Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster (15 page)

in the
first week or so postsurgery, the doctors said I’d need at least three weeks of recuperation in the hospital. However, since I played a nurse on
ER
for six episodes, I was quite sure that two would be more than enough. Which is precisely what I told Sonia, the brilliant producer of the play, when she visited me on the third day.

Sonia is shrewd, tough, brutally honest, and insanely successful at what she does. Sonia does not, however, have a soothing bedside manner, and she couldn’t disguise the dawning horror on her face as her eyes drank in the Freak show laid out in front of her.

When people visit you in the hospital, they bring in fresh air and ruddy cheeks and life. But soon, this remarkable transformation occurs—they seem to become
part of
the hospital. It’s an astonishing thing to bear witness to—all the life drains out of them, any amusing story they couldn’t wait to share on the way over becomes stuck to the roof of their mouth. The bouquet of peonies in their hand wilts. They enter smelling like Chanel No.5 or soap, but once they leave, for the rest of the day, they’ll trail the subtly unpleasant scent of death, Pine-Sol, and formaldehyde in their wake. The hospital sucks everything delightful, new, and fresh out of you. Like the hotel in
The Shining
, it wants you.

Every now and then I was struck by the queasy thought that if that was what happened to someone who was here ten minutes, what in God’s name was it doing to me? But I’d furiously
click, click, click
until that thought was banished.

Since the cast of
Love Song
(bad title, but trust me, excellent play) was only four people, we had all grown extremely close over the course of the intense four-week rehearsal. They were all so lovely and terribly understanding of my plight. I wonder how understanding they would have been if they knew the
real
reason my guts blew up? They each visited a few times and e-mailed and called. Thank God for them. Other than the people involved with the show, my only visitors were my friends Joanna and Daisy. Cillian, the stunning Irish actor who played my brother in the show, seemed traumatized by the place and basically tossed the book he’d brought for me on the bed, kissed the air near my cheek, and backed out. I remember watching him as his walk turned into a run down the endless, Jim Bob Kubrick–designed corridor. How could I blame him? If I could’ve figured out how Nurse Wretched cranked this bed into sitting, I would’ve hobbled right on out after him. I’d be drizzling blech, it’s true. And I’d be bent in half. But I’d be free.

One of the best qualities about Sonia is her inability to bullshit. Most people run in fear from her, but I’ve always had a soft spot for an up-front gal who doesn’t seem to need to please others. Sadly, a rare breed. So it didn’t surprise me one bit that she was easily able to ignore the life-sucking desires of the hospital. She was too busy dealing with the dawning comprehension that her brand-new smash-hit show on the West End had turned into a rotting money-pit overnight.

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.