Belly of the Beast (definition) - To be in a dangerous place.
This has been an incredibly challenging blog post for me to write. I've gone back and forth for weeks, so torn. I considered not writing it at all, or waiting until much later, but I know I can't truly move on until it's out there. I've only told close friends and family, because I still wasn't certain if I wanted to share it publicly at all.
I decided to do so, because even though it's quite harrowing and painful, very personal and deeply humbling, I honestly believe it may give hope to those who need it...People who don't think they can get through terrible events and stay sober. But mostly, I wrote this for people in recovery from opiates who find themselves in a situation where they must take them. I want them to know that it's possible - that if care is taken, relapse isn't inevitable.
Many of you already know of my should-be-dead experience I had due to my addiction to opiate medication (My tummy blew up in London). If you don't, please get GUTS. Seriously, you can buy it used for 4 bucks. I'm not trying to sell it to you, I was paid handsomely 21/2 yrs ago, and I'll never see another dime. The days of Oprah throwing her weight behind a book & shooting it from #40,000 to #1 on bestseller list are over. Now she's doing important work, like following freshly rehabbed actresses around with camera crews.
I decided to do so, because even though it's quite harrowing and painful, very personal and deeply humbling, I honestly believe it may give hope to those who need it...People who don't think they can get through terrible events and stay sober. But mostly, I wrote this for people in recovery from opiates who find themselves in a situation where they must take them. I want them to know that it's possible - that if care is taken, relapse isn't inevitable.
Many of you already know of my should-be-dead experience I had due to my addiction to opiate medication (My tummy blew up in London). If you don't, please get GUTS. Seriously, you can buy it used for 4 bucks. I'm not trying to sell it to you, I was paid handsomely 21/2 yrs ago, and I'll never see another dime. The days of Oprah throwing her weight behind a book & shooting it from #40,000 to #1 on bestseller list are over. Now she's doing important work, like following freshly rehabbed actresses around with camera crews.
But I digress.
The point is, I survived one massive, horrific health disaster, I learned my lesson and got sober. Phew! Dodged that bullet.
At the time I guess I just assumed we each had to survive one massive health disaster in our lifetime. (Until of course, after age 75, when all bets are off.)
Oh, you silly, silly girl. How wrong you were. What, you thought Bad Health was like lightening? That it couldn't possibly strike the same person more than once?
Bad Health doesn't care how hard you try to be a good person, or whether or not you're sober, or that you try to help others or even that you eat your fucking wheaties every day.
Oh, you silly, silly girl. How wrong you were. What, you thought Bad Health was like lightening? That it couldn't possibly strike the same person more than once?
Bad Health doesn't care how hard you try to be a good person, or whether or not you're sober, or that you try to help others or even that you eat your fucking wheaties every day.
Bad Health finds all these efforts amusing, and even kind of adorable. Because he knows he can hit your life with the force of a hurricane without breaking a sweat, whenever the mood strikes him. A flick of his fingers shatters your little life into oblivion within seconds.
It's early August, 2013.
Without warning I'm felled by some mystifying illness that causes me to be to weak to walk, or hold my own head up. I wear a neck brace and weep with dread at the thought of having to get up to pee. I can't walk to the pet store around the corner without constantly sitting on a stoop until the painful lactic acid in my legs dissipates. But onward I push, glancing at a reflection in a store window, thinking "Oh, look at that poor old lady" before I realize it's me.
I'm scared.
Just a few weeks before I was a relatively healthy, pretty happy, young(ish) woman who'd been through some tough shit and finally loved myself and was proud of my very busy life as a sober person. Now, I'm a terrified bedridden bag of skin and bones.
I'm scared.
Just a few weeks before I was a relatively healthy, pretty happy, young(ish) woman who'd been through some tough shit and finally loved myself and was proud of my very busy life as a sober person. Now, I'm a terrified bedridden bag of skin and bones.
I see the finest specialists in Manhattan and then Los Angeles. Neurologists, Hematologists, Infectious Disease Specialists, Allergists, Endocrynologists, Epidemiologists, Immunologists, Rhuematologists. Some many times.
I'm tested for every disease known to man.
I even go to the Mayo Clinic for 2 weeks, where I'm subjected to endless and agonizingly painful tests.
Yet still no diagnosis.
The lowest point is when I'm back home and a kindly Neurologist looks at my Mayo file and says "Kristen, I'm sorry. You might need to begin accepting that this is what the rest of your life will be like."
46 years old. Bedridden. Unable to feed my own dog or shampoo my own hair.
I consider killing myself but lack the energy.
Finally, begrudgingly, I see Dr number 18, Daniel Wallace. He looks at my recent blood work and instantly diagnoses me with a rare form of Lupus, Lupus Myelitis. Only 1-2% of all Lupus patients have this form, which is where your immune system begins attacking your spinal cord.
I find out much later that if I'd waited even a few more weeks, odds are I'd have been a paraplegic.
After a week in the hospital, and infusions of steroids, chemo and IVIG, I begin to be able to hold my own head up. Within a few weeks I'm back at work, and by our shows hiatus in February I was slowly starting to feel like me again.
It doesn't even cross my mind until my mother says something, much later....that not once, in all those Dr's offices, through all that despair and terror--Never once did it occur to me to ask any of them for painkillers.
I had looked into the Belly of the Beast and survived, sober.
Phew! Dodged another bullet. Miracle! Who dodges two medical should-be-dead disasters?
If only I'd known that Bad Health had simply fired the first salvo. A warning shot. He was far from done with me.
In late May, a few weeks before work began again, and just as I was beginning to feel as though I was truly over the terrible hump, I fell while hiking.
I had no idea that due to the incredible amount of steroids I'd been infused with to help treat my Lupus, my bones had become very porous & brittle. Someone may have mentioned this to me, but with all the reams of information I'd been given about my disease, I clearly didn't retain this little tidbit. Oh, how I wish I had.
Instead, I walked with Pinky near the Hollywood sign, enjoying my newfound gift of wellness and energy. It was magic hour, so we finally sat on a mound not far from my car, and enjoyed the sunset. I thought about work, and how I couldn't wait to arrive on set feeling great, my old energy back. I was so happy to be alive.
Before I knew it, it was dark, but I wasn't worried. I'd wisely left my hazards on, and Pinky and I confidently strolled the final 50 feet or so back to the car. That's when I stepped into nothingness.
I fell at least 3 stories on to a flat grassy knoll that might as well have been cement. After I caught my breath, I knew I was hurt, badly. My left arm jostled about, clearly badly broken. I could barely breathe. Everything hurt. I knew I was in terrible trouble, but didn't yet know that in addition to shattering my upper arm bone, I had broken my collarbone, shoulder blade, pelvis, foot, and nine of my ribs. I had also punctured my lungs.
All other hikers had long since wisely departed, and were likely enjoying a spaghetti dinner surrounded by loved ones.
No one knew I was here. My roommate David didn't know, I'd told no one.
Despite an enormous cell tower mocking me from the nearest hilltop, my phone had no reception. I had a brief, hopeful fantasy of Pinky finding the nearest house and pawing madly on the door, barking until the owners followed her into the pitch black night. But that hope was soon dashed. Pinky is many things, sadly she's no Lassie.
I screamed for help, over and over and over until I passed out. I came to and screamed some more. I did this for three hours. Finally, out of mad desperation I began scooping twigs with my right arm into a small pile next to me. I shakily took out my lighter, intent to set the mound ablaze. I never considered that I would likely go up in flames as well. A huge, idiotic funeral pyre. Shock, pain and the will to survive seemed to drain all common sense.
Thankfully, before I set fire to the Hollywood sign, the Hollywood Hills, and myself, I heard a far away "HELLOOOO?"
"Yes!!!!" I screamed, hoarse and desperate "Helloooo!!!! I'm hurt, call 911!!!"
The voice came closer.
"My friend has already gone home to call 911. We found Blinky wandering the neighborhood looking lost! He's so sweet!"
And for reasons I'm still baffled by, this is the moment I decide to be a snotty twat.
"It's Pinky"I corrected him "And she's a girl!"
silence.
Oh no. I blew it. Dammit. Now my incredibly slender corpse would be found by hikers in a month.
Twenty minutes later, I heard the familiar whoosh of helicopter blades, followed by the sirens of two fire tucks and an ambulance. The helicopter hovered just above me, shining it's impossibly bright light on me and blowing my funeral pyre pile all over me. I'd still be picking twigs and grass and brambles out of my hair a week later.
The next while is a blur, mostly due to the extreme agony I was in. I know I was loaded into a stretcher, which jostled my arm and caused me to pass out. I wasn't sure if I was taken to the hospital by the helicopter or the ambulance, but I told people I was flown. It sounds cooler. Sadly, I recently learned it was ambulance, only after receiving an extraordinarily hefty bill from the ambulance company.
The next things I remember are brief moments of horrible lucidity, followed by darkness, with no comprehension of the passage of time.
I woke up in the ER, to a nurse screaming my name.
I soon found out all ER personnel scream at you, even if it's something like "Can you wiggle your toes?"
Because of the extreme volume of their voices, and the nature of their questions, instead of "MISS JOHNSTON WHO CAN WE CALL FOR YOU?" It sounds like they're saying "YOU ARE A STUPID, IDIOTIC ASSHOLE. WE HATE YOU."
I begin blubbering, passing out, blubbering again. Like a four year old.
"MISS JOHNSTON WE'RE TRYING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE" Is their favorite refrain.
Blubber.
Agony.
As they coldly slice my clothes off me, I manage to gasp "My dog...Pinky" and they tell me she's being taken care of at the firehouse. The shock is wearing off, and now I'm overwhelmed with pain, everywere. Somehow, knowing Pinky's okay combined with unbearable pain inspires me to turn to a nurse and with absolute sincerity, beg her to kill me.
Big mistake.
A horrible, mean Dr. suddenly demands "MISS JOHNSTON, WERE YOU TRYING TO KILL YOURSELF?"
Fury overrides everything else, and I recall looking at him with such disgust and coldness I'm fairly certain his penis didn't work properly for weeks. "Doctor" I gasp "If I wanted to kill myself, trust me, I'd be on a very different table right now. I certainly wouldn't have jumped 40 feet with my dog wandering lost and my fucking hazards on."
I never saw him again.
I passed out, only to be rudely awakened by a different Dr shouting "MISS JOHNSTON, WE HAVE TO FLIP YOU ON YOUR SIDE TO INSERT AN EPIDURAL."
Oh, no no no no. I begged them not to. No one yet knew 9 ribs were broken. All I knew was my body was not to be touched, and certainly not flipped!
Despite my pleas, they flip me.
Stars. A searing hurt ripped through me unlike any I'd ever felt, and I couldnt breathe.
After an endless few moments, they flipped me back.
I tried to catch my breath.
When a Dr leaned in to scream "NOW THAT WASN'T SO BAD WAS--" I punched him.
Immediately a nurse leans in "MISS JOHNSTON WE'RE TRYING TO SAVE YOUR--" and I slapped her.
Thankfully, for everyone's safety, I finally fully pass out.
I wake up 2 days later in a hospital bed.
When I recall my antics in the ER, I feel terrible.
But as awful as the bedside manner of the ER staff was (each of whom I'm eternally grateful to for SAVING MY LIFE), the nursing staff of Cedars Sinai are all extraordinary people. I'm not kidding. Every single nurse is smart, kind and sweet.
It turns out I'd had to have surgery to screw a plate to hold all the broken bits of my arm together. But quite honestly, I didn't give a shit about my arm.
Or my pelvis or my shoulderblade or my collarbone or my foot.
How could I? All I thought about were my 9 broken ribs.
The pain was so profound, they summoned a small, elite team of Anesthesiologists trained in the delicate art of blocking nerves. This is a relatively new practice, not yet available in every hospital. A few men who's names escaped me came in with a sonogram machine, and after finding the clusters of nerves between each broken rib, insert a needle and numb them.
The relief is instant, like jumping into a cool lake on the hottest day of the year. I loved these men as deeply as I've ever loved anyone else. They came every twelve hours to kill the pain, which helped me take far less pain medication. Every single Dr and Nurse knew of my history with addiction, I told them all.
On the second day, my beloved Lupus Doctor, Dr. Daniel Wallace, came by. He excitedly told me that all my blood work indicates that my Lupus is in full remission!
I really didn't care about that at the moment, but his enthusiasm was so infectious I managed a smile and said "That's great!"
"Great? It's more than great! It's incredible, and it means your body will heal that much faster!"
It was a brutal few days, but I finally wobbled down the hallway (with a cane), and was deemed good enough to recover at home.
My assistant, Holly would live with me (my roommate was out of town) and dole out any pain medications.
I had two weeks before "The Exes" began again, and wanted to do everything humanly possible to be 100% by then. I'd put these people through enough with my Lupus bullshit. I worked with a physical therapist almost every day, and by the end of the first week home I'd triumphantly flushed the remaining painkillers down the toilet.
I'd done it. I'd looked into the belly of the beast & survived.
Again.
But Bad Health had another trick up his sleeve, and like the overwrougt finale to a 4th of July Fireworks, it was the most majestically awful of all.
Just a week before work began, I noticed a very weird feeling in my arm. It wasn't pain, as much as it felt wrong. I mentioned it to the physical therapist, and she moved my arm around a bit. "It's probably just healing."
But the next day it was far worse. It felt like my arm was disintegrating. For three days I walked around in a mixture of terror, pain, and light-headedness.
Oh no. I called Holly to take me to the ER, and the X-ray revealed not only had my plate popped off, but I'd actually re-fractured my arm.
The Ortho intern was incredulous "You've been walking around like this for three days?"
All I was worried about was work. "I have to, have to be at work by Wednesday. Whatever you do, do it now."
Friday they rushed me back into surgery, where a rod was drilled in, from my shoulder to my elbow.
No problem. A little pain, nothing I haven't dealt with before.
Except Saturday I woke up to the most screaming, evil agony I'd ever felt. They'd had to flay my arm entirely open, taking off the bicep, and screwing in a million screws. No painkiller touched this. I kept begging the nurses for "those nerve block guys" but they couldn't do it without permission of the pain management team.
And the pain team, for some reason, refused to call them. Instead, they loaded me, a known recovering Opiate addict, more and more painkillers. Oxycontin, Dilauded, Methadone, Ketamine. The most intense painkillers available.
All it did was create a wasted person in agony.
The worst hours of my life crawled by, minute by hellish minute, until at 3pm, Dr. Matthew Eng rushed in. I recognized him as one of the nerve block Doctors, and burst into tears.
"Oh I need your help so bad!"
He explained that one of the nurses called him. As he did this, he was jamming a needle into my neck, slowly blocking the nerve clusters that ran down my arm.
Sweet, sweet relief.
The relief of being lost at sea for weeks and finally seeing a coast guard helicopter.
The relief of finding out your loved one hadn't been on the plane that crashed.
It just courses through you, and overjoys you. The pain is gone.
Dr. Eng wasn't on call that long weekend, but he gave me his cell phone & insisted I text whenever I needed him. I'm not proud to admit I texted him every six hours, as soon as I felt that terrible white hot agony building. And, like clockwork, within 10 minutes he'd be there.
I'll never forget what this kind man did for me. We forged a friendship, and he's become inspired to begin a program of teaching residents about addiction, and how nerve blockers can really help someone like me. I've been invited to speak at a huge conference Cedars holds every year, to educate the Drs and residents about the disease of addiction.
This time, leaving the hospital, I insisted they give me enough pain medicine for 5 days, no refills. It worked out perfectly.
Two days out of the hospital I showed up at work with a huge ugly scar & a sling, limping slightly. But I showed up, goddammit.
In the long run, I know that this most horrible of years has given me countless gifts, many of which I have yet to discover or understand.
But today, I know a few very important things I didn't know before. I know I need to learn how to take care of myself better, and stop trying to save the broken or lost. I need to show myself the same love I shower on others.
I know I can survive a shitload.
I know that there is nothing more beautiful than a nurse and Dr who actually care.
And I understand something about my addiction. Now that Im no longer in emotional pain, opiates worked on me just like they do on everyone else. Because they were taken for right reasons: to help with physical pain.
I'm not saying I'm cured. But I am saying it's possible to look into the belly of the beast not one, not two, but THREE times in one year, and stay sober.
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I'm truly blown away by the overwhelming amount of positive responses I've gotten here, as well as on Face Book & Twitter.
I sincerely wish I could thank each of you personally, but that would be impossible. So please know I've read every response I could, and am so grateful for your lovely words. (Except for Fran, who tweeted that as soon as I'm well she's going to punch me in the face for hiking so late, like I don't already deeply regret my idiocy.)
I felt the need to let you guys know a few things...
Many of you have asked how I'm doing today, and I'm happy to report that, all things considered, I'm doing pretty damn good. I began work back at The Exes 2 days out of the hospital, which was challenging the first few weeks, but I think (hope) I've delivered. The scripts just get better & better, so even if I feel yucky, I damn well am gonna turn it ON for the cameras. It's my favorite non-theater job I've ever had, and I honestly think it's every bit as well-written and special as 3rd Rock was. The best part is, I've lived through enough to fully appreciate it... I'm well aware that, as a 46 year old non-facelifted woman, a great role in a brilliant show with people you adore doesn't come by every day. (Or pretty much ever.)
So, I'm healing well. I have a huge motherfucking scar on my left arm, which has been kind of amusing. I've found that when people stare at it in a store all I gotta say are these two words: "Bar fight" and they immediately scurry. Evil, I know, but I have to amuse myself somehow.
Oh, alright...since you asked so nicely...here it is. (I'm holding a gorgeous crystal butterfly my spectacular friend Steph gave me last week after the taping of the show. Oh, and yes, I'm totally fucking crying, it was one of the loveliest gifts I've ever gotten.)
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PRETTY, right? The butterfly, of course. My arm, not so much.
I shared the blog with Dr. Eng, who has decided not only to work on a narcotic reduction program at the Hospital, but also just reported to me that they have recently doubled the number of fellows training to do nerve blocks.
(He was also very flattered, as he damn well should be.)
Many of you have written how strong I am to have made it through all this, and without relapsing. However, I beg to differ. As anyone faced with medical challenges will tell you- you simply do what you fucking have to.
In terms of not relapsing? I believe it has everything to do with the length of time I've spent in recovery, combined with the fact that everyone in my life and at the hospital were well aware that my sobriety matters more to me than almost anything else.
I literally couldn't bear the thought of disappointing my family, my friends, my co-workers, all of you guys, but especially myself.
It's not strength. I'm simply a woman who, despite having a shitty year health-wise, loves her life. Since I'm no longer self-medicating my depression and I'm simply no longer interested in being "Other," Opiates hold no appeal for me.
FOR NOW. I'm WELL aware that could change tomorrow, but that's where it stands at the moment.
A few of you were disappointed that I didn't give the finger from my hospital bed. Silly people...did you really think I wouldn't?
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I know this isn't some goddamn award show, and I encourage you to read only if on the tiolet or bored. (Or both.)
I just really wanted to say a public thank you to every single person involved with the Exes, from TVLand, to the compassionate crew (led by the amazing Rusty), to the truly generous and patient cast...what an extraordinary group you are. I love you all.
But a few deserve some special props:
Mindy Shultheis, one of the executive producers of The Exes. She was astonishing, tirelessly calling the finest specialists in Los Angeles, even coming with me to several appointments. She basically "produced" my diagnosis. But I'm most grateful to her because when I was truly at my Lupus bottom, she convinced me to see one last Doctor, Dr. Daniel Wallace. They both saved my life.
Mark Reisman and all the writers of The Exes. These geniuses, led by the head writer & show's creator, Mark, did the impossible. Their lead actress got ill two weeks before production started, and they had to basically scrap an entire season's worth of storylines and write around my illness. They never knew, from one week to the next, if I'd be well enough to shoot or not. NOT ONCE did they blame me, or make me feel bad or guilty. (Even though I managed to do that to myself.) I'm dazzled at the incredible comedy they managed to come up with on the fly.
Sheryl and Paula, the two extraordinary souls from The Exes wardrobe department. Sheryl had to dress me lying down more than once, and put up with lots of weeping and feeling sorry for myself. Paula's small acts of kindness stun me. (The other day, she knew I was having a rough day, so she placed a white rose in a water bottle in my car.) Shit like that. Plus Paula might actually love Pinky more than I do, and lets Pinky fart up her office while I'm rehearsing.
Holly Atkins, an actress & makeup artist who moonlights as my assistant. She went above & beyond the call of duty for me, and has done so many lovely things for me I tear up just thinking about it. One example? She and her boyfriend sat for HOURS with me in the ER. She's someone who forever has my respect & friendship & gratitude.
Last, but far from least, I need to try to put into words what my dear friend and housemate David Dieguez did for me. We thought it would be "fun" to live together in LA... little did he know what he was in for. Month after month, he has been there as a very independant woman suddenly became completely dependent. He did thousands of things for me, bringing me water, taking care of Pinky, cooking me food, all without complaint or even a secret eye-roll. He's also the one who came to the hospital and told me I needed to stop trying to save everyone else, start reflecting that goodness back into myself for a while.
I've never met a better person in my life, and I honestly don't know how I could have survived this year without his friendship.
The fact that he also does BRILLIANT hair is just icing on the cake. Want proof?
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Thank you all. I love you.
KJo
I'm tested for every disease known to man.
I even go to the Mayo Clinic for 2 weeks, where I'm subjected to endless and agonizingly painful tests.
Yet still no diagnosis.
The lowest point is when I'm back home and a kindly Neurologist looks at my Mayo file and says "Kristen, I'm sorry. You might need to begin accepting that this is what the rest of your life will be like."
46 years old. Bedridden. Unable to feed my own dog or shampoo my own hair.
I consider killing myself but lack the energy.
Finally, begrudgingly, I see Dr number 18, Daniel Wallace. He looks at my recent blood work and instantly diagnoses me with a rare form of Lupus, Lupus Myelitis. Only 1-2% of all Lupus patients have this form, which is where your immune system begins attacking your spinal cord.
I find out much later that if I'd waited even a few more weeks, odds are I'd have been a paraplegic.
After a week in the hospital, and infusions of steroids, chemo and IVIG, I begin to be able to hold my own head up. Within a few weeks I'm back at work, and by our shows hiatus in February I was slowly starting to feel like me again.
It doesn't even cross my mind until my mother says something, much later....that not once, in all those Dr's offices, through all that despair and terror--Never once did it occur to me to ask any of them for painkillers.
I had looked into the Belly of the Beast and survived, sober.
Phew! Dodged another bullet. Miracle! Who dodges two medical should-be-dead disasters?
If only I'd known that Bad Health had simply fired the first salvo. A warning shot. He was far from done with me.
In late May, a few weeks before work began again, and just as I was beginning to feel as though I was truly over the terrible hump, I fell while hiking.
I had no idea that due to the incredible amount of steroids I'd been infused with to help treat my Lupus, my bones had become very porous & brittle. Someone may have mentioned this to me, but with all the reams of information I'd been given about my disease, I clearly didn't retain this little tidbit. Oh, how I wish I had.
Instead, I walked with Pinky near the Hollywood sign, enjoying my newfound gift of wellness and energy. It was magic hour, so we finally sat on a mound not far from my car, and enjoyed the sunset. I thought about work, and how I couldn't wait to arrive on set feeling great, my old energy back. I was so happy to be alive.
Before I knew it, it was dark, but I wasn't worried. I'd wisely left my hazards on, and Pinky and I confidently strolled the final 50 feet or so back to the car. That's when I stepped into nothingness.
I fell at least 3 stories on to a flat grassy knoll that might as well have been cement. After I caught my breath, I knew I was hurt, badly. My left arm jostled about, clearly badly broken. I could barely breathe. Everything hurt. I knew I was in terrible trouble, but didn't yet know that in addition to shattering my upper arm bone, I had broken my collarbone, shoulder blade, pelvis, foot, and nine of my ribs. I had also punctured my lungs.
All other hikers had long since wisely departed, and were likely enjoying a spaghetti dinner surrounded by loved ones.
No one knew I was here. My roommate David didn't know, I'd told no one.
Despite an enormous cell tower mocking me from the nearest hilltop, my phone had no reception. I had a brief, hopeful fantasy of Pinky finding the nearest house and pawing madly on the door, barking until the owners followed her into the pitch black night. But that hope was soon dashed. Pinky is many things, sadly she's no Lassie.
I screamed for help, over and over and over until I passed out. I came to and screamed some more. I did this for three hours. Finally, out of mad desperation I began scooping twigs with my right arm into a small pile next to me. I shakily took out my lighter, intent to set the mound ablaze. I never considered that I would likely go up in flames as well. A huge, idiotic funeral pyre. Shock, pain and the will to survive seemed to drain all common sense.
Thankfully, before I set fire to the Hollywood sign, the Hollywood Hills, and myself, I heard a far away "HELLOOOO?"
"Yes!!!!" I screamed, hoarse and desperate "Helloooo!!!! I'm hurt, call 911!!!"
The voice came closer.
"My friend has already gone home to call 911. We found Blinky wandering the neighborhood looking lost! He's so sweet!"
And for reasons I'm still baffled by, this is the moment I decide to be a snotty twat.
"It's Pinky"I corrected him "And she's a girl!"
silence.
Oh no. I blew it. Dammit. Now my incredibly slender corpse would be found by hikers in a month.
Twenty minutes later, I heard the familiar whoosh of helicopter blades, followed by the sirens of two fire tucks and an ambulance. The helicopter hovered just above me, shining it's impossibly bright light on me and blowing my funeral pyre pile all over me. I'd still be picking twigs and grass and brambles out of my hair a week later.
The next while is a blur, mostly due to the extreme agony I was in. I know I was loaded into a stretcher, which jostled my arm and caused me to pass out. I wasn't sure if I was taken to the hospital by the helicopter or the ambulance, but I told people I was flown. It sounds cooler. Sadly, I recently learned it was ambulance, only after receiving an extraordinarily hefty bill from the ambulance company.
The next things I remember are brief moments of horrible lucidity, followed by darkness, with no comprehension of the passage of time.
I woke up in the ER, to a nurse screaming my name.
I soon found out all ER personnel scream at you, even if it's something like "Can you wiggle your toes?"
Because of the extreme volume of their voices, and the nature of their questions, instead of "MISS JOHNSTON WHO CAN WE CALL FOR YOU?" It sounds like they're saying "YOU ARE A STUPID, IDIOTIC ASSHOLE. WE HATE YOU."
I begin blubbering, passing out, blubbering again. Like a four year old.
"MISS JOHNSTON WE'RE TRYING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE" Is their favorite refrain.
Blubber.
Agony.
As they coldly slice my clothes off me, I manage to gasp "My dog...Pinky" and they tell me she's being taken care of at the firehouse. The shock is wearing off, and now I'm overwhelmed with pain, everywere. Somehow, knowing Pinky's okay combined with unbearable pain inspires me to turn to a nurse and with absolute sincerity, beg her to kill me.
Big mistake.
A horrible, mean Dr. suddenly demands "MISS JOHNSTON, WERE YOU TRYING TO KILL YOURSELF?"
Fury overrides everything else, and I recall looking at him with such disgust and coldness I'm fairly certain his penis didn't work properly for weeks. "Doctor" I gasp "If I wanted to kill myself, trust me, I'd be on a very different table right now. I certainly wouldn't have jumped 40 feet with my dog wandering lost and my fucking hazards on."
I never saw him again.
I passed out, only to be rudely awakened by a different Dr shouting "MISS JOHNSTON, WE HAVE TO FLIP YOU ON YOUR SIDE TO INSERT AN EPIDURAL."
Oh, no no no no. I begged them not to. No one yet knew 9 ribs were broken. All I knew was my body was not to be touched, and certainly not flipped!
Despite my pleas, they flip me.
Stars. A searing hurt ripped through me unlike any I'd ever felt, and I couldnt breathe.
After an endless few moments, they flipped me back.
I tried to catch my breath.
When a Dr leaned in to scream "NOW THAT WASN'T SO BAD WAS--" I punched him.
Immediately a nurse leans in "MISS JOHNSTON WE'RE TRYING TO SAVE YOUR--" and I slapped her.
Thankfully, for everyone's safety, I finally fully pass out.
I wake up 2 days later in a hospital bed.
When I recall my antics in the ER, I feel terrible.
But as awful as the bedside manner of the ER staff was (each of whom I'm eternally grateful to for SAVING MY LIFE), the nursing staff of Cedars Sinai are all extraordinary people. I'm not kidding. Every single nurse is smart, kind and sweet.
It turns out I'd had to have surgery to screw a plate to hold all the broken bits of my arm together. But quite honestly, I didn't give a shit about my arm.
Or my pelvis or my shoulderblade or my collarbone or my foot.
How could I? All I thought about were my 9 broken ribs.
The pain was so profound, they summoned a small, elite team of Anesthesiologists trained in the delicate art of blocking nerves. This is a relatively new practice, not yet available in every hospital. A few men who's names escaped me came in with a sonogram machine, and after finding the clusters of nerves between each broken rib, insert a needle and numb them.
The relief is instant, like jumping into a cool lake on the hottest day of the year. I loved these men as deeply as I've ever loved anyone else. They came every twelve hours to kill the pain, which helped me take far less pain medication. Every single Dr and Nurse knew of my history with addiction, I told them all.
On the second day, my beloved Lupus Doctor, Dr. Daniel Wallace, came by. He excitedly told me that all my blood work indicates that my Lupus is in full remission!
I really didn't care about that at the moment, but his enthusiasm was so infectious I managed a smile and said "That's great!"
"Great? It's more than great! It's incredible, and it means your body will heal that much faster!"
It was a brutal few days, but I finally wobbled down the hallway (with a cane), and was deemed good enough to recover at home.
My assistant, Holly would live with me (my roommate was out of town) and dole out any pain medications.
I had two weeks before "The Exes" began again, and wanted to do everything humanly possible to be 100% by then. I'd put these people through enough with my Lupus bullshit. I worked with a physical therapist almost every day, and by the end of the first week home I'd triumphantly flushed the remaining painkillers down the toilet.
I'd done it. I'd looked into the belly of the beast & survived.
Again.
But Bad Health had another trick up his sleeve, and like the overwrougt finale to a 4th of July Fireworks, it was the most majestically awful of all.
Just a week before work began, I noticed a very weird feeling in my arm. It wasn't pain, as much as it felt wrong. I mentioned it to the physical therapist, and she moved my arm around a bit. "It's probably just healing."
But the next day it was far worse. It felt like my arm was disintegrating. For three days I walked around in a mixture of terror, pain, and light-headedness.
Oh no. I called Holly to take me to the ER, and the X-ray revealed not only had my plate popped off, but I'd actually re-fractured my arm.
The Ortho intern was incredulous "You've been walking around like this for three days?"
All I was worried about was work. "I have to, have to be at work by Wednesday. Whatever you do, do it now."
Friday they rushed me back into surgery, where a rod was drilled in, from my shoulder to my elbow.
No problem. A little pain, nothing I haven't dealt with before.
Except Saturday I woke up to the most screaming, evil agony I'd ever felt. They'd had to flay my arm entirely open, taking off the bicep, and screwing in a million screws. No painkiller touched this. I kept begging the nurses for "those nerve block guys" but they couldn't do it without permission of the pain management team.
And the pain team, for some reason, refused to call them. Instead, they loaded me, a known recovering Opiate addict, more and more painkillers. Oxycontin, Dilauded, Methadone, Ketamine. The most intense painkillers available.
All it did was create a wasted person in agony.
The worst hours of my life crawled by, minute by hellish minute, until at 3pm, Dr. Matthew Eng rushed in. I recognized him as one of the nerve block Doctors, and burst into tears.
"Oh I need your help so bad!"
He explained that one of the nurses called him. As he did this, he was jamming a needle into my neck, slowly blocking the nerve clusters that ran down my arm.
Sweet, sweet relief.
The relief of being lost at sea for weeks and finally seeing a coast guard helicopter.
The relief of finding out your loved one hadn't been on the plane that crashed.
It just courses through you, and overjoys you. The pain is gone.
Dr. Eng wasn't on call that long weekend, but he gave me his cell phone & insisted I text whenever I needed him. I'm not proud to admit I texted him every six hours, as soon as I felt that terrible white hot agony building. And, like clockwork, within 10 minutes he'd be there.
I'll never forget what this kind man did for me. We forged a friendship, and he's become inspired to begin a program of teaching residents about addiction, and how nerve blockers can really help someone like me. I've been invited to speak at a huge conference Cedars holds every year, to educate the Drs and residents about the disease of addiction.
This time, leaving the hospital, I insisted they give me enough pain medicine for 5 days, no refills. It worked out perfectly.
Two days out of the hospital I showed up at work with a huge ugly scar & a sling, limping slightly. But I showed up, goddammit.
In the long run, I know that this most horrible of years has given me countless gifts, many of which I have yet to discover or understand.
But today, I know a few very important things I didn't know before. I know I need to learn how to take care of myself better, and stop trying to save the broken or lost. I need to show myself the same love I shower on others.
I know I can survive a shitload.
I know that there is nothing more beautiful than a nurse and Dr who actually care.
And I understand something about my addiction. Now that Im no longer in emotional pain, opiates worked on me just like they do on everyone else. Because they were taken for right reasons: to help with physical pain.
I'm not saying I'm cured. But I am saying it's possible to look into the belly of the beast not one, not two, but THREE times in one year, and stay sober.
UPDATE
I sincerely wish I could thank each of you personally, but that would be impossible. So please know I've read every response I could, and am so grateful for your lovely words. (Except for Fran, who tweeted that as soon as I'm well she's going to punch me in the face for hiking so late, like I don't already deeply regret my idiocy.)
I felt the need to let you guys know a few things...
Many of you have asked how I'm doing today, and I'm happy to report that, all things considered, I'm doing pretty damn good. I began work back at The Exes 2 days out of the hospital, which was challenging the first few weeks, but I think (hope) I've delivered. The scripts just get better & better, so even if I feel yucky, I damn well am gonna turn it ON for the cameras. It's my favorite non-theater job I've ever had, and I honestly think it's every bit as well-written and special as 3rd Rock was. The best part is, I've lived through enough to fully appreciate it... I'm well aware that, as a 46 year old non-facelifted woman, a great role in a brilliant show with people you adore doesn't come by every day. (Or pretty much ever.)
So, I'm healing well. I have a huge motherfucking scar on my left arm, which has been kind of amusing. I've found that when people stare at it in a store all I gotta say are these two words: "Bar fight" and they immediately scurry. Evil, I know, but I have to amuse myself somehow.
Oh, alright...since you asked so nicely...here it is. (I'm holding a gorgeous crystal butterfly my spectacular friend Steph gave me last week after the taping of the show. Oh, and yes, I'm totally fucking crying, it was one of the loveliest gifts I've ever gotten.)
PRETTY, right? The butterfly, of course. My arm, not so much.
I shared the blog with Dr. Eng, who has decided not only to work on a narcotic reduction program at the Hospital, but also just reported to me that they have recently doubled the number of fellows training to do nerve blocks.
(He was also very flattered, as he damn well should be.)
Many of you have written how strong I am to have made it through all this, and without relapsing. However, I beg to differ. As anyone faced with medical challenges will tell you- you simply do what you fucking have to.
In terms of not relapsing? I believe it has everything to do with the length of time I've spent in recovery, combined with the fact that everyone in my life and at the hospital were well aware that my sobriety matters more to me than almost anything else.
I literally couldn't bear the thought of disappointing my family, my friends, my co-workers, all of you guys, but especially myself.
It's not strength. I'm simply a woman who, despite having a shitty year health-wise, loves her life. Since I'm no longer self-medicating my depression and I'm simply no longer interested in being "Other," Opiates hold no appeal for me.
FOR NOW. I'm WELL aware that could change tomorrow, but that's where it stands at the moment.
A few of you were disappointed that I didn't give the finger from my hospital bed. Silly people...did you really think I wouldn't?
FINALLY....
I know this isn't some goddamn award show, and I encourage you to read only if on the tiolet or bored. (Or both.)
I just really wanted to say a public thank you to every single person involved with the Exes, from TVLand, to the compassionate crew (led by the amazing Rusty), to the truly generous and patient cast...what an extraordinary group you are. I love you all.
But a few deserve some special props:
Mindy Shultheis, one of the executive producers of The Exes. She was astonishing, tirelessly calling the finest specialists in Los Angeles, even coming with me to several appointments. She basically "produced" my diagnosis. But I'm most grateful to her because when I was truly at my Lupus bottom, she convinced me to see one last Doctor, Dr. Daniel Wallace. They both saved my life.
Mark Reisman and all the writers of The Exes. These geniuses, led by the head writer & show's creator, Mark, did the impossible. Their lead actress got ill two weeks before production started, and they had to basically scrap an entire season's worth of storylines and write around my illness. They never knew, from one week to the next, if I'd be well enough to shoot or not. NOT ONCE did they blame me, or make me feel bad or guilty. (Even though I managed to do that to myself.) I'm dazzled at the incredible comedy they managed to come up with on the fly.
Sheryl and Paula, the two extraordinary souls from The Exes wardrobe department. Sheryl had to dress me lying down more than once, and put up with lots of weeping and feeling sorry for myself. Paula's small acts of kindness stun me. (The other day, she knew I was having a rough day, so she placed a white rose in a water bottle in my car.) Shit like that. Plus Paula might actually love Pinky more than I do, and lets Pinky fart up her office while I'm rehearsing.
Holly Atkins, an actress & makeup artist who moonlights as my assistant. She went above & beyond the call of duty for me, and has done so many lovely things for me I tear up just thinking about it. One example? She and her boyfriend sat for HOURS with me in the ER. She's someone who forever has my respect & friendship & gratitude.
Last, but far from least, I need to try to put into words what my dear friend and housemate David Dieguez did for me. We thought it would be "fun" to live together in LA... little did he know what he was in for. Month after month, he has been there as a very independant woman suddenly became completely dependent. He did thousands of things for me, bringing me water, taking care of Pinky, cooking me food, all without complaint or even a secret eye-roll. He's also the one who came to the hospital and told me I needed to stop trying to save everyone else, start reflecting that goodness back into myself for a while.
I've never met a better person in my life, and I honestly don't know how I could have survived this year without his friendship.
The fact that he also does BRILLIANT hair is just icing on the cake. Want proof?
Thank you all. I love you.
KJo