"God is our employer and he can't fire us" .. WHAT?????

Two Weeks later.
How the hell did it get to be February again ?? In twelve days it will be March.
Okay—so going blonde may have been a teeny bit rash. While it has indeed lifted my spirits a little – there is a price. The good news of course is that a body that only six months ago shed every hair on its head and elsewhere —is now growing excellent quality new shoots of dark brown hair rapidly and efficiently. As I say to my body, when I infrequently think to do so – “Good job, body!” BUT, the bad news is that just about ten days after the dye job, those bloody roots pop out of my scalp like determined little killjoys and just ruin the whole look. It means maintenance every three weeks and my rapidly-growing arsenal of new skills (leg waxing with strips from Rite Aid and clothes dyeing to name just two) is now going to have to include learning how to mix a mean bleach.

But looks aside, there’s the spiritual side that’s also in dire need of a massive makeover. And whilst at it, I wouldn’t mind if my empathy levels could be ratcheted down a notch or two. I find myself identifying with any sad soul I see –from the man who sleeps on the sidewalk in a big cosy mess of duvets outside the Papa John’s Pizzeria on Beverly and who, upon waking, then sits all morning in a camp chair across the street right outside the Starbuck’s. I wave every morning and smile sweetly but can’t help imagining I AM HIM and what it would be like to bathe in public restrooms and sleep outside in winter.
I also think I am every sad little old lady sitting at a bus stop or schlepping big grocery bags back to her lonely cold apartment. And if I believed in reincarnation and had a decent voice, I could almost believe I’ve come back as a poor relative of Paul Robeson as I find myself driving round moaning (it definitely could NOT be called singing) that old song from Showboat- “I get weary and sick of crying, fraid of livin, but scared of dyin’….but Old Man River just keeps rollin’ along.” I do. I spend long periods in the car alone. Who’s to know?

But I truly do wish I COULD sing. I’d like to be known as “one of the Gospel Greats” and be able to belt out Amazing Grace with enough soul to make Mahalia Jackson look lame. That would reboot my anorexic spiritual side. Give me a center. But, devoid of any musical talent WHATsoever, and pretty light on emotional intelligence as well, I find myself heading off to the La Brea Showcase Theater where Marianne Williamson is once again, after a long absence, lecturing on the Course of Miracles every Tuesday evening. I had never seen the New Age guru the first time around so I was keen to check out her spiritual evenings which are half lecture, half Q&A with the audience, plus two prayers and a quick ‘imagine you are bathed in golden light” meditation.


Meditation, Marianne tells the standing room only crowd, is the key to EVERYthing. She says that a mere 5 minutes of meditation in the mornings is enough to raise your thought patterns to a higher vibrational level to put “your thought forms in the care of God” for the entire day. Jesus. How hard can that be? And if it’s really that easy, why the hell have I never been able to focus for five measly minutes in order to meditate. It’s a tragic indictment of that dark, scary swamp known as my mind. I go from feeling elated to a loser in an ADD flash.
But wait—it gets even easier and more seductive. While meditation is the way people listen to God, prayer is the way they talk to God. Williamson says that “prayer is the medium of miracles”. She explains that there is no order of difficulty in miracles. All people have to do in order to receive a miracle is be willing to ASK.

Not very hard. Just ASK. Got that? I plan, from here on out, to meditate and pray. I may have the two words tattooed on my arm since I don’t really trust myself to remember.
No, wait. A third word might have to be added. LOVE. “Love is to fear what light is to darkness,” she explains “Let the love in and fear disappears.” Yay. I am up for that. And I can see it on a bumper sticker. Can I make money with this? But just as I’m beginning to think this might all be a teensy bit simplistic and too easy to be true, Marianne swings into Question time and somehow love flies out the window.


She’s very crabby and wildly impatient with anyone who asks a dopey, annoying or long-winded question. “What are you asking?” “Get to the point!” or “Do you actually have a question??” are snapped at dull folk with her rapid-fire delivery and one guy who dared to mention his theory that a “mafia of women” was refusing to hire him for a job was leapt upon with just a hint of glee. “You’re not getting a job because there’s a MAFIA OF WOMEN? Is that what you actually said? Are you SERIOUS?”” she demanded, to peals of laughter from the largely female and gay audience.


She’d been talking about career on this one particular night and she managed to lull us all into some mass feeling of bliss as she explained that our careers were really to act with LOVE and that all would follow from that. If only we LOVED, the gig would follow. “And when God is your employer, you can’t get fired!” Yes, but what if you didn’t get hired in the first place, I wanted TO SHRIEK ??? Huh? What then?
A jolly-faced blonde of about 25 suddenly stands, is swiftly handed a mike by one of the scurrying nervous assistants (MW has made it crystal clear she doesn’t like to wait for those radio mikes) and she beams at Marianne as she says, with the Aussie twang of someone just off the plane, “Hi Marianne, since you’re talking about career, I thought I’d ask you for a job. I’m a singer and I’d like to join you on tour. I’ve got a tape I’d like to give you.” Another huge innocent expectant smile and a nervous laugh.. Well, let me tell you- our guru is not amused. She immediately launches into a very put-upon moan about not having enough time to listen to tapes and how she’s not even ON tour. No, sorry. No time.


But our intrepid gal is not put off and with the smile at high-beam she says “Well let me just sing you TWO lines” and astutely not waiting for permission, she begins to sing with enormous gusto—in a truly stunning big, soaring voice that sends shivers down the spine. I adore it and could listen for another hour. But she politely sticks to the two lines and then sits –to raucous cheers and applause. But does Marianne even acknowledge the girl and her lovely voice with a “Well done—great pipes. If there’s anyone here who is in music, perhaps you could give her some advice”.
Nope. No acknowledgement whatsoever. She turns on her heel and heads up the aisle with her mike and picks on – sorry, picks- the next questioner. But having now dished about the ‘cranky mean bitch’ side of Ms Williamson, let me just say that I’ll be back. Definitely. She is very entertaining, smart as a whip and let’s not forget – as my pal Brooke reminds me on the way home, it’s the message—not the messenger that counts here. I could sure use reminders to meditate and let the love in – especially if it does send the fear packing. I need a cheap life coach—even if it is a group session with 800 others.


So in an effort to put it into practice and SHOW the love, I decide that despite one of those torrential downpours of late, I must show up at the soggy ceremony as my dear friend Anjelica Huston gets a much-deserved Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I do so and am glad. It’s not every day a pal gets a star. It’s very, very wet but we feel very intrepid and rather selfless and fabulous as we stand listening to speeches by Danny Huston, Wes Anderson and the gorgeous, talented star herself under a tiny dripping tarp.
Unfortunately,at the risk of sounding tedious, I must note that the love comes back to me in the form of a foul cold/flu that descends a day later and lingers a week. Right through another breast-draining session courtesy Dr Bob who still won’t agree to schedule the next surgery due to this fluid build-up ! Wait—is he in love with me ?? Does he want these charming sessions where my left tit is swabbed with betadine before being assaulted with GIGANTIC needles that would scare a liger to go on FOREVER and ever and ever? Apparently.

Jan 1 through 4
A few more days of peace and quiet down at gorgeous unspoilt Whale Beach(about an hour from Sydney) with Rachel and a dear friend Lydia and on my last day in Sydney I actually wake up feeling somewhat refreshed and not unlike a human being – but no rest for the wicked. One hour later, after a lightning visit to a fabulous local artist Bruce Goold, I am heading back to Sydney to pack. Me and my boy wrench ourselves from the sultry Sydney summer back onto the plane and a few hours into the tedious flight back, memories of penguin watching at twilight and xmas lunch with all the cousins and the dinner party of oysters and artichoke pasta at frank’s and vegemite on toast at Janey’s are beginning to fade.

By the time we're waiting for our luggage at LAX (why does your life flash before you in such a deeply depressing way as you wait for luggage?), it’s hard to believe that we were in another hemisphere and another season this very SAME day (due to the 19 hour time difference) with lovely folks we won’t see again for a good long spell. Traveling is very fucking weird and I am thrilled that Lola is in fact still there – having decided to stay on for another ten days to go on a road trip to Queensland with her bff Matilda Brown.

Jan 5 –Next day.
The alarm goes off at 7am after what seems like ten minutes of sleep- and I wonder for that weird couple of moments where the hell I am but I look down at the floor beside my bed and it all comes back to me… a frenzied session of unpacking Nick’s bag at 3am resulted in a sandy pile of stinky damp clothes on the floor which I step over as I stagger to his room and try to wake him. And it’s now that I remember the poor child has a science test today and yes, the relevant pages from his science text book that I conscientiously Xeroxed for him are still packed neatly in his back pack – having naturally not been perused by student ONCE during entire vacation. What a shock. I feel genuinely sorry for him and it’s tempting to say “Go back to sleep honey, you can skip school today” and run back to bed myself. But he’s already missed a day of school so, setting a dangerous precedent, I take him Weetabix and hot milk in bed along with his Adderal and beg him to sit up and eat.

As we drive to school in the biting cold we’re not used to after a spell of summer downunder, I try to jolly up the sleepy teen with thoughts of how cool his new buzzcut is and how his pals will probably like it. (Blow me down if after two long years of unsuccessful threats mixed with cash bribes if only he would cut his shoulder length hair, he doesn’t slip out one morning three days after arriving in Melbourne with cousin Jane to the same barber my dad used to go to and get his hair buzzed within half an inch of his head!) Well, the bad news is –he failed the Science test. The good news is that YES, his pals dug his hair cut and by Friday, not one – but THREE of them had followed suit and gone from long flowing locks to short, crisp crew cuts! My son the trend-setter. I was disproportionately proud of the giant child who grew half an inch over Christmas. But trying to keep some perspective, made him retake the science test and after long nights of jetlagged study, we got a C.

Oh my God. The jetlag. Ferocious. For days I could not stop myself from running to Starbucks after dropping him off before falling straight back into my bed. The guilt, the self-loathing as one finally comes to at 1 in the afternoon realizing there is a good two hours to get anything accomplished before picking up child and starting the tedious homework/dinner routine all over again before another night of tossing, turning, getting up for snacks (Janey—desperately need more Vegemite!! PLEASE SEND MORE!) and finally, more often than not, taking a friggin half an ambien at about 3am.
Oh, an update on the tits.

So the first day back I am down in Santa Monica seeing Dr Bob at 10 am sharp. He’s not too thrilled with the amount of fluid he has to drain from my left breast. Nor am I for that matter as despite an almost complete lack of any feeling whatsoever, one feels the dragging and sucking as the giant needle ‘vacuums’up the liquid. He tells me to try and do NOTHING strenuous before coming back in a week—and when I return, it’s the same story. There is a large fluid build-up which is of some concern and this time he tightly bandages me up to try and stop fluid from collecting. He explains that he can’t pump the expander with any more saline to fill up the breast as it is already twice as big as the other. I could have told him that. And then he informs me that not one but TWO more surgeries will be needed in trying to replace the expanders with permanent implants and get it looking half way decent. Two, if we’re lucky. Could be more. Greeeeeat.



The combination of realizing that I have two more surgeries, an immune system to repair, five more months of 8th grade homework, no job, no money AND mouse shit brown hair leaves me, along with the jetlag just a tad depressed. Oh- and the lovely Tamoxifen waiting for me at the local Rite Aid which my oncologist says I need to start taking now FOR FIVE YEARS. An anti-hormonal drug that “is for the risk that anything could microscopically have spread and adds to the chemotherapy to give a combined 75% reduction on the original risk of spread of the cancer” is how my oncologist put it to me in an email last week. But it also can lead to bone aching, joint stiffness and soreness, endless hot flashes, uterine cancer and should “be avoided at all costs” according to my homeopathic doctor. What to do???? I make an appointment with the UCLA oncologist I have been meaning to switch to –but exhaustion, reluctance to drive so much further to UCLA and fear of asking my current oncologist to send all the records have so far stopped me. But this is a fairly crucial decision. I need more input. And that means more than talking to one or two friends—both of whom refused to take it for fear of just ‘putting more chemicals “ into their bodies. And so –a teeny bit low and weary that I have to make more drug decisions as I gear up for another surgery, I DECIDE TO CUT MY HAIR EVEN SHORTER AND GO WHITE BLONDE.


It was a rash, somewhat impulsive move– but hideous hair and an invitation to the G’DAY USA awards for FAB AUSSIES WHO’VE DONE A HECK OF A LOT the next night calls for tough decisions and I’m pleased to say I was up for the challenge. I made the call at 11am friday. And was with my old hairdresser pal Mario by 4pm that same day. And by 6.30 Saturday night I was heading—alone of course- to join some Aussie pals at the big black-tie bash promoting OZ/USA relations in trade, showbiz and whatever else they can think of—to honor my friend Simon Baker (star of The Mentalist) along with Toni Colette and Greg Norman the golfer. And shallow old tart that I am, I gotta say I felt a hell of a lot more attractive as a blonde than as Ms Mouse Brown. A tragic attempt to recapture my youth when, a mere quarter of a century ago, I cut my hair and dyed it blonde ? Yep. A toxic overdose of chemicals onto my poor old scalp that burned like hell as said dye did its thing? Perhaps. Although both oncologist and homeopathic docs said to go ahead and do it! So what the hell?


My kids both approved wholeheartedly and at least heading off to the Hollywood Highland center to celebrate the Aussies, I felt like I’d made an effort and could hold head up high. And it was a ‘bloody good night’ as the very sweet and mighty cute Simon Baker was introduced by his old friend Nicole Kidman who clearly felt comfortable surrounded by fellow countrymen and she proceeded to tell us all that she took pride in being the one who had convinced the young jack-of-all trades but generally unemployed Simon and his wife to come over to LA about 15 years ago and ‘give it a go”. They followed her advice and some good parts finally followed. But then, about three years ago, they felt it was time to head home to Sydney and they sold up here and bought a house there. But six months later they were all homesick for LA – and they headed back-three kids in tow – to LA at which point the again-unemployed actor got a new gig and hit the jackpot. As lead on the top-rating show THE MENTALIST. Niiice.

Nic and hubby Keith Urban then serenaded Simon with a fabulous version of Men At Work’s “A Land Downunder” singing witty new lyrics of their own all about Simon and his wonderful wife Rebecca and their three kids. It was a revelation to see “Nic” kicking off her shoes in gay abandon as she danced around behind her hubby and rather touching that so much effort had clearly been put into the very personal new words.
"He's got a plan this quiet achiever.
And Becca is his dream believer."
Simon blushed adorably -as did Rebecca when the lyrics focussed on her- but it was an amazing tribute and certainly had a verve that the globes and oscars can only dream of - and I was thrilled to be there amongst the fun-loving, irreverent, champagne-swilling aussies till I looked up and saw myself on the two mega giant screens televising it all. At first I truly thought – ‘who is that sheila smiling goonishly behind Simon with a very shiny forehead and something resembling a wig hat on her head?’ before realizing it was me. I then tried to hide behind Simon but kept dodging in the wrong direction. Mortifying. Though by the time I woke up late the next day there were some nice emails from Australian friends saying they had seen it all on Channel 9 in oz and how much they liked the new ‘do’. Almost certainly fibbing. But it’s a funny old world. Hard to keep much to yourself.

Christmas/New Year with my people....

Dec 28th
Loyalties torn and divided, we sadly leave Melbourne and cousin Janey's cheerful face at breakfast after a fleeting 9 days and head to Sydney where there are more lovely friends, warm breezes, cockatoos overhead and the heavenly smells of all the Frangipani trees. Our stunning hostess Rachel Ward (she of Thornbirds fame and more lately a fabulous director) decides we should stop on the way back from the airport at the Fish Market and check out the huge whacking great barramundi and gleaming freshly caught snapper and all manner of Aussie seafood – some still alive and kicking, freshly arrived here at the wharf. Minutes later we are lunching on fantastic sushi and then we buy fresh prawns and oysters and sardines to eat the same night under the Sydney stars in her beautiful old sandstone house right on the Harbor before retiring to my own little guest house at the bottom of the garden just feet from the Harbor itself and their own jetty for speedy morning getaways by boat to nearby cafes for more lattes or a swing past the Opera House. It’s some sort of extraordinary flexible jetty that sways with the waves made by adorable little tug boats and swanky lit-up cruisers that pass all through the night. My first night in Sydney-a full moon, a Southern Hemisphere sky that is ablaze with stars and the softly-twinkling lights of the famous Harbor bridge Not too shabby.
The next morning I discover I have moronically packed just one of my weekly vitamin boxes with the anti-depressants, antibiotics and all manner of supplements to restore my immune system. Must have left the other two behind in my rush to get out of the USA to my mother country. Ah. This is dull. I’ve taken 10 days of antibiotics in Melbourne and that should do the trick, topping up the staggering amounts I’ve swallowed for four months. (Never did believe in the theory that you must finish every single course. WHY??) Anyway—no sign of infection. All seems fine down there as long as I wear baggy tops to disguise the fact that one boob is twice the size of the other. But another week with no anti-depressants? Now that could be a problem. Ever tried quitting them cold-turkey? Incredibly inadvisable due to nausea, shocking dizziness, headaches and major urges to go to bed and never get up again. But a good friend (and this is surely the definition OF a good friend) suggests she pop in to see her pals at the neighborhood chemist and get some more of her Effexor and switch to those immediately. It does the trick beautifully and soon Rachel and I and Lola and heading over to my friend Nell’s house in Longueville, a North Sydney suburb where Nicole Kidman grew up. (Rachel’s gorgeous daughter and Lola’s adored lifelong pal Matilda, 22, is editing her short film for the Tropfest- which is a film festival for short films under 7 minutes that gets hundreds of entries a year. She has written, directed and starred in it—as twins-and it is fantastic. If she gets to be one of the finalists, it will be shown at a wonderful evening under the stars in Sydney’s Domain- an inner-city park and it could jump-start her acting or directing career. There’s such a can-do spirit in some aspects of Australian life and young filmmakers are encouraged in all sorts of ways by both their peers and the government –with endless grants and tax brakes for writing and making movies that simply don’t exist in America.
We arrive at Nell’s new digs- just a teensy bit far for me from the city proper –but discover she has moved back after thirty years in New York where she acted and ran restaurants and her own wildly successful nightclub NELL’S and embraced a whole new life. The house is a true haven, backing onto gorgeously green bushland and is totally surrounded by a virtual forest of trees and kookaburras and her own pet water dragon Jimmy who appears daily now for raw carrots and any tasty leftovers. She has done a spectacular job of renovating what was a simple brick house and added verandahs, an amazing kitchen and, like a girl after my own heart, has cunningly installed all Ikea cabinets and sliding drawers and roll-out closets with custom made door fronts. And the garden is brilliant with native plants she has hauled from miles around. And so, I kept thinking over the home-made hummus and the roasted snapper and heavenly salad …why couldn’t I make a go of it in Australia ?? Why did I spend four years there and then rush back to LA ? Well, unlike Nell who has an adored mother and two sisters and a brother in Sydney, I had family in Melbourne, most of my pals in Sydney – but most importantly, my dearest daughter in LA. It made sense to return, didn’t it? My second-guessing of myself and the constant recriminations and regrets must stop soon. They must. Memo to self. Talk to LA therapist about my endless lack of feeling good about my decisions, restlessness and underlying flat-out panic about the future. Just because I’m a single mother and have no job, no prospects, no savings, no pension to look forward to and no partner...
And I keep thinking back to Mandy, my childhood best friend from our all-girls school Firbank who I’ve had fun with on every trip back home – at least thirty of them, since leaving Australia at 20. But this trip was very different. I visited her twice in Geelong, about an hour out of Melbourne and after two years of pancreatic cancer, she’s not a well girl. Every fiber of my being wishes I had the money and resources to somehow magically produce the perfect holistic team of acupuncturists, reflexologists, chefs, and yoga teachers on her doorstep, easing the need for painkillers and anti-nausea drugs and giving her a life and immune-enhancing concoction of food, drinks, meditations—and the STRENGTH to keep fighting. I’m sure the Aussie oncologists are as good as any in the world---but that basically means well-meaning folks who are trained to prescribe toxic drugs and nothing else in the way of complimentary treatments, nutrition or supplements. No one had ever even mentioned the concept of smoking or somehow ingesting pot to help with the nausea. Her weight is very low due to endless vomiting caused by the acute nausea and she should at the very least be trying out SMOKING SOME WEED !! I told her how I had been convinced by Melissa Etheridge talking on Ellen or Oprah about pot helping with it---and she seemed open to it – but in Australia no doctors can prescribe it and she said none of her friends partook of same. It’s tough to be a know-it-all bossy boots caretaking type but not live in the same country and unable to come by more often for a fab barbey(BBQ) of snags(sausages) and chops thanks to her darling hubby Graham and just two days after weepily waving goodbye to her I was far away in Sydney. But wishing her the very best in her struggle as I realize how lucky I am.
And just a few days later another year –a challenging one– was about to bite the dust. New Year’s Eve day in Sydney was a flurry of activity as the perfect hosts, Bryan Brown and wife Rachel are preparing their house for their big bash that evening on their verandah and back lawn overlooking the Harbor and thus we, the guests are thrilled to help in anticipation of yet another of their famous NYE bashes with the fantastic free view of the amazing fireworks show that Sydney puts on for it’s inhabitants each year now. It’s a bloody beauty!
There’s a lot to be done….no lolling about reading novels or watching dvd’s today…We drink lattes and as the caffeine kicks in, we rise to the occasion. Suddenly gorgeous Turkish rugs and oversized cushions are being flung onto the lawn, verandahs are swept, bushes are pruned, fabulous throws and Indian quilts are put over outdoor sofas, tables are laid, lanterns and candles placed, incense is lit and within a couple of hours we have ‘staged’ the joint beautifully. The blokes (Nick and Joe Brown being directed by the very bossy but witty Bryan Brown) have been doing bloke work—carrying boxes of grog all over the place and putting out big bins lined with trash bags to hold copious amounts of beer and wine…and now it’s time for some food prep before joining Lola and Matilda for a fun, old-fashioned massive trying-on of frocks session.
Hard to remember ever being that young and gorgeous as they inspect themselves in a full-length mirror and reject one fantastic outfit after another. I borrow a long arm and leg-covering dress from Rachel and try to not look in the mirror more than absolutely essential. And then suddenly, as the wind dies down to nothing and a stunningly warm evening presents itself as the last of 2009, we realize we have about ten minutes to get dressed as folk appear, champagne corks start popping and the party has begun against one of the best backdrops in the world. Well certainly in the Southern hemisphere. (This spot is such a hot ticket that the entire neighborhood is blocked off by police so that people wanting the view in nearby parks have to come by foot so that bedlam does not ensue).
Lola and Matilda appear looking like the exquisite young things they are – each wearing one of the other’s outfits. And it’s startling to realize they are no longer awkward or shy but totally confident and charming young women able to make small talk with the best of them and welcome guests like old hands. They no longer need us for practically any bloody thing and in fact would not even notice if all we oldies snuck out of the party right this minute. And if they did notice, they'd be deliriously happy. For a few moments there I start to wallow in the tragedy of getting old and redundant and not having a hope in hell of ayone flirting with me tonight (as if ) but try to pull myself together as an old Aussie pal I dated in London makes his way towards me and announces, very loudly, "You're alive!! I'm so pleased."
But most people downunder, though candid, are also discreet - and no one else has even alluded to the Big C. Or else they don’t care. But I think it’s the former - a natural tendency not to pry or invade anyone’s privacy which is a giant relief. Though I realize they can lie through their teeth with the best of them when they tell me how swell my stunningly dull, mouse shit brown hair looks….about an inch and a half all over and now with an unmistakable wave that it never possessed before. “Wow, it looks FANtastic“ they splutter as their eyes bulge in shock and horror. But it’s okay. The last year has cured me of pretty much all but a shred of vanity and it’s such fun to see folks I haven’t seen in well over two years…AND we get to see the fireworks TWICE…there is a 9pm show for young kids who can’t stay up- and then again of course at midnight. We’re riveted both times ---nothing like watching them from the comfort of our own party as we eat sushi and garlic prawns. At midnight a lot of us head down and watch from the jetty as the water reflects the flaming lit-up sky and suddenly lots of the young folk—led by an inspired Matilda Brown, jump into the Harbor, clothes and all. Shrieking, laughter and the roars and whistles of the fireworks. Such fun. Yes, my two leapt in too and were extremely pleased with themselves. We oldies mutter to each other about sharks but the young ‘uns are having a blast and certain daughters even have a first kiss with a very cute local right there in the harbor as the fireworks explode overhead.

But it’s funny how things can change in the space of a few days. One minute I’m thinking how cute and adorable it was to see Nick walking round the block in Melbourne to see the pals he’s known from the third grade—reverting to the childhood habits of cruising the neighborhood on bikes and then a few days later he’s a drunken oaf throwing up like a great big revolting teen who, to my horror, admits as he hangs his head over the toilet for about an hour at 3 am, that he’d downed TEN beers—apparently between midnight and 2am when I saw him heading for bed. I am shocked and very upset to think that had I not gone up to check on him – only to discover him lying in a huge pile of vomit on the pillow — he could have choked to death! It’s frightening and alarming and I berate myself for not keeping a closer eye on him but when a shitload of free beers are lying in bins all over the place waiting to be drunk, what can you do? I truly pray that it taught him a lesson and as I watch him like a hawk all night and put my hand on his back to make sure he's breathing –as he snores happily in my bed- I remind myself to tell him, about fifty times over the next few months, that shockingly, teens die of alcohol poisoning all the time.
As he happily tucks into bacon and eggs the next day at noon with the rest of us, (after a lot of hosing down outside on the lawn of the stinky sofa bed he slept on) and silly, somewhat inappropriate tales are swapped of the first time others got drunk, I know it’s a New year’s Eve he’ll remember for a very long time.

I bloody well am going downunder--good move!

Few hours Later- dec 16th
I’ve gone home, collapsed on the bed amidst all the half- packed bags and chaos of wrapping paper, presents that are not nearly good enough for cousins and adorable old pals I’ve known for thirty years and wallowed in the guilt and panic of not even having found a single present for my best and only daughter. I lie there and a vision of the next 18 days alone, with not even a plan for Christmas day, flashes before me! Self-pitying sentimental slob that I am, I just can’t bear the thought of it. I simply can’t. And my oldest best school friend, who’s had pancreatic cancer, which has spread to liver and lungs, is expecting to see me and I would dearly love to see my favorite uncle who is not AT ALL well. Fuck. It doesn’t seem wildly indulgent to wallow in self-pity for an hour before school pick-up. But suddenly I remember I am in possession of a letter from Dr Sam who HAS said that if I can put the flight off till Monday, he might be able to give me the go-ahead. I call the travel agent and tell him I have a letter from my infectious disease Doctor saying I should not travel till the 21st and could he please see if there is a seat then. He practically snorts with derision saying that unless I have an immediate family member who has died- and I have a DEATH CERTIFICATE ON MY PERSON, tough titty.
Over dinner I tell my kids I probably won’t be joining them again this year and they are sweetly sad but it doesn’t seem to occur to them to say they won’t go either and I can’t blame them –nor would it make any sense for us ALL to sit around feeling lower than a snake’s belly. Or some such local expression from downunder. I never get them quite right. That’s because I’m a disenfranchised bloody aussie with an American passport as well, not to mention two American children who no longer has a place she calls home and despite loving and always weeping when I hear Peter Allen’s stunning anthem “I Still Call Australia Home”, I’m afraid it’s been about three decades since I felt that to be true. I have no place to call home. It’s true and it sucks. It would be nice to feel one belongs somewhere.

24 Hours Later
I lie in bed wide AWAKE all frigging night wondering if I should just defy doc’s orders and jump on that plane but it’s hard NOT to imagine the nightmare of fifteen hours in the back of the plane. Something about staggering up for the ninth time of the night to pee and feeling the deep, deep fatigue of a year of chemo, surgeries and crap make the thought of same flight seem utterly horrifying. I’m TOO OLD for fucking ECONOMY, I tell myself sensibly. It’s just plain wrong.
But by next morning, after dropping the teen at school, I know that staying will be too wretched for words and so, I give it another try. I call to see if there are any labs back yet from the fluid tests they did yesterday and blow me down if Dr Bob doesn’t call right back and say that preliminary results indicate there may not be any infection but best to wait till Monday so I can come back and be drained again and get the official results. I tell him that it will cost $1700 to change my seat and start to cry. Basically resigned to stay, I blurt out that the left breast is twice as big as the right today anyway but he explains that it was like that yesterday because he filled it up SO much so that no more fluid could enter.
“Well it’s your decision. It’s up to you “ he announces…
“I can GO?”
“Double the dose of antibiotics and take them for two weeks-not just one and jump on a plane and come back if anything starts to look weird”
Having one breast twice as big as the other is already in the Weird department but clearly not what he means. What DOES he mean? Who cares at this point?
“So, just to be clear, you won’t disown me as a patient if I go to Australia? I ask
“If I was going to disown you I would’ve done that a long time ago!” he laughs.
“God that is so MY line”, I want to yell---but give an already smug surgeon an opening and suffer the consequences.
“Thanks so much Dr Bob “ I say—and actually mean it.
Well it’s four hours to go till my ex-husband’s very sweet third wife and Lola’s second stepmother arrives to take us to the airport. BETTER GET MOVING.!!!!! And so follows a wild few hours of all the manic packing I should have done over the last 48 hours. I try to pretend a camera is recording every move so that, with laser-like efficiency and focus, I will stick to the tasks at hand and manage it all—passports, both aussie and American, my son’s packing which is to include rash vests for surfing, his acne medication, rubber bands for his braces, swimsuits, flip flops, his skateboard and thoughtfully Xeroxed pages of his upcoming science and history chapters so that he will be a step ahead when he arrives back at school a day late, jetlagged, with a science test in the first period and a history one the next day. (Mothers must be optimists..…but yes, a MASSIVE waste of time.) And then I nimbly stuff three weekly pill boxes to the gills with all the supplements and antibiotics and anti depressants I am meant to take, hurl about twenty tank tops, 4 winter jackets and two pairs of jeans into the case with my usual lack of flair for packing and pretty soon, after weighing and reweighing all the bags till my head is spinning, I am sweating and fretting, and desperate to find something to wear for a New years Eve bash we are going to in Sydney but too late- our ride has appeared, and we’re off to the airport via Otis College to pick up Lola who is meant to be giving an end of year Performance Piece for her teachers in about ten minutes. But some people don’t bother to read the itineraries their mothers send them on repeated occasions and thus have to skip out of school a day early. Soon we are delivered safely to LAX. Okay- so we’re on the wrong floor at Arrivals and it’s also the wrong terminal. But we’re close and after a frantic 15 minute schlep we are in the correct LONG line. And soon it ‘s time to stand by as my fabulously strong son heaves bags on and off weighing machines, not letting his dear ol mum lift a finger.

As we hit the first passport checkpoint, an immigration officer looks at me, looks at my passport picture and then back at me. “You looked better with the long blonde hair. You might want to grow it again, “ he offers as he snaps it shut and takes up the next passport. I am gobsmacked. Rendered temporarily speechless, especially as Lola who often thinks she’s the bloody grown-up, has ordered me just moments ago to be polite to everyone. I am known for a certain lack of finesse at airports where my colossal impatience has been known to rear it’s ugly head- especially when power-crazed women start ordering you to take off not only shoes, but belts, scarves, sweaters, beanies.” FUCK! Should I JUST STRIP OFF COMPLETELY? Look, under my beanie –what am I hiding ? NOTHING! ” I seem to recall shouting last time I flew in June, still bald.
But Lola is incensed and jumping to my defense, immediately pipes up with “Well you know, it’s funny but when someone has chemo and LOSES ALL THEIR HAIR, they don’t have much choice about their hairstyle for a while!” That’s my girl.
The moronic officer is not remotely embarrassed and responds “Well I wouldn’t know about any of that!” before waving us on and shouting “Next!”
“Dickhead” mutters Lola and Nick sweetly puts his arm around me as we march on with the eight pieces of heavy hand luggage I vow to eliminate each year. Unsuccessfully.
Three pilots then hover next to us, trying to jump the queue as we approach the x-ray machines.. I politely ask if they’d like to jump in ahead of us and they accept the offer and walk through without taking off their shoes. I decide to leave mine on and casually walk on through before a cranky female screams at me to go back and take OFF THE SHOES! “Well they didn’t “ I reply indignantly pointing to the pilots hurrying away. The woman’s partner, packing heat, booms out “When you learn to fly a plane, you can keep your shoes on too!” I’m tempted to snap back that I have a flying license too but sensibly decide to resist my juvenile anti-authoritarian urges.
And then, naturally, I am taken aside to some holding area after putting same hand luggage through the x ray machines because I have idiotically packed three expensive green drinks from the health food store into one of the bags. The female recovers all three drinks plus a gorgeous hydrating face spray and holds them up as it was a cache of heroin and a home made bomb. “Well can I drink them now? I plead as Lola hisses “Jesus mum, they’ve only had this law for about ten years. What is your problem??” Feeling utterly brainless I respond loudly with “Well what the fuck do they think will happen? I’ll drink them and blow myself up on the spot?” Lola yells back and soon she and Nick and I are all shouting at each other. Another gun-toting dude then tells us all to pipe down or we’ll be taken “to another area”. That shuts us all up.
As we wait for the flight, now laden down with even more bags of magazines, sweeties and water, my cousin from Melbourne calls me on the cell to say, without even a hello, “Well I hope to God you’re not coming!” She’s just read my latest blog and apparently feels I should get a grip and follow doctors’ orders. “Janey, don’t be mean, the doc changed his mind and we’re about to get on the plane. Sorry!!! “ She sighs and says she’ll be at the airport to meet us. Dear cousin Janey. I do love her.
The flight is in fact even more horrendous than I anticipated and after watching four films in a row suddenly realize that both my right leg and arm are completely numb. Seriously without feeling. I manage to stagger up and head back towards the toilet where I shake and rub and suddenly remember cousin Jane’s warning that I could get a BLOOD CLOT after all the surgeries. None of my doctors have ever mentioned such a possibility but I suddenly panic ever so slightly and ask a stewardess what the symptoms of DVT are…
Well to cut a long tale short, within minutes I am surrounded by about five airline personell, my blood pressure, temperature and oxygen levels are taken and a Medivac team in Australia are called for their advice. I then excitedly overhear one steward whisper to another “Are there free seats in Business or First?” and my spirits momentarily soar as I imagine a good lie down for the next eight hours. “NO, nothing at all” comes the reply and by now I am over it all. Feeling has slowly returned to limbs and I’m ready to go back to my seat. But now they’re checking the manifest to see if a doctor’s on board and failing that they promise to make a loudspeaker announcement to see if any doctors present themselves. Jesus wept. I insist they not bother but sure enough, a few minutes later they locate a nice Asian doctor who questions me endlessly before I am finally allowed to go back to my seat. That’ll teach me. But very nice to know that apparently about 95 % of the time there’s a doctor on board any and every plane.
An ambien, an ativan, 8 Melatonin and still not a WINK of sleep – so another couple of movies, a couple of weepy moments from Lola who is so overtired after her week of work and exams and BOB’S YOUR UNCLE, (one of my favorite local expressions meaning ‘it’s all okay’) - we’ve landed in Oz. Well in Sydney—so just a few more tedious hours of recovering luggage and checking in again before a bus from the International to the Domestic terminal and then another plane ride and we’re in Melbourne. We grab a latte—even the fabulous airports in Australia are full of fantastic stores and juice bars, sushi cafes and the BEST COFFEE in the world and then out into the stunning fresh Aussie summer air and a ride with dear Janey back to her place in Sandringham, a few minutes from Port Philip Bay and the beach in groovy, hip Melbourne.
Within about ten minutes Nick is off on foot to walk round the corner and look up some of his old school mates from the primary school, a stone’s throw away, that he attended for three years. Five minutes later Lola is sunning herself by the pool in the back yard with my gorgeous 18 year-old niece Nikki who has completely grown up in the two years since I last saw her. Already I’m feeling sad as Nick loved Melbourne and the genius aspect of having pals a few blocks away. He would have been very happy to stay and live here. But I decided to return to LA and Lola after spending four years in my home town looking after my dad. It’s my first trip back in just over two years since he died and it’s odd not to feel the constant guilt I experienced whenever I wasn’t by his side. So we tuck into our favorite charcoal grilled chicken and gorgeous salad and fruit that just tastes so much better I’m afraid to say than American salad and fruit. The mangoes, the passion fruit, the pineapples—just utterly delicious and sweet and fresh. Dunno how or why—but they’re simply superior. Go figure.
For some reason the jet lag is almost non-existent and when one does inevitably wake at some ungodly hour there’s always the comfort of a glass of Milo and Vegemite on toast. My brother Geoffrey kindly lends me back my ancient old Ford Falcon station wagon- and since I was safely back in the USA while my license was suspended for 12 months, I’m free to thunder round again in what my kids called The Moose. (Only lost my license for chatting on the cell phone a few too many times- they take a dim view of cell phone use here and made it illegal about four years before America did the same thing. Oh and then I was wicked enough to drive WITH a 6 month suspended license and that’s when a judge decided I should be deprived of driving privileges for 12 months. At least they didn’t fine me as well. Once, driving from Sydney to Melbourne, I was wildly unlucky. Caught for speeding twice in six hours and given on the spot fines that you need to pay ON THE FRIGGING SPOT. As in – hand over cash or a check. The first was for $200 and then a few hours later, I rolled through a town and some rogue cop with a thick Scottish accent, possibly a plumber posing as a copper, insisted I was going 85 in a 50 km/hr zone and demanded FIFTEEN HUNDRED SMACKERS. I wrote a check- and it was good. Annoying since I was trying to be thrifty and not spend dough on airline tickets.
So naturally despite endless pacts not to buy each other xmas gifts, we manically run around buying far too many last minute pressies. And it's a treat to see nephews and nieces and their gorgeous offspring. And have endless Australian lattes. I cannot get enough.(Apparently the head of Starbucks flew to Sydney to work out why they'd had to close down all the Aussie Starbucks. Apparently he had a coffee at the airport and immediately understood the problem. Aussie coffee is sublime. On EVERY corner!! In the cutest, hippest cafes and bars and restaurants everywhere. In many, many ways,(food, design and coffee to name three) Aussies are so beyond hip and stylish and way ahead of America. And then,it’s already Christmas day. Very confronting to realize we are the grown-ups now. No parents are there. The last Christmas in Melbourne there was my dad, cousin Jane’s parents- my dear Aunty Pat and Uncle Ab- and my cousin Rick’s wife’s mother Dorothy. They would trundle round on their walkers barely able to move or speak and clearly making the most tremendous effort ever. But it made it worthwhile. They probably all wished to God they were home having a nice nap but we would get them into the cars, put on their best sweaters and their arrival would be met with much fanfare and kisses from grandchildren whose names they could barely remember. Beers and shandies and wine were brought to them, chips and dips offered and over their heads we would exchange meaningful, anxious glances. But now Dorothy and dad have kicked the bucket and poor Uncle Ab is not remotely well enough to come (with Parkinson’s, throat and lung cancer) and dear Aunty Pat insists on faithfully staying by his side. So COMES THE CHILLING BUT OVERDUE REALIZATION THAT WE ARE THE GROWN-UPS now…me and my three cousins –Jane, Rick and Bun, Rick’s wife Sue and my brother Geoff.
Who knew I was this old? Why are we even doing this?? Cos it’s bloody Christmas and that’s what you do and in fact it’s a very jolly one with seven kids between 14 and twenty six who know how to party and drink champagne and beer like it’s going out of style. Nick tries to casually walk away with a beer at one point till I put my foot down and tell him to put it down immediately- no ifs or buts! Mother Lola interferes and says ‘it’s no big deal” but I am adamant. Nick even reveals that my pal Frank who gave me a gorgeous dinner party a few nights before had given him a beer. And he drank it! Honestly Frank. He’s a child. Okay, a man-child. Aussies and their drinking – hard to keep ‘em apart. But I stick to my guns and if Nick drinks it’s behind a bush and there are those who think it’s better out in the open but at 14?? Doesn’t seem right. By 5 pm 18 of us are finally sitting down to eat our wonderful Christmas feast. Very traditional. Turkey, plum pudding –the lot, thanks to Sue who is ruffled by nothing. I stand up and try to make a toast to missing friends, my dad and Uncle Ab and Aunty Pat but am immediately in tears and unable to speak. Young Tom, 25, gets to his feet and rescues the moment—with great humor. By 6 .30 we’re dancing like fools to some great oldies that our fabulous DJ Rick always provides. And by 9 the washing up is almost done (thanks Janey) and we stagger home. Very, very glad I came. A genius decision for once.

Doc puts the kibosh on trip downunder !

Four Days Later
Onwards and upwards?? Wrong ! Should have been a little more like Slowly Does It or something else alarmingly simplistic but effective called Take It Easy ….but no…I did not do that. I OVERdid it and somehow, tricked into thinking I am still the smartass who had never spent a single solitary night in hospital till 6 months ago, zipped hither and thither for about four days straight, actually not feeling TOO bad. And in all fairness some of it was sensible and justifiable. A trip to the homeopathic doctor who is soothing and seems to totally understand the toxic effects of all that cancer patients go through with conventional treatment…It is such a relief to have someone who tells you what your organs are going through in a truly empathetic way and actually SUGGESTS remedies and potions and pills to take. The relief is somewhat dissipated when one hands over the credit card fro a mighty big tab---but what price health and feeling good eh?? And at least no going off to Rite Aid to fill prescriptions where I reckon they now suspect me to be some kind of junkie. Though once back home I get a blistering headache as I try to sort through the tons of supplements I have gathered in the last few months and put them into weekly pill boxes divided into morning, noon, evening and bedtime !
So that’s the body sorted---now it’s time for some spiritual sustenance and I beg Nick to do his homework solo for once as mum heads down to Venice for an evening with about 60 folk listening to an Indian mystic named SAHDGURU. He has admittedly, a truly beautiful face with luminous shining eyes and a preposterously peaceful blissed out demeanor that was very lovely and calming. He began about an hour late though and having scoffed about eight little healthy oatmeal cookies I suddenly had a shocking gut ache and my calm turned to panic as I realized the Indian gent was in no hurry with his spiel which began with his childhood and then segued into his early manhood where he realized that he could sit down cross legged to meditate and wake up EIGHT DAYS LATER to find stunned onlookers camped out waiting for him to return to consciousness. A tiny bit boastful but impressive nonetheless. I tried soo very hard to concentrate and take in some pearls of wisdom but next to me sat a heavenly old friend from New York whose son had died about six months ago. I was so stunned and horrified as I tried to imagine her grief and think how I would feel if the unthinkable happened and I ‘lost’ one of my children. It was simply terrifying and made my problems seemed ludicrously miniscule and insignificant just as it rendered the guru’s words impossible to hear for the most part. I recall he said that we must not give others the privilege of being able to hurt or upset us with their behavior or words. Not unlike the message back in the old days when I went to Kabbala . DO NOT REACT. Don’t be reactive. Uh huh. Yeah right. AS IF!
As the hours wore on and I imagined Nick stretched out on my bed watching TV, I regretted very much the fact that I had left my handbag about eight rows further up with another friend. I was trapped and that was all there was to it. Then Question Time began and someone asked about Death and dying peacefully and all that nonsense. I’m not afraid to admit it. I have NO faith and am terrified of dying. But then our man told us we had to make our death a real occasion. We must die with a smile and in great style. He repeated it several times. Yep, we had to move on out with a LOT OF STYLE ! Jeez louise—talk about pressure. Not only with grace but STYLE as well?? Give me a break! It was midnight before I made it back to Hollywood, exhausted beyond belief, so sad for my friend – but at least not filled with too much jealousy for those who could afford his costly four day seminars in LA or month long stays at his Indian ashram. I think it’s fair to say I am SO not spiritual.
Next day I stagger back to santa Monica and am back baring the top half for Dr Bob who frowns and informs me that I have tons of fluid around my huge swollen breast and must be drained immediately. And with no further delay the GIANT horse needles are produced as he totally BLAMES me for it and says it is crystal clear that I have been doing too much. I naturally protested vehemently. Alas, the darling but disloyal daughter told him that I was a shocking liar and that I had spent hours in the garage a day or two ago heaving boxes and looking for paintings and generally acting like some pumped-up circus strong man. He was deliriously happy to hear that his suspicion was right and he ordered me to lay low and START ANOTHER COURSE OF fucking ANTIBIOTICS. Then my Brutus of a daughter mentioned that we were all planning a sortie to Australia the following week and the mild-mannered Dr Bob nearly has a conniption. WHY? He demanded. Because I have family and friends there and I booked it eight months ago I said. And I didn’t get to go last year, I added plaintively. It’s true. Last December was when I felt the lump and the mammograms and biopsies began and then I got the flu and had to move out of my house to rent it and thus, at the very last minute, I drove my children to the airport and being lifelong travelers, especially to Australia, they very happily headed off by themselves feeling rather thrilled I imagine not have an overloaded silly mother tagging along. I wept bitterly and spent Christmas in LA sick as a dog, house sitting in Silver Lake and bawling every time they called. Which was not often.
So I get home, retire to bed, wake up and can’t find the prescription he gave me and dig around for some old leftover antibiotics. Any old ones will do surely to God. And then I do too much and then I lose the bastard antibiotics two days ago somewhere in the house or under my bed but who can tell and then I am back at Dr Bob’s today and I am hugely swollen again and he drains and then, like last time, gets a magnet to find the matching magnet in my expander so he can pump it up through the port – so as not leave any dead space for more fluid to gather and declares that I have obviously have been doing too much and going to Australia tomorrow is out of the question. I weep hysterically with self-pity and obediently head back to Cedars to have it all confirmed by the infectious disease dude—but what’s new? He is beyond conservative…and that’s where it stands…
I AM sad and it sucks…and did I keep the receipts so I can take some of the pressies back for pals downunder???

Toxic Wasteland...thanksgiving and beyond

TEN DAYS LATER
Not unlike Roman Polanski---certain post-surgery patients should be fitted with some sort of electronic security anklet-to make sure they stay PUT, preferably in bed, once back home. So that, trying frantically to make up for lost time, they don’t hit the streets a few days later with a list of errands that would exhaust a driven, wildly ambitious Personal Shopper on drugs and thirty years younger in some TV Reality Show a la Amazing Race.
One of the main problems here? I’m a moron. Why do I imagine I will have more energy than after the last surgery—especially as there clearly must be some sort of cumulative effect now after about 12 hours of general anesthesia during 4 SURGERIES in 10 months. And even worse, as I may have mentioned before, a grand total of about FOUR MONTHS OF massive doses of ANTIBIOTICS that would bring a wild rhino to it’s knees.
I am now officially a TOXIC WASTELAND. Can the antibiotics even be remotely effective after all this time. Surely fucking not!.
Three days before the surgery- two varieties of antibiotic delivered via very large pills—as a preventive measure. Then a week of IV antibiotics - 3 days in hospital and another 4 days of it at home thanks to my trusty 6’ 6” Russian nurse Vadim who obliged again by coming to rouse me from my bed to deliver the I V. And now, another 7 days of pills.
I have officially never felt WORSE. Not during the entire nightmare year have I felt sicker than I do right now. It’s as if I wake up every day with a massive hangover. Imagine being force fed three enormous Indian meals in a row, about half a dozen donuts and then drinking two bottles of champagne and five rum and cokes. Think how you would feel the next day. The blinding headache. The bloating. The gas. The total hideousness. And…the depression.
Got the picture? Well multiply it a few times more and that’s how four months of antibiotics makes you feel.
At least feeling as revolted and revolting as I do means that the day alone on Thanksgiving was sad but I felt no hunger. And there was no pressure to perform any motherly duties. Son Nick in New York with his beloved godmother –ice skating, Broadway show and slices of ‘the best pizza ever.’ And Lola spent it with her second stepmother and half brother and sister. (She veery sweetly brought me a bag of very good leftovers.) Hey, I’m an Aussie I kept telling myself as I lay in bed in a lot of pain, taking half a Vicodin every few hours and emptying the bloody drain- what do I care about Thanksgiving – but these annual family rituals- the accompanying brainwashing TV ads and movies picturing jolly celebrations with your clan have a way of seeping into the consciousness and despite any extenuating circumstances, make the lone twit in bed feel like a miserable old single failure. Yep, well aware that feelings are not facts but my brain can seem like a mighty powerful and willful bitch of a thing sometimes—leading me down very thorny, overgrown paths of sentimental and undermining beliefs.
And what if feelings ARE facts??
MUST read Power of Now again immediately. Though the last time I had the energy to read seems long ago and the voice of Eckhardt Tolle (yes, even bought the book on tape) is unacceptably tedious. I will Google it and see if there is a riveting sentence or two I can memorize. My daughter points out that I have a stack of books written by cheery folks who have had cancer and ‘seen the light’ along with books like “Change Your Diet-Change Your Life’. I know, I know, we are what we eat—Stay Alkaline and test your pee with the drawer-full of PH testers I have but how much frigging broccoli can one eat in a day? And who can cope with an acidic read-out every other day? Next morning I steal a couple of Marlboro Red from Lola, run down to the corner in my pj’s and Uggs and a coat where forty yards away sits a lovely Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. Order up one of my beloved Mocha Ice Blendeds, grab the National Enquirer someone has left and run back home. Bliss for about thirty minutes before the guilty goody-goody side of me has a field day.
So a day or two more of deep discomfort, bandage-changing and drain-emptying as the long Thanksgiving weekend drags on interminably and by Monday I have a list of things to do a mile long. Monday morning. Hopped into my car which had only one ticket due to the fact that I have yet to go to the 84 places necessary to get parking permits for my new address and realized I was not up to hitting the DMV to change the Rego address. Not today. Maybe never. But after dropping the over-exhausted teen (who loves New York and wants to move there) at school AND on time, I did, by some miracle, notice the yellow light indicating I needed gas and headed up Vine to fill ‘er up.
This is easy. I can do this. Keen on multi-tasking I make a call, hop back into my car to plug in the nearly out-of- battery-cell phone and get involved in a heated discussion of why the recent announcement that women get TOO MANY unnecessary mammograms is dead-on. These are not fly-by-night fools saying this. They are experts and have studied it all and I loathe the way the Obama administration is being raked over the coals for something that in essence will protect women from unnecessary radiation and then often, unnecessary surgery and chemo. But it’s a thorny issue and yes, there are exceptions but who knows if their lumps would not have gone away of their own accord if they were watched carefully….
Oh I could go on…but my friend is already bored and so I merrily drive off to the next task till I hear an almighty CRACK and realize I have omitted to remove hose from car. SHIT! I stop and see that it has at least come out of the gas entry-point of my car and done no visible damage. But the long snake of a thing has come out of the bowser—is that the right word – and is lying right next to MY car there as people stare disapprovingly. So I run inside and try to explain what happened to a foreign gentleman. Not sure he understands me. I repeat that the gas hose has come off it’s moorings. “Moorings?” Yes, I can’t put it back, I say, looking as sad and tragic as I can. But he waves his arms and says something I don’t understand but I feel I’ve done my duty and hit the road without looking back. A friend later says they’ll have filmed my car with secret cameras and to expect a bill for about $1000. That seems harsh and I beg my brain to file it under “LATER”.
And you probably won’t have a whit of sympathy if I tell you that three minutes later, stopped at a light on Melrose I look over as I chat on the phone and see a black man pointing at something in my car – or at me. I politely ignore him and keep chatting. My eyes flicker to the right again and there he is again, staring crossly and pointing as he shakes his head at me. Oh for heavens sake, I recall thinking—what’s his problem. Lucky I didn’t give him the finger. (My son practically faints with tension every time we drive together. He gives a running commentary as to what lane I should be in, slow down, put on your indicator MUM, NOW...MUM THERE’S A RED LIGHT COMING UP…stuff like that.) The lights change and off I speed only to hear sirens and a loud speaker moments later telling me to “PULL OVER. NOW !” I look back.
Oh, it’s the POLICE. That’s the problem with my foul, gas-guzzling Land Rover Discovery. It’s so high that when the cop car was right next to me I couldn’t even see it WAS A COP CAR. I make up a brilliant story about my young son at the airport calling to say the plane got in early and I’m running late because I’ve just been to my cancer doctor and the very sweet, kind policeman lets me off. I’m sorry but you can’t NOT use the cancer thing for as long as you can. Just lucky he didn’t rip my now out of date Disabled Tag off the rearview mirror and handcuff me on the spot. New Year’s Resolution. Throw out the Disabled Tag and never speak without a hands-free. (And don’t tell Nick—he will be livid. Out of guilt for some driving transgression of the day I sometimes let him drive the last fifty yards down the street. But only when it’s dark and there’s no one around. He’s a superb driver. And yes, I am a wicked, lying scofflaw. I’m going to change.)
And I vow to buy a new hands-free but I also need to get into the New Age and buy a new phone that can access email and so until that decision is made, how can I get a hands-free? I want an IPHONE but Lola says I won’t be able to handle it. I’ll show her!
I head to the nearest Starbucks for my venti latte with half a pump of mocha (it used to be one whole pump) and as I rush past some sort of Christmas display in my hurry to get the last Times, it catches my drain which I have pinned to my t-shirt in …It means the long skinny tube comes out of the plastic bulb and blood spatters on my jeans and a few drops on my shoe and the floor. This may well be one of the low-points of the month and I dash to get napkins, wipe the tiny spots off the floor and then run out the door mortified,NOT looking back to see if anyone noticed as I hold the tube upwards to prevent more spillage. Minus my coffee, I reattach the tube in the car—and realize it’s a bad day for tubing and I am still in desperate need of a caffeine hit.
So off to another frigging Starbucks-miles out of my way—and then come to my senses and realize I need to go home immediately and retire to bed for a couple of hours before heading back out for groceries and the teen. I sleep as if I’ve just done a marathon and wake up three hours later at 4 with that awful sick panicky feeling when you’ve overslept in the day and scarcely know where you are…I must dress and rush to Nick’s school.
My darling son tells me the evening’s homework ahead and we both visibly wilt at the prospect of math, science, english AND history – not to mention reading and coming up with a proposal for the bane of my life—the Science fair Project. I LOATHE Science Fair Projects with a deadly loathing and feel that this is where a guy could TRULY be worth his weight in gold. A man, a father, a boyfriend…even just a man friend. But they’re in short supply so what can you do? I have so far talked the teen out of something to do with engines and fuel efficiency since I argued it would be too hard to show that on one of those wretched display boards. And what is the hypothesis and how do we go about it and do graphs?? I want to shoot myself on the spot when I realize it’s due in a week. Just the proposal – but I know from experience that it will take us forever. Lola suggested growing crystals and at first he seemed excited but I think he now regards it as too girlie. Last year’s was about landslides and the year before it was How Long does Different Food last without Refrigeration before getting moldy and that, not surprisingly, was a humdinger. Rotting, stinking chicken, cheese and vegies in the garage that had to be checked and photographed every few days.
Anyway, he struggles with all this homework due to ‘learning differences’ (after much and thorough testing) and needs more time than most but his mean mother must now drag him to buy groceries before going home as I could not even achieve that in my hideously unproductive day. The guilt, the guilt...about anything and everything and when he sweetly asks “How was your day mum?” I don’t even know what to say. I must lie of course and not reveal that it was useless, I was nearly ticketed by cops and it mainly consisted of sleep. I don’t want him to worry. A fatherless adopted child should not have to worry any more than strictly necessary.
Well I can only imagine he’s been worried this past year. It’s hard to tell how much fear has swirled around the brain of a gorgeous 14 year-old who is growing like a weed, has size 13 shoes and who shaves, speaks with a manly deep voice but still gives very big hugs. He’s moved twice this year, nine times in his life, been to five different schools (two in another country), has tutors three times a week to help with failing grades and a mother who swears like a trouper. But… no boy has ever had a more doting mum or a more fantastic, loving sister. Lola was nine when ‘we’ adopted Nick and she definitely adored my genius idea that we were adopting him ‘together’.
Gosh - I get chills every time I remember the excitement as the birth mother’s due date arrived. We were on HIGH Alert. Forget the anticipation of Santa, Disneyland, the Tooth Fairy –or even her fifth Little Mermaid birthday party. Waiting for her baby brother (we knew it was a boy) to be born beat everything. She was deliriously impatient–and a joy to watch. Every time the phone rang we both screamed. Even Molly the Husky ran around in circles like a maniac. She didn’t want to go to school in case she missed something but I swore on everything holy that I would swing by Campbell Hall on the way to Valley Presbyterian. It was before Mapquest but I had my route worked out. Fortunately he came into the world at about 8pm on a Friday. We were standing by but still imagined it was a few days away. I had just cooked Lola and her friend from school who happened to be with us, gorgeous lamb chops and since I loathe cooking (have I mentioned that?) I’m not keen on any effort going to waste but once we got the CALL at about 7.30 saying “We just wanted to inform you that they’re about to do an Emergency Caesarian – you should come now”. That was it. Dinner was left on the table. We shrieked, screamed, panicked, laughed, ran around in circles and tore out the door to the Valley. Driving like a bat out of hell down Sunset and over Coldwater Canyon, we arrived in record time, taking a good fifteen minutes off my timed practice run. We arrived at the Maternity ward and were naturally sent to lots of wrong places before we ran down a corridor and bumped into a nurse carrying a swaddled baby.
“Is that ours?” shrieked Lola. The nurse looked up wide-eyed as if we might be crazed baby-snatchers.
“Is that the Hobbs baby?” I smiled politely. She confirmed that this was the baby for adoption and we all cheered. But she was a humorless human, was having none of our glee and promptly marched off to the Newborn Nursery, not even slowing down as Lola and Ally ran behind, DESPERATE for a peek. Unfortunately children were NOT permitted in the nursery and I sent the girls around the corner where they frantically jumped up and down to try and see through the glass window. I was still carrying the great huge camcorder bag which I had not had time to open….I followed the nurse as she put the drops in his eyes and rather roughly checked him and measured and with shaking hands tried to get out the camera. He started to howl and I was desperate to pick him up but I wasn’t about to grab him for fear of being sent out with the kids…I guiltily waved at them as they madly gestured for me to bring the baby over to them. I did finally get to hold him for a few precious moments and weepily took him over to the window so they could get a glimpse. Beaming faces. All very touching, All so very sweet. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made.
The adventure began and not an ounce of jealousy ensued. She relished the thought of him as ‘her baby’ from the moment she held him two days later in the hospital as I signed papers and we prepared to drive him home with us. From then on she would rush in from school, sneak into his room and pick him up even if he was asleep, against strict orders, to ‘watch over him’.
“He’s asleep Lola. Go and play in your room honey.”
“He was awake mum—he was crying” she would lie, bald-faced, thirty seconds later, having wickedly woken him from a major snooze.
As he got a little older she and her friends would spend hours fussing over him, giving him bottles, bathing him and dressing him up (often in dresses, like a doll, sometimes with lipstick- he didn’t mind) but always with extraordinary maternal finesse and expertise. (I could care less about babies at that age). Our place was a favorite hang-out and understandably. They got to PLAY with a REAL LIVE BABY who left the long-begged-for American Girl doll and her myriad outfits for dead. All her pals adored him. Especially our fabulous next-door neighbor who was exactly Lola’s age. Lauren, also adopted, was mad for Nick as well and would often appear, pretending she had permission, to help Lola give Nick a bath and then stay for dinner—often her second. There were endless calls from her mother insisting I send her home immediately – but we all loved her lively, giggling presence and I often fibbed that we’d begged her to stay so she wouldn’t get into more trouble than necessary.
Yes, with a mother and a sister who give and demand more annoying kisses than most, he knows he’s loved and gives tons of affection back–but it doesn’t stop the guilt. That’s who I am.
And now there ‘s the bloody guilt all over again that I decided to have a double mastectomy and DO this to my poor body. I’ve had a good look and the new breast is in fact fairly lumpy and odd-looking. A bigger scar than last time—but that’s to be expected. And I don’t care about scars.
I drag myself down to see Dr Bob the next day and he’s happy as a clam. He really just takes a quick peek under the bandages to make sure there’s no sign of a flaming infection again. Satisfied, he tells the nurse to change the bandages. As I realize he’s walking out the door, I don’t have the energy to speak up and ask about lumpiness or any other bloody thing. I’m over it.
And I’m over antibiotics. I’ll be finished in a few days but I’ve been awfully good. I take the pills on time like a regular goody two shoes. Okay—I gagged a couple of times this week and spat out several pills in fury as I dry-heaved and wept. But the prospect of another staph infection and MORE antibiotics has kept even a rebel like me on the straight and narrow.
Onwards and upwards.

Fourth Surgery this year ! dec 4

Friday Morning – Three days later.
I have talked the darling daughter who has no college on Fridays and works every week at her coffee spot ALL day (as distinct from her dawn shifts) – into cancelling her daylong shift and coming with her mother to a far distant land in the San Fernando Valley where I have to confess I have had crap in storage for—gosh, let’s think, since I sold my Hancock Park house eight years ago. Even after selling many big pieces to an auction house AND a massive garage sale where I was utterly ruthless thanks to mean friends who made me sell things I regret to this day (like a vintage child’s coat stand I still miss that was SO adorable) there was still tons of stuff from a 6000 square foot house with a guesthouse and a pool house and two huge basements that had all been filled by yours truly, a serious hoarder - and so furniture and baby clothes and boxes of photos that I refused to part with all went to a 10 by 20 unit in the Valley eight long years ago. And then, when I returned from Australia two years ago after the four year stint to look after my dad – I had all the stuff shipped back that I had optimistically shipped there, thinking I would find HOME back in the wonderful Land of Oz but alas…it just didn’t feel right once my dad had died. Four years of hanging out at hospitals, rehab centers and retirement homes had proved less than scintillating and besides Lola my daughter dearest was back in America and so, along with Nick and I, BACK IT ALL CAME, at vast, vast expense, to join the stuff that had stayed behind in the Valley. They loved me at All Aboard Storage. Another 10 x 20 unit was filled. They were side by side. Very convenient.
And so, there we were, in blistering heat in Sun Valley, unlocking the units for the two foul-tempered moving men who stared at the boxes covered in about an inch of dust. It was pretty much impossible to be ‘in the moment’ and even remember what on earth The Power Of Now had tried to teach me as I already DREADED—with a mighty powerful dread, the unpacking and deciding of where all these reminders of bygone days would go AT THE OTHER END IN A FEW HOURS. Things I had totally forgotten I owned. Growing up poor, things I thought I desperately needed and MUST cling onto – hang the expense. As they piled it all onto the truck I tried to imagine where the big pieces of furniture would go—the lovely old armchair covered in green velvet my dad had sat in for sixty years, the loveseat covered in brown velvet that my mother had inherited from her mother and had prized her whole life….the black velvet bed from Central Park West, the gorgeous mid century sofa I had found in Sydney and had had re-covered in hot red wool, my granny’s favorite old china and the hand-carved bench her grandmother had made….where the fuck exactly would it fit? My brain hurt.

At the new apartment there are three bedrooms instead of two, because I need a bedroom for the angel pie daughter after she broke up with her boyfriend and besides, this is twice as big, much better value, and best of all, HAS A DOUBLE GARAGE out back where I can put all the stuff from storage, thus SAVING a truly embarrassing and shocking $560 a month I have been paying for two years. And half that much for the 6 years before that. Yep, lotta money. I am fool. We know this. I have clung onto tables and chests of drawers—NOT priceless gems, just weird funky chests of drawers from second hand stores and vases from Goodwill and pillow slips and blankets and towels from Target and plates and spatulas from Ikea that have now become THE most expensive pieces of crap of all time after traveling, I kid you not, from NY to LA to Sydney to Melbourne, back to deep in the Valley and now to Hollywood. Yep, that’s the kind of tight ship I run!! I realized the full extent of my sickness when the guys informed me that a second back-up truck was needed. It would not all fit in the first dirty big truck. A tiring nightmare of a day. A costly one. Lola cursed. I swore like a sailor and I nearly forgot to pick up the darling Nick Hobbs from school.
Two weeks later
Okay—so it’s been grueling period. I’ll try to keep it brief as even recalling it makes me want to slit my wrists. A week after the hellish move out of the storage joint to my new digs near Beverly, I then hired the same surly moving guys and we moved everything out of the apartment on Rossmore to join the stuff at the new place. The double garage I had loved so much was already UTTERLY FULL and when I tell you that discovering I had cleverly managed to HANG onto two large filing cabinets filled with fascinating things like AT&T bills from 1997 along with treatments and faxes I had sent to about two thousand producers, was one of those major self-loathing moments. I think you know what I mean.
Boxes of thirty seven different drafts of a script I had spent just six or seven years of my life on—a script that was as close as two weeks from shooting in Vancouver with Howard Stern having actually taken two weeks off his show to come and play a sleazy record producer and me and Lola and the entire crew all there in hotels totally overexcited as script, sets, locations were all locked!!!…..Before the dickhead producer had a meltdown and pulled the plug for NO good reason. And then lovely folk like Melanie Griffith refused to lower their fees to help get it back on its feet again and the adorable Howard Stern sued us for his lost two weeks wages and well…despite another six months of blood sweat and tears, it went down the gurgler and my second directorial effort never materialized.…
Love seeing those shooting scripts and music cassettes of all the fabulous gospel music that we had selected for my wonderful romantic comedy again….good times….years and years of my life down a very disappointing drain.
And then there were the boxes of Nick’s heavenly baby clothes plus an entire box of all his Batman costumes (he was a truly obsessed Batman and called me Robin for at least twelve months) and photos of my dad in his Spitfire and stupendously sad and brave letters from his days as a POW on the Burma railway that seemed to come hurtling at me like missiles out of the dust. And old passports of my mother and postcards she had sent me from Crete on her way to join me for the European holiday of a lifetime back in the days when I had it all and was a young whizz kid TV reporter fresh from Australia living in London with a glamorous and successful theatre producer. And BETA tapes of me on my TV show Hobbs’s Choice in London and huge one inch cassettes of short films starring Rowan Atkinson and written by Richard Curtis that I had directed—but NO machines in existence to even play them any more, They had to go. It all has to go…
But not the twenty five boxes of fantastic albums from my former life. They could become a book, perhaps. Photos of Jack and Anjelica and Roman and me and Mick Jagger and all of us at the Red Ball in Paris or lying on the beach in St Tropez or going to see Bob Dylan with Diana Vreeland or at the bull ring in Ibiza on acid watching Bob Marley and the Wailers or having Prince Charles to dinner in our swanky Knightsbridge home or interviewing Andy Warhol for my TV show…..
I yi yi .These memories rushing at you as we stuff yet more boxes into the garage and try to put them in some kind of order, TAKE THEIR TOLL. They can sap the life out of you. I have moved about 18 times in twenty two years. It’s too much.
The unpacking….I feel ill and hot and sweaty and still toxic and poisoned after a year of mammograms and missed diagnoses and botched biopsies and waiting and being told I am fine and then being told I am not fine and then more biopsies and guilty, lying gynacologists and a lumpectomy and chemo and steroids and four general anaesthetics and three surgeries and ten weeks of antibiotics and the electric sessions and the oxygen treatments and the Vitamin C infusions and the expanders being expanded and the needles and IV’s—so many needles….I just don’t feel too good. I don’t have a lot of zip in my step right now.
As far as the surgery decision is concerned, I have no more energy to give it and so very simply I decide to continue with Dr Bob and he schedules the surgery to try and restore my breast for ONE week later.
But I am just so deeply, madly tired that I do something I seldom do. A few days later I put the surgery off for two weeks so that it will be eight weeks from the last surgery and I can be uncommonly SENSIBLE and rest and do yoga and eat well and go to bed early and meditate.
NONE of which I do, naturally. I feel compelled to unpack every last idiotic possession and get the place totally together for the sake of my sanity and that of my kids. How can I come back home from yet another surgery with drains and pills and have to fight my way past boxes and suitcases full of clothes I forgot I had?
And here’s the one bonus for me with moving. I get to go to one of my favorite haunts – IKEA—where I can navigate the place like a pro and dart hither and thither quicker than anyone I know. Here’s the secret – go online, cruise the catalogue for about sixteen hours, make a shopping list, print it out and then enter through checkout, go straight to the gigantic shelves and JUST GO CRAZY. I decide to punish Nick for nothing in particular and drag him to Ikea with me on the way back from picking him up from a party. But because he is so cranky (it was a girl’s party I made him go to because I said yes on the Evite without asking him and he is livid but I feel bad and don’t want to let the gal down) and because he has been going to Ikeas on different continents since he was a small boy in his Batman outfits (try London, Melbourne, Sydney and Burbank) he has a hissy fit outside the store and insists he needs to skateboard for a while and he will join me in there. So I give up and rush on in and he finally remembers to join me hours later when I have heaved great boxes down from shelves and am now in the checkout line. He’s become an annoying clone of his cheapskate, miser sister and thinks he can bitch about my spending and guiltily I realize he is right about certain things and I angrily take them out of the trolley as he says deeply irritating things like “It may be only ten bucks but it all adds up mom !!” And by the time we are in the car I scream “It’s funny how you didn’t mind me spending SEVENTY dollars on your brand new purple suede skate shoes yesterday Nick ! Funny about that but I’m not allowed to buy a ten dollar plastic grocery bag holder from Ikea to help me save the environment !!” and then we scream at each other for awhile and like a very bad parent I even mention the money I spend on tutors which is unforgivable but I put it in the context of “You need to take some responsibility and do your share of the homework on your own” and then he screams that he doesn’t care about school and tutoring and he’ll “just live in a sewer” and then I decide to cool it and we don’t speak the rest of the way home. But I adore him and he helps carry everything inside and then apologizes later for not coming in to help me in Ikea right away and I am touched as I nearly always have to ask him to apologize but soon I realize it’s just because he’s sucking up and his beloved big sis has offered to take him and hear a band she knows because he loves music and he’s a drummer. And I don’t have the energy to say no and they go with a few of her friends and they have a ball and even drop into a black light party on the way home and apparently Nick dances like a mad thing and is very cool.
So anyway, about eight trips to Home Depot, Target, CB2, West Elm and Kmart later (a lot of it just research-not ALL compulsive spending) and I have bought yet more extension cords and picture hanging hooks, hammered and assembled and glued and stood on ladders and hung mirrors and fought with my kids and made their rooms look pretty darn great. I’ll be honest- I do sometimes wish there was a good man who found me gorgeous even with my ludicrously short hair and who would have the keen, cosmopolitan intelligence to appreciate my manic ability to make a wildly stylish yet COZY home. I mean it’s not everyone who has the foresight to bring their Aussie electric pizza maker and seven fabulous old lamps to America and then find the cunning store on Third that sells Oz to USA converter plugs. Am I right? Frugal AND a connoisseur of good lighting!
So at Sunday night at nine pm after running to get a Gift Card from Forever 21 for the girl who had the birthday party and then running to Office Depot for a math graph notebook and then hitting the Cactus Taqueria on Vine for our dinner and after barely stopping for two weeks straight, the gorgeous new Spanish-style apartment is looking pretty together and I relax for the first time in a fortnight as I watch Curb Your Enthusiasm with my kids in the living room with a fire blazing and stuff myself with toast and peanut butter (I HATE tacos) and hit the hay by midnight. Take the heavenly teenager to school and INSIST ON A KISS IN THE CAR – not usually granted - because he is staying the night with friends as his silly old mother has her FOURTH surgery for the year coming up in a few hours. I thoughtfully do extra nagging about homework and teeth brushing so he doesn’t think anything is different.

MONDAY NOV 23rd– 3pm A very kind friend Diantha brings me back to St Johns where I lie through my teeth about the last time I ate. It was 10 am not 9—what the hell—I’m an old hand and I was determined to finish my Starbucks. So here I am again and my dear friend Richard is here because he insists that there be someone with me during this time leading up to being put under the knife which is just so touching since it has occurred to no one else in my life..
And here we are at Admitting…again ….the taking of the vitals, the off with the undies AGAIN, signing many, many forms I NEVER read, remembering with guilt that I have yet to make a will, hoping that the letter I wrote to get out of that parking ticket will do the trick and that they’re not clever enough to check and work out that my Disabled Sticker has expired and I really should pay it….
And Dr Bob is late again and I run to the toilet to drink from the tap just cos I’m thirsty AND a rebel…but I’m really an idiot and have taken two Ativan—I thought it was one but I forget everything these days and I think I took another and I feel so groggy and out of it that I may vomit any minute and I just want to get on down to that operating room guys…Here’s the shocking truth. I look forward to the drugs and being put out. I NEED THE FUCKING REST. A quick cell phone call to my Nick and Lola and that’s all I remember folks.
WAKE UP AT 12.30 am and there’s my divine smiling daughter who’s been waiting for hours for her mother to wake up and be brought back to the hospital room. A daughter is a very wonderful thing and I am deeply grateful for having such a complete gem. Realizing where I am and what’s just gone down, my hand goes to my chest and yes, there’s seems to be something resembling a breast there. I sure as hell am not about to look under the bandages and the bra contraption they put on you but just feeling that fake titty mound makes me quite happy. If not drugged out of my mind and completely devoid of anything resembling a singing voice I could even be tempted to burst into song. Something corny. ‘I ENJOY BEING A GIRL” comes to mind. Lola tells me that she spoke to Dr Bob on the phone and he said it went well.
I feel great relief. It’s moments before Thanksgiving - a year since I recall feeling that small but quite hard lump in my breast. A really chilled glass of good French champagne would go down well right now, I chirp brightly, delirious for about 18 seconds before I realize I’m in some serious pain here. But bubbly is not on the menu and after about half an hour of chatting with my darling that I now cannot remember- I suddenly see that my poor angel who started her day at 6 am at the coffee joint and then had a full day at college till 10pm, is ready to schlep all the way home to Hollywood. She looks shattered and I wish to goodness I’d come round a little sooner for her sake. I kiss her goodbye and she’s gone. Lie there feeling guilty that I left home in Melbourne at 20 and never went back. Never hung out with my mother again. Except for stressed, tense, unreal periods during holidays. The guilt is monumental and seems to be fade-resistant.. And then I remember – or did I dream it—that whilst coming out of the anasthetic, I agreed to use a bedpan to pee – but couldn’t once they put it there and they took it away. THE HORROR…THE HUMILIATION. I despise bedpans and do not believe in them. I think it was the reason I had a baby at home—someone told me they had to use a bedpan after giving birth..I really hope it was a dream.
I also wish that for the love of God Dr Bob had been kind enough to give me that doohickey you just press and pain medication floods your veins. But noooo—I’m now in searing pain and here we go again with the pressing of the red nurse button which means you WILL be ignored for a good ten to twenty minutes before a grim night shift nurse appears and invariably expresses shock and confusion when you ask for your pain medication. I am not disappointed but eventually, two percocet are given and things calm down. I go to sleep –wishing to goodness I was capable of following orders and sleeping on my back but I simply cannot do it—my back starts to ache after about ten minutes and gets worse as time goes on which is why I can’t even enjoy massages. Sleep on my back is simply not an option—though I regret it even more when I read in Us magazine that Tom Cruise sleeps on his back to avoid wrinkles around eyes and neck.
Tuesday
Wake up in stunning pain and beg for the Percocet immediately. It’s only 6 am, have eaten nothing for about 24 hours and would love to have some food in my stomach. But no breakfast in sight.
What a decision. Risk feeling ill with the Percocet on an empty stomach or put up with a couple more hours of scorching pain? I go with the pills and when breakfast finally arrives I find it hard to hide my disappointment upon discovering that my two pieces of French toast are cold, grey and preposterously rubber-like. Now we all know that in 2009 hospitals have yet to equate nutrition and health in any way shape or form ---but this is taking ignorance TOO FAR. Are they SERIOUS?? This is my third stay this year at St Johns and I should know the score but I’m tired and grumpy and hungry and sore and I press my buzzer and ask if any other food can be found for me—food I could EAT. Well, about forty five minutes later a really mean, mean woman comes and yells at me that I hadn’t filled out a menu and I point out that I was in surgery and not offered a menu to fill out and she says well that’s not her fault and I LOSE IT AND YELL THAT IT’S NOT MY FAULT EITHER AND IS THERE ANY THING AT ALL I COULD EAT ? PLEASE ??
An hour later she brings eggs that have been poisoned I think—they taste like fucking dog food and they too are grey and I cannot possibly eat them and they’re cold and suddenly I am very sad.
But what makes me even sadder is that I have a raging thirst and have been drinking lots and lots of water and so about every ten minutes it seems I have to pee and that means I have to unhook both the pulsating, inflated leg cuffs I am wearing that prevent leg clots and then I have to unplug the IV stand and hook up the cord so it doesn’t get caught on the bed, like last time, and unplug my computer so I don’t trip over that cord, like last time, and put on my Ugg Boots since I have a thing about bare feet on hospital floors and and then drag the IV stand into the tiny airless bathroom and them empty the heavy dangling drain filled with blood and then pee and brush my teeth and put on some moisturizer cos I have a theory that having a general anaesthetic is ageing and then I have to shuffle back into my messy room to plug everything in including my legs and get into bed and drink some more water…and do it all again. EXHAUSTING. Well at least I am getting some exercise and it beats a catheter. I think.
Dull day. But blessed pills make me sleep for a lot of it. When I am not sending psychotic emails to folks.
7 pm The angel posing as my daughter brings delicious salad from Wholefoods with tuna and mint and beans and all sorts of goodies and I feel better immediately- (note to hospitals all over the globe—good healthy food makes you feel BETTER)—and even she nearly gags when she takes a bite of my turkey dinner and agrees that I’m not being paranoid and that someone’s trying to poison me. I soon send the baby girl home to hang with Nick who’s been shockingly sweet on the phone and has told me made himself Trader Jo’s Piroggi for dinner and is doing his math homework. Wow. Amazing how easily they just straight out lie. (I know this because math teacher has since emailed to say it was NOT done ).I give him about ninety two instructions for packing as he is being collected tomorrow at 10 and taken to LAX for flight on HIS OWN to NY to spend Thanksgiving with his godmother but he doesn’t listen as closely as I hope. If at all. I tell him to study my typed packing notes and the itinerary –and he knows enough to agree- but I would bet anyone now that he ignores them completely.
9.30 pm A VERY exhausted looking Dr Bob shows up after a day of surgery – he seems to be very popular right now—and he helps me off with the bra contraption and I suddenly realize it’s the MOMENT OF TRUTH as he takes off the bandage. Not completely but enough to see that IT COULD WELL BE A MINOR MIRACLE. HE DIDN’T LIE..MY BREAST SKIN SEEMS TO BE UNCRUMPLED AND IT LOOKS LIKE A NORMAL BREAST AND I AM VERY, VERY HAPPY.
“You are a genius “ I tell him and he smiles….”I told you…” he says..
I asks if he put Alloderm back and he says “Yes, just a little. I want to put more in later..”
Whatever…this is a GOOD OUTCOME…..I LOVE DR BOB…
He looks very tired and I tell him to go and get some sleep while I tidy my room again and try to straighten my bed. GOD FORBID they could ever make it. That’s what nurses are meant to do. There is little more pathetic than making your own bed in pain at 10 pm at night. But smooth tits are good too. BE THANKFUL I tell myself – and I am.