likely due to the insanely inflated amount of money they charge. My cabbie that night was especially benevolent. Seeing that I could barely walk, let alone carry anything, he generously took my bags and my package of American sundries into the Elizabethan elevator and escorted me to my door.
“Thank you, sir, I’m fine now.”
“You sure, miss? You look a bit off.”
I demurred, paid him, and shut the door. I was alone. All alone. I barely had a chance to notice how tidy and spotless everything was (God, they must’ve hired one hell of a cleaning crew) before I carefully lay on the bed and fell into a dark, black sleep.
Hours later, I awoke in a panic just as hands were squeezing my throat. Gasping for air, I waited for the sweet relief that comes when you realize, It’s only a nightmare. However, that relief never came. Because the hands that had been choking me didn’t belong to a pudgy, prostitute-hating serial killer. Instead, the hands ruthlessly strangling me had been my very own.
ten
THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME
my reentry to the show was like being met with a less-than-glorious trumpet blast, as if the trumpet player suffered from severe emphysema. It was as though I had been dropped into a vat of honey. I had never felt more lethargic in my life. Of course I told everyone that the doctors were all just amazed at my recovery, and that they had given me the all clear to perform. Unfortunately, while not physically laborious, the role of Joan had lots of angry tirades and emotionally veered from rage to humor to sorrow. In other words, not quite befitting someone who’d had major intestinal surgery a mere two weeks before.
I also discovered that the painkiller the hospital had prescribed was tramadol, a much weaker, synthetic form of codeine that won’t cause stomach ulcerations. Which was a bit like giving a grizzly bear with a shattered pelvis an aspirin.
Once in my dressing room, I tried to begin my preshow ritual but found it almost impossible. When I wanted to brush my hair, for instance, instead of a quick, thoughtless action, it took a monumental amount of physical and mental effort. That’s my hand reaching for my brush, it’s close, I’m almost there, and now I have to put my fingers around its handle and I’ve got it, no problem, except now I should lift the brush to my hair—ow, that hurts my tummy to reach up, better to just move my head closer to the brush—maybe if I just rest my forehead on the dressing-room table. That’s perfect! Now brush. One stroke is fine, I’m too tired.
My dresser came in to help me get into the newly taken-in version of my costume, and I found I had to sit and rest between each pant leg. Even with severe tailoring, we soon discovered that I’d need a belt to keep the pants up. When she ran off to find one, I glanced up and saw my face in the mirror. I looked white. I tried to warm up my voice or say one of my lines, but I could barely draw breath to speak, let alone project to an enormous theater. This was my first inkling that maybe, just maybe, the doctors had been right, and I had made a terrible mistake. No, that’s ridiculous! You’ll be fine once the adrenaline hits. You absolutely made the right decision.
Thinking back on it now, I concede that I was one fucked-up bunny. But back then, I had a very different set of beliefs. I believed I could—and should—override anyone else’s rules and play by my own. Because for many, many years, whatever I wanted to happen eventually did, simply by the sheer force of my own willpower. (Well, except for quitting drugs or booze, but that’ll happen any day now.)
Why wouldn’t I believe I had control over my destiny? After all, this was proven true to me, time and time again. “You’ll never make it,” “You’re not a real actress, the best you can hope
for is sketch comedy,” and “Physically, it will be almost impossible for you to get work” were just a few of the constructive pearls of wisdom said to me by various acting teachers. But hadn’t I proven them false? I’d been supporting myself as an actress since I was twenty-five years old. And since less than 10 percent of professional actors make more than $5,000 per year, the odds certainly were not in my favor. (That tiny percentage is way higher than stage actors who support themselves by doing theater, which I’m going to boldly claim is 00.01 percent. The number would be zero if not for Nathan Lane.)
I beat the odds, regardless of all bets against me, and therefore I became stupidly convinced that I controlled my life. Some ridiculously handsome surgeon was no match for my wants and needs. I do what I want, when I want to, and that way everybody’s happy. God, I wish I’d known me back then—I sound completely irresistible. Now I finally understand why droves of my friends dropped everything they were doing and flew over to be with me.
Probably toward the end of the second show I became aware that I felt just awful. But I figured, Hello! This is what people feel like while recuperating from a major surgery, dumbass. Besides, I’d timed it perfectly. Because of the Christmas break, I only did two shows (not my best work, I’m sure, but I tried) and then had three days off.
My friend Daisy had generously invited me to spend Christmas with her family in the English countryside, which under normal circumstances I would have been thrilled to do. There’s nothing I love more than experiencing another country in someone’s home, with their family.
Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster Page 10