Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster (16 page)

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.

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.

Unfortunately, my few days at Daisy’s were far from joyous. I seemed to be getting worse by the hour, not better. It’s all a bit hazy, but I remember her family were funny and warm people and that their house was beautiful, charming, and very lived-in, in that special way only the Brits seem to know how to do right, and we Americans try desperately to emulate. They also had a darling little guest cottage, which I had all to myself, and almost never left. Daisy came in a few times, once to ask if I’d like to join the family, they were all watching
A Christmas Carol.

I wanted to join them, badly. “Which version?”

“The black-and-white one. The oldest one, I think.”

Damn! I love that one. I couldn’t believe that I was in a gorgeous home in the Cotswolds over Christmas and I couldn’t even muster up the energy to lie on a couch and watch a film. Instead, as I’d done since my youth, I escaped by immersing myself in a book.

That worked for the first day, until even reading became impossible because the words began to blur together ominously. I also couldn’t eat. Meaning literally, for two days, I couldn’t put even
one
bite of food in my mouth. It was awful—I was the ghostly guest from hell.

After a long nap I’d convince myself I felt better, that I was over the hump, that I was starting to feel like “me” again. I’d shower, dress, put on some makeup (
Is it the
lighting or is my skin really lime green?
) and I’d appear, much to almost everyone’s relief and cheer. The exception being the children, who had the good sense to stay as far away as possible from this creepy, silent ghoul. One of them, the two-year-old, would sob inconsolably from the moment I appeared until a few minutes later when I would quietly disappear again. Walking gingerly down the foggy, moonlit path, tears streaming down my hot, lime-green face, I knew why the children were so terrified. My creepy pallor and hollow eyes combined with my silent presence and long black parka made me a dead ringer for the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

Poor Daisy’s mum would bring me broth, but even that I couldn’t manage. This was way more than a lack of appetite. It was as if someone had simply gone into my brain and plucked out the part that allows even a morsel of food to pass one’s lips. I couldn’t even force myself to eat or drink a thing. Normally I’d think this was kinda cool, especially because of my recent discovery that I was a fat, fat fatty-kins, but all I felt was a hollow dread. Finally I decided to put this wonderful family out of their misery, and the morning after Christmas I called a taxi to take me back to London.

We had a matinee the next day, and when I woke up, I was feverish and extra-lethargic. I tried to take a shower yet couldn’t stand up without seeing spots. Sobbing and dripping shampoo, I lay on the bed quivering from coldand fear as it became clear that I had to call Malcolm to tell him I’d have to miss
yet another
show.

“Get back to ’ospital, right now,” he demanded.

I started crying harder. “No! I don’t want to go back there! Can’t I just go to a private physician and see what he says first?”

“Kristen, you get your bum in a taxi and go to ’ospital immediately, or I’ll come over and drag you there myself.”

I got my bum in a taxi immediately. I can’t put into words the sense of terror and failure I felt as I slowly hobbled into that emergency room again. But as stubborn as I was (am) even I had to concede that I had lost all control of this situation. I also knew that whatever death felt like, this was it. I could feel certain parts inside me shutting down, and I knew I didn’t have long. I was escorted once again to a curtained-off bed in the ER, except this time I wasn’t weeping or screaming. I made no noise at all. I just stared at the ceiling, hating my life and my awful, traitorous body.

I wanted death. I welcomed it. I really did. I couldn’t bear going through this again alone. An ER nurse finally showed up, and this time instead of grilling me for information, she took one look at my face (
What, like you’ve never seen a dying lime-green person before?
), and within seconds I was being wheeled back into the X-ray room. Except seeing it through death goggles instead of agony goggles, I realized what I thought was an X-ray room was actually a fancy-looking CT and MRI area. This time the head technician was incredibly sweet and gently explained that he needed to do a CT scan of my surgical site, to make sure there was no infection.

I could’ve told him what it took a half hour of frowning and looking at a screen to ascertain: I had an infection and it was a
doozy.
Still, I wasn’t prepared when, without warning, he cut a hole just below my left rib cage and shoved a tube into me, which immediately began draining—I’m not sure how much, but it looked to me like four or five of those huge Evian bottles—this yellowy-green liquid. The nurses kept taking the full ones away, and a new one would fill up immediately. This all happened in about ten minutes as I lay there, shocked. Shouldn’t I be put under for something like this?