My mendings itch. There is nothing to do.
I shall be good as new.
— Sylvia Plath, The Stones
So, this is what the other side looks like, eh? Right, then. Let’s do this.
First off, please allow me to wholeheartedly thank everyone who called, emailed, texted, sent cards, postcards, letters, zines, books, flowers, balloons, chocolates, gifts, and all manner of good cheer. You have been so incredible in your generosity of self and spirit that, frankly, it was overwhelming in the best possible way. Even now, just thinking about it, I get all weepy and happy and moved. To have so many cherished people wishing you well is quite a powerful thing, believe me, and I am absolutely convinced that it was what brought me through so swimmingly. So, again…from the bottom of my heart, thank you.
As for the tale itself, well, just to clear up any concerns out there and despite breaking all the writerly rules of maintaining suspense by doing so, I’ll give you the end before I give you the beginning:
I am well; less one ovary and completely cancer-free.
Did you catch that? Completely cancer-free.
Aside from joyously announcing the births of my three babies and shouting from the rooftops, “I’M IN LOVE WITH A CUTE JEW BOY!”, I have never written more meaningful nor delightful words in my life.
And speaking of the CJB, he was an absolute rock throughout — taking care of not only me, but the babies, the house, his work, all the wonderful well-wishers, and just bidness in general. Medically speaking, a girl could not hope for a more savage advocate than Gregory. As they were taking me in to pre-op, the nurse suddenly stopped at the door and held her hand up to Gregory and told us to say our good-byes…just like that. Say goodbye here, dear, and then step inside and meet your doom. And so, after handing him my purse and my beloved Black-to-the-berry, I did. I kissed his sweet, sad Wonka face and was then led off shivering and alone.
Well, Gregory, of course, would have none of that. As they were prepping me in Surgeryland and I was meeting with my rockstar doctor and all the nurses who would be attending me, through the foggy fear all I kept hearing them talking about was my husband in the waiting room…the one who was repeatedly calling back there to say that he absolutely had to speak to the anesthesiologist before they could take me in. By the end of my time there, it had become a joke between all the wonderful Filipina nurses and I: Wow. Your husband is quite persistent, isn’t he? And I would answer, Yes, he is! But that is only because he promised and pinkie swore that he would inform the anesthesiologist about all my infernal fears before she puts me under! He is my white knight in a Brooks Brothers shirt! And then they would laugh and laugh. And when I informed them that I was a Filipina, too, they would say, No! But you are too light to be a Filipina!, and I would tell them that my grandfather was, in fact, born in Manila, and they would raise their eyebrows and smile hugely and hug me and hold me and kiss my hands and call all the other Filipinas over to do the same. I felt right at home among my warm, adobo-gobbling island pipples!
And so it went throughout. The entire time, even though I was terrified, all I could do was belly laugh. I belly laughed after they gave me a shot of demerol and started belting, a la Billie Holliday, for the entire surgery suite, It ain’t nobody’s bidness…if I do. I belly laughed after I called the anesthesiologist an “Unscrupulous Agent of Morpheus” just before she knocked my fatass out (she belly laughed, as well!) All in all, despite the fact that I was at times frightened beyond reason, belly laughing is most definitely what made it all bearable.
Afterwards, I regained consciousness and was moved to my room, where I spent my days eating bucketsfull of sugarless cherry jello and watching what seemed to be an endless parade of Jerry Springer and Maury Povich “Who’s My Baby Daddy?” shows — which, by the way, you just know I adored. With my background, I am always riveted and charmed by familial scandal that rivals my own!:
When they started pullin’ hair and kickin’ ass, it made me all teary-eyed and wistful for festive family holidays past. Oh, Yeah!:
Though Gregory stayed with me whenever he could and often conducted all his big boss applesauce vice presidential work from my cozy room, the flowers and treats and balloons cheered me in the long hours that I spent alone, with only Dorothy Parker and an ever-revolving cast of attentive nurses to drink my blood, take my temperature, and ask me, “Have you pooped yet?”:
This hilarious bouquet arrived from miss — and such a hit it was, that a delightfully truculent trio of visiting teenagers attempted to lift it from me while I was in the bathroom trying my goddamndest to leave nursie a little gift in the commode:
And then, I had the bright idea to start texting my friends! And I did! Though, due to the fact that much of the texting was far too racy and scandalous to be replicated here, you shall just get a representative picture of my Blackberry, with Robert Benchley wryly gracing my wallpaper. Swooon!:
Because it serves so much of the entertainment community — especially the Old School Faction — Cedars-Sinai has its very own in-house channel where it delivers up, around the clock, old comedy and variety shows and specials. I was in heaven! Red Skelton! Sammy Davis, Jr.! Uncle Miltie! Flip Wilson! Johnny Cash! Frank Sinatra! Carol Burnett!:
And because the gods were with me and surreptitiously scheduled an I Love Lucy marathon during my stay in hospital, I even got to watch Little Ricky being born! And Lucy stomping grapes and kicking ass! It was awesome! Though I definitely realized something after watching so much old television: As a culture, we have lost our ability to be genuine. Everything that amuses or entertains us must either be caustic or ironic. Watching all those shows made me see that there was a time in this country where we could just purely laugh for the sake of laughing. Those days are gone. So long!:
At one point, in all my channel clicking, I stumbled across an interview with one of my favorite poets and gods of all time, W.S. Merwin…and almost had to buzz the nurse to come jump start my heart! Swooooooon, once again!:
And as soon as I was able, I would shuffle over to the window to survey Beverly Hills down below and West Hollywood up above. As I stood there, I just kept thinking to myself, “Britney and her bald cooter and filthy feet are out there somewhere…staggering the streets with a Starbucks cup and Kitson bag in one hand and a miserable, stinking chihuahua in the other, no doubt. God, I love this city!”:
But for much of the time, I just gazed over at the amazing face of my sweet pig in his window perch, busy with caring and advocating for me…and keeping me coated with kisses and affection. Oh, and always feeling the intense Blackberry love while he did it!:
“Honey, did you know that the Dow is down 30 points and The Fed is threatening to cut the prime interest rate a FULL percent? Jesus, these bastards are fucking with my portfolio! MUST. CHECK. MARKET. TICKER.”
“Wait…fuck the Fed. Here’s a picture of Linda Fiorentino’s supple hooters on BigUns.com! Say, is that a stirring in my loins?”
“You gotta be fucking kidding me. The Mayo Clinic advises that sexual intercourse should be avoided for six full weeks after major pelvic surgery!?”
“Ah, but it goes on to add that there are several satisfying alternatives to intercourse that can be employed in the interim. What’s that you are always saying about you and the chrome on a trailer hitch, honey?”
That perch, by the way, is the same one that one of the marvelously gossipy Filipina nurses told me was precisely where Brad Pitt parked his rock-hard ass for several months late last year when his mother-in-law, the gentle and lovely Marcheline Bertrand, was being treated for ovarian cancer. She, in fact, died in the same bed that I called home.
Actually, the entire time I was ensconced there, I had ghosts on the brain, the ghosts of several of the vibrant, talented women who were taken by the same insidious disease that was threatening me: Joan Hackett. Sandy Dennis. Madeline Kahn. and Gilda.
Having just looked down the barrel at ovarian cancer in a very real way myself — and now, because of this incident, having to be en garde for it for the rest of my life — I realize how lucky I am to have been treated and cared for at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, in the world’s most famous and esteemed Gynecologic Oncology Department on the planet…home of The Gilda Radner Ovarian Cancer Detection Center, which was established after her death by her one true love, Gene Wilder. Not all the women treated for this disease get a happy ending like mine, and I intend to never forget my good fortune — nor the loving and ardent support of Gregory throughout the entire experience. I owe him my very life — in more ways than I shall ever be able to adequately communicate or repay. Suffice it to say, we are like peas and carrots to the very end, he and I. He is my one true love.
At any rate, after the slicing&dicing was complete, the nurses were amazed and delighted at how quickly I was up and around and how many laps I and my IV pole were able to take around their floor, while most of the others like me were still flat on their backs, writhing in agony. I simply explained to them I am carny trash and that we don’t take well to all that lying around nonsense. After all, there are grapes to pick, laundry to wring, midway rides to set-up and break down, fries to drop, cheating husbands to retrieve from gin joints, power shut-off notices to pay with hot checks, delinquent rent to skip out on in the middle of the night, and babies to squat out in the middle of the fields! Before I left, they had all signed a get well card and presented it to me — with the affectionate admonition to take advantage of the situation and lounge around for as long as I could. I let loose with one last belly laugh and parade waved at them all as I was wheeled down the hall and back out into the real world. Clownie don’t play that lying around horseshit. I’M BUTCH!!
And, so, on to what you have all been waiting for. Ladies and gentlemen…mesdames et messieurs…because you just know you wanna see it; I give you:
muffy bolding 
