The Talkback: Part 1

Me V. Outraged Guy

Just left a horrendous talk-back held after the show Off Broadway down at Classic Stage working on The Merchant of Venice.  I wanted to take this opportunity to comment on a few of the subjects that came up in this particularly activating evening. 

 

1. Etiquette

There is a proper and improper way to engage with artists, (and I propose that audiences and theatre producers would be wise to hear our experiences.)

 

2. Be Responsible for Yourself

We must take responsibility for the energy we bring into any room, conversation and/or encounter. 

3. Sometimes Things Get Tough

The Merchant of Venice is a complicated play that brings up a tsunami of unprocessed emotions for many, (particularly when the political landscape exacerbates them.)

 

 

So before I dig in, here are a few PSAs to say off the bat: 

This has been an already difficult week/month/year at work, and this blog has never been a place where I drag, name and shame, or gossip, so I won't start now. Suffice it to say: it was. I'm learning a lot. I'm grateful for the lessons.

 

The Merchant of Venice is a very confrontational piece of theatre that brings up a lot of feelings for people, regardless of the production. 

The theatre-going audience must know that there is a proper and improper way to engage with artists, and producers and even managers need to know that those rules must be communicated clearly by them when they allow audiences to engage with artists. 

We do not allow audiences to enter the orchestra and start playing the priceless instruments.
We don’t allow them to walk around or climb on the sets.
Audiences do not try on costumes, or mess with the sound or lighting boards. 

And yet, over and over again they are permitted and even encouraged to assume authority over the actors and their art. The more we allow these mores to persist, the more respect and courtesy will break down on both sides of the footlights.

 

These observations are ones I have collected over nearly 20 years in show business; they are not exclusive to MoV, though this was a particularly repugnant example of a talk-back gone awry for reasons I am happy to articulate, many of which are entirely universal:

 

1. This talk-back—for the creatives—is voluntary and unpaid. 

If you ever attend a talk back post show, no matter your opinion of the work or the piece, keep in mind that actors and creatives giving of their time after work is "extra," and you are not "owed" anything beyond the show you just witnessed. 

 

2. Respect the labor. 

Actors (in particular) have just done something incredibly vulnerable — we've bared our souls to the public in the name of art and social reflection, and one would be wise to take care with how you address and comment upon every aspect of the work. Creatives are human beings with intelligence, life experience and feelings. 

3. Focus on questions. 

That means phrases between 1-3 sentences that ALWAYS end with a question mark. A talk-back is not the time to give the actors or creatives a review, unburden your personal history, pain, or outrage. A talk-back, is, at its core, a Question and Answer session. It is not an opportunity for you to unload or unleash your unprocessed thoughts and emotions. In the age of social media where everyone's opinion (however unqualified or biased) is given similar credence, sometimes we can falsely assume that our sharing our opinions and reviews are legitimate and welcome. Questions, always welcome. Within reason, bring me to...

 

4. Actors and Creatives may decline to answer. 

Actors and creatives always have a right to decline to answer questions or comments that make them uncomfortable or are inappropriate. That includes questions or comments about their personal lives, as well as questions regarding defense of their roles or the production. Actors are only a PART of a production.  Further, actors and creatives take jobs for many reasons, and can't always "speak to" let alone "defend" every aspect of a production — not that that is owed to you anyway. 

 

If you ask a question in a respectful way, it is acceptable to ask a director to offer their ideas/visions for the production, but please decline to review it or offer your opinion unless expressly engaged to do so. 

 

5. Be mindful of the space you occupy and share "airtime" with everyone. 

If you MUST offer a comment, keep it extremely brief, and be mindful that the people on stage owe you no explanations and are human beings with intelligence, life experience and feelings. 

 

6. There should always be an experienced moderator  

An experienced moderator should always be present to set ground rules and keep the conversation respectful, safe, and engaging for all. In an ideal scenario this should be a trained interviewer with journalistic training, preferably with expertise in the arts or the subject the piece of theatre addresses. A producer serving as moderator, or a person with experience in the topic, but not experienced managing Q&As, is not an acceptable or safe situation to put your Actors or Creatives in. Without a professional managing this process, it can be dangerous. The role of a professional moderator is akin to an intimacy coordinator’s. There must be professional representation when intimate contact is required.

*

No F*cks!

Pardon my verbosity about something possibly “silly” to the outside world.

But indulge me for a sec. LOOK. Here I am:

- a woman
- [semi] alive in the 21st century
- with a disordered eating and body-dysmorphia history
- covered in scars from 4 life-saving bowel surgeries
- and FORTY-ONE FREAKING years old
- in a BIKINI
- on STAGE
- in NYC
- doing simulated S&M
- with a man 1000% hotter than me. 

with José Espinosa, photo by @antonovpavlun

Even 5 years ago me would be in total shock, and probably require a defibrillator.

No one might assume this of me ("body issues") but— ya know, we all have our histories. My body is one I’ve hated, tried to save, tried to love, and in the end? It is the only vehicle I shall ever have to experience this life. I'm proud that I said "yes" to wearing/doing this with very little internal or external drama (a shoulder shrug and a “sure!”) and no desire to hide the surgical scars or meaningfully cover the “flaws.”

All to say — I might be making a massive fool of myself strutting around onstage in a hot pink bikini — but internally? It’s genuinely a big victory cultivated over years of internal work.

Life’s a journey, kids.
Well, actually it is many— and one of my journeys has been of personal acceptance, surrender, recovering-perfectionism and general self-worth stuff in regard to my internal self and physical form. And I’m sharing this sappy stuff with you because if that is a journey you are on, as well? You’re not alone and there is hope. I never thought [gestures above] all this would be possible and … it is.

So. One day you too might make a fool of yourself in public in a 'proverbial bikini' but know that it is also a huge victory for you.

Life is precious and short and worthy of celebration and laughter. 

So put on whatever "the  bikini" is for you and thrive, pals.

 here I am saying "Yes way, José!"

Race you

@James.T.Murray

Back to 'I Wish' after a year away! 

 

There were postponements, and too-many-jobs, and travels, and health battles won for two of our team! And in the end? What a joy to gather together once more and celebrate at 54 Below. I feel so especially grateful to gather together in health and wellness in the presence of Drew Wutke post-liver-transplant-miracle-man, and post-4th-bowel-surgery me. We are here!

 

This was our 10th I Wish (since the first one in 2018), and I struggled a little with what to sing. So many of my "wish" moments have been realized—in true productions, or within this glorious series. I had to think outside-the-box. And that often requires me to dig a little deeper...

*

 

In truth, what's been on my mind lately has been personal (and I hate that it currently feels political as well...). 

I don't discuss it here. 

At least I never have. 

The subject feels like a phantom, a shadow of sorrow too tender to give credence to. 

Giving it shape in words feels dangerous, unwieldy; too fully formed for a phantom. 

Best let it haunt me.

I've left it not unexplored, but certainly un-uttered. 

 

And what is this? Well. It is the fact that I will possibly never raise children, and certainly not give birth to them, biologically. 

It's been on my mind since roughly 2015, when I was first diagnosed with UC. At the time I was just 32, chronically-sick-as-a-dog with no solutions in sight, not dating anyone seriously, and honestly I was so preoccupied with every kind of surviving that I honestly hadn't even thought about kids. I was never one of those women that had always dreamed of pregnancy or of parenting; I presumed the thoughts and sensations would present themselves organically...  

 

Then one day, after a few failed attempted medical solutions, I was presented with an option: a very intense drug that worked for many people in helping quell ulcerative colitis. It worked for many, but was essentially chemotherapy in pill form. It could be magic bullet. It works for thousands of people, they said. But: it would forever compromise my fertility. I needed to give it some thought.

 

I did. My thoughts were that my options were slim and growing slimmer. 

I did my due diligence and explored every corner of why people have children, what pregnancy meant or didn't mean to me, what mothering, parenting, legacy, biology... In the modern day, we truly have children for so many reasons. I figured none of these thoughts were going to do me or a child any good if I wasn't here, or well enough to care for either of us. 

I went for it. 

And in the end? The drug did not work for me. 

. . .

 

I'm not usually lost for words, but the sense of loss was palpable. 

 

Yet, this was one of the countless things I didn't (couldn't?) manage to cry tears about. Something about it felt self-indulgent. I went about with the regular unhinged programming of shoving it ever-downward in to my already sabotaged viscera! Keeping medical secrets from a Broadway company and presenting myself as Healthy Al. Nothing to see here. I haven't eaten solids or slept in weeks, I am on more steroids than a Soviet dead lifter, but everything is fine. I gave no further meaningful thought that year to the children I'd never have—Who had the time? After all, they were a figment, a not-to-be-hoped-for addition. And I was focusing on the "lucky-to-be-alive" part. At the time I had no partner to raise them with (something I insisted upon, when my imaginative musings drifted toward parenting), a chaotic schedule as an actor, with a volatile income, distant family infrastructure geographically far away. None of it seemed reasonable. Possible. Or above all: like something I was even "allowed to want."

 

By 2021 my surgery further solidified the story of a life without biological children. The scar tissue from the surgery would settle around my reproductive organs, and would mean IVF was the only option for pregnancy with anyone's eggs.  

 

My surgeon was compassionate. 

All his fellow associates and nurses too. 

I signed 100 consent forms. 

They checked and asked me over and over again—including moments just before the surgery itself—if I was "sure." 

And when I said I was, my wonderful, taciturn-but-compassionate surgeon took a vulnerable leap and in a near-whisper, reminded me of a personal truth: that I had grown up with a sick parent. 

He was right. 

He reminded me that not merely my father's death, but my father's illness had been a source of tremendous pain. He wanted me to know that, for the record: he felt the choice I was making right now—to get well—set me up to be the best person I could for everyone I currently served in my life. And that was also true for anyone I welcome in to my family, in any manner, going forward. 

 

I knew he was right.

 

 

Still. I went from an "I Don't Know If I Want" to a "Can't Have," within hours. The sense of grief has been unutterable. What began as a vibration became a whisper which became a roar, and over time it has only grown louder. So many of my close friends elected to have children and I delight in their happiness and expansion as human beings. But yes, it aches.

Over the years the feelings have evolved. I met Alec—younger than I and likely not even courting the concept of children when we started dating. The greatest tragedy feels like robbing him of being a father, biologically so, without a lot of say in the matter. But we both understood what we were walking in to as we continued to commit to one another.  

Then JD V*ance started going on and on (and on) about "childless cat ladies." About "biological responsibility" and the selfishness of a woman who does not physically bear her own children for the generations to come. Again, there just weren't words to describe the experience of hearing that from an elected official, after everything. 

I don't know that I'll ever have the words.

 

*

So with all this at the top of my mind in recent days, I turn to the best discussion of grief, parents and children and healing I know: The Secret Garden.

  

The story is about a family ravaged by illness and grief, that discover the ultimate healing exists within nature—all symbolized by a near-dead garden returning to life. 

It’s also a story about parents and children…
 

In this song, Archibald Craven— unable to parent his son Colin because of the enormity of his grief, visits him as he sleeps and tells him an ongoing, bedtime fairy-story.
 

I know a lot about the themes of this story. (I once wrote about them, here)  In so many ways I identify with the children— growing up with parents, lost— to death and to grief.  But as I age I come to see myself in the adults too. And as so many parents are quick to remind me— I am not a parent. Yes, believe it or not, I am keenly aware that I don’t have first hand experience with raising children because I don’t have any of my own.

 

But sometimes? 

Dear Gd. 

How 'I wish,' I did. 

 

Farewell to Our Class

There aren’t words for what this role, play, group of creatives, and telling a story like this at this moment in history has meant to me as an actor, a Jewish woman and a human being. 

As an actor, I don't know that there has ever been a greater ask of me: the challenge and privilege to play a single human being from the age of 5 to the age of 83 across the spectrum of her entire (incomprehensible) lifetime. I love "little Rachelka" as much as I love "old Marianna," and I marvel at the twists, turns, glories, broken dreams, acts of unimaginable violence, and spine-breaking moral quandaries this one woman faced from 1919 to 2002. 

It was an honor to portray so complex a woman. It was a great exercise in the role of an actor to not judge their character, but to breathe life into them, animate their body, give voice to their words, and very simply: to portray them. 

Rachelka/Marianna taught be so much about the arrogance of a 21st-century American sensibility: who are any of us to judge human beings in circumstances we will likely never experience? Who are we to be arrogant enough to presume we would know what is "best?" Or what we believe we would do if presented with identical circumstances? The truth is: no one knows what they would choose, or who they might be when squeezed beyond our imaginations. 

 *

We live in a time when the hate many people hold within themselves has been given "permission" to be released into the world without consequence. I never felt particularly like a "Jewish actor' before the last 8 years— perhaps I identified more as "an actor who happened to be Jewish." I'm not certain. 

But what I do know, is that as hatred perpetuates, so does the muscularity of my Jewish pride, onstage and off; and an extension of that is the calling to do plays that speak to these themes. To have audiences know these people I portray— and those they represent. 

It is a Jewish belief that souls are with us as long as they are remembered; specifically remembered by name (one of the many reasons we name our children after the departed, and why we speak the names of the departed aloud so often). Audiences might not know Rachelka and those like her without plays like Our Class and actors like myself to bring them to life. 

It feels like a very real mitzvah to tell these stories.

 

 

 

I think with difficult material there is a tendency to indicate to the audience that you must watch with great seriousness. But that actually [prevents you from] entering into the space with the same open heart that we hopefully walk through life with. What Igor captures so beautifully is that difficult things happen alongside joy. Through all the seriousness, there's love and humor and ribbing each other. If we don't laugh and love, we're not honoring the people in these stories.                                                                                                                                                                                                       I don't think Americans fully grasp that everywhere else on Earth, Judaism is not merely a religion. It is also an enth-religion, a culture, and in many parts of the world, it is related to blood: to racial identity, for better and for worse. I'm a "successful" American assimilation story on some levels. My ancestors were able to shed all of the accouterments of their visible Jewishness and become Americans. 

Perhaps that robbed me of countless Shabbats and Hanukkahs and prayers. But through my theatrical life, I can reclaim sacred traditions. There's something about the theatre that shares ritualistic sanctity with, in my experience, Jewish traditions. Why is this night different from all other nights? Because tonight we're doing the play. Rituals say that this moment is distinct and sacred from the moment that comes before and the moment that comes after. And what is theatre if not that?

 

Plays about the past can make us very complacent as theatre-makers and as audiences. But this isn't a play about the past at all. This is who we are. 

 

The second act of Our Class could almost be subtitled, "How they lived with what they did." Some of them didn't do very well—even though they survived, they were not fully alive. 

 

One other thing that I've been thinking about a lot is how, for a lot of the late 20th century and early 21st century, art started to exclusively focus on victim stories. Not that that isn't important. But by failing to focus on the perpetrators, we fail to be exposed to how we might be like them. Both these plays focus on the humanity and inhumanity of people just like us who behave in monstrous ways. It's art's purpose to show us these corners of humanity. 

 

 

I think it's incredibly important, especially now, to see that in "them" there's a whole lot of "us." 

 

 

For now, all that’s left is chalk dust, memories, and gratitude.  

 

 

Call Me Adam: Merchant of Venice

1. I can't believe it's been six years since our last interview together! At that time, you were starring in Camelot in Washington DC. How would you say you have changed the most since that time?

 It’s almost unutterable how much I have personally changed and how much the world has too.

I have had a major organ removed and reconstructed. It saved my life.
I fell in love and got married.
I turned 40

There was a worldwide Pandemic. And the world is even more inside out and upside down. 

2. This fall you are starring in an updated William Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice at Classic Stage Company. What made you want to sign on for this re-telling of The Merchant of Venice?

It is a dream-like opportunity to portray one of Shakespeare’s great leading roles in New York City—a dream I have had since childhood. To be a Jewish actor (born into a Catholic-Jewish largely secular family) in this particular moment in world history, telling a story that involves Jew hated, feels like another sensitive, challenging and important task.

It’s a thrill to ask hard questions in the room, to know we might never find answers, and to be a vessel for complex dualities onstage and off. 

3. Why do you feel audiences should come see this modern version?

We live in a world of knee jerk reactions, polarized camps and a culture that feels obedient to loudly chanting the “right” ideas for fear of estrangement from our communities, rather than arriving at points of view on our own — of much more nuanced.

I think The Merchant of Venice is a play that people have a knee jerk reaction about — assuming it cannot be done (and thus cannot be viewed) without a moral indictment of those both creating the production AND viewing it.

I welcome modern audiences to walk in ready to be confronted with very hard questions and thoughts and ideas— but leave room within themselves for growth and awe and surprise. Igor/our take on this piece is bold and yes, confrontational— but not in the ways you might assume. I welcome you to join us and be surprised. Have your expectations and your assumptions exploded. I won’t say more than that because of spoilers!

4. In the show, you are playing Portia. What do you relate to most about her?

Her loneliness and isolation.
I’d like to think we share a fierce intellect and large capacity for love. 

5. What is one quality of hers you are glad you yourself don't possess?

Even though your previous question asked about complimentary shared (pardon the expression) *qualities* It would be arrogant of me to assume that I — or anyone— don’t share all of Portia’s less favorable qualities as well. We contain multitudes.  

And I’ll admit that while i do not love, and endeavor daily to overcome, them , I possess such negative personal attributes such as

• self-obsession
• self righteousness
• Snobbery
• Manipulation
• Conscious and unconscious bias + “isms”
• Selective memory
• Elitism and classism

The list goes on.

Don’t you …posses those too?
In some level, Don’t we all? 

Knowing something is bad or wrong doesn’t eradicate it from our psyche — it gives us an opportunity to overcome it and behave differently despite ourselves. To offer ourselves and others grace and dare I say it? “Mercy.” 

6. In this re-telling, Superheroes and their archenemies battle it out to protect good in the face of evil. Considering the tumultuous times we are living in, how do you protect the good of the world with so much evil lurking at every corner?

I strive to do what I can in the ways that feel natural and accessible to me. I have always been on the quieter, slower and more thoughtful side of political, philosophical and ethical thought—preferring long and deep conversations to protests or more traditional advocacy. That is where I think I thrive, and where my gift for humanizing the “other,” for empathy, asking deep questions, the power of story and story telling, can be a light in the face of darkness.

I don’t always succeed. Many days I flail and fail. Some days I hang out at my rock bottom. But I endeavor. 

7. In our 2011 interview, you had mentioned that one day you hope to work with Director Matthew Warchus, act or sing opposite Audra McDonald, and be in the presence of John Adams. Have any of these come to fruition?

None. But I have new dreams now. 

8. What is the best advice you've given, but not taken for yourself?

“Don’t wash wool.”

9. What is something that you and your best friend like to do together?

Send texts and voicemails that begin the middle of an ever-on-going conversation. 

10. When you watch an episode of "The Golden Girls," the ladies would always solve their problems over cheesecake. If we were to sit down to Cheesecake:

* What problem of your own would you want to solve?
* What kind of cheesecake would we solve this problem over?

Ohhhh nothing huge just:
What in the heck shall I do with the time that has been returned to me post surgery, and that I blessedly have left on this earth?

Blueberry. 

11. What didn't we get to talk about in this interview that you'd like my audience to know about you?

I’m an introvert. 

 

All hail "Gang Cult"

Were we a "gang?" 

Were we a "cult?" 

Who knows? And who cares? 

We weren't sure, so we called ourselves "Gang Cult" and that was that. 

 

I couldn't have gotten through the last few months without these boys, and our "Annie Zuks--" wardrobe woman extraordinaire, always staying til 1am, doing our laundry and mostly getting chalk out of ... everything. 

 

We met almost every night post show. 

We greeted our friends in the lobby or outside, then we'd sauntered back within-- rip the curtain that divided the men's from the women's dressing rooms and in the still-small space, we'd turn the chairs toward one another and settle back in to relax for an hour before heading home. 

 

You would think we had spent enough time in that theatre (as in: all day, especially once we were doing double duty with Merchant of Venice). 

But it didn't feel excessive. 

It felt therapeutic. 

Necessary. 

Real. 

True.

 

 

 

We laughed. 

God how we laughed. 

We drank wine and bourbon. 

We solved the world's problems. 

We heard one another's. 

 

Stephen ate salads. 

Will ate nuggets. 

I ate nothing. 

Our hearts broke and broke open. 

We welcomed special guests (for truly all were welcome!)

And we carved into eternity, memories and bonds that only theatre can create. 

This is the why. 

The "why" of "why we do this" when almost everything else makes us forget. 

It's the people.

The friends. 

 

So thank you, friends. 

Gang Cult: over and out. 

Farewell, Ilia

Ilia. 

My Władek. 

I will miss you with my entire soul.  

 

What we built, created and shaped every day together as Marianna and Władek will stand out as the most unique partnership and subsequent creation of my career. It stands out like a rare, glimmering, inexplicably-created star.
 
Oh Ilia, we searched the entire world for you, and your preciousness was evident within seconds. (I’ll never forget after reading with you over Zoom, feeling that spark across the screen, then immediately calling our director Igor Golyak right away and saying “Can we keep him?!”)

I’m proud of you for prioritizing your health, and endeavor to share the exact same values. For without our health, we cannot hope to play another day.

But your absence leaves an Ilia-shaped hole in my, Marianna’s, and our entire class’s hearts, and while I will miss you with my entire being, your contributions, creation, character, and influence will be a part of this creation, and my heart, for eternity.

Forever waltzing with you,
Your Rachelka,
Al

X

All photographs: ©Jeremy Daniel

"Hallelujah"

© Michael Kushner

The great arti-vist Lauren Molina asked me to be a part of this incredible evening celebrating Equal Rights (with an all female band!) at 54 Below months ago. It’s always an honor to contribute my voice to the chorus crying out for peace, equity and freedom.

The world is in crisis, and I think about it privately far more than I discuss in internet spaces— partially because these spaces can be didactic and unforgiving of nuance, but equally because … there is sometimes simply nothing to BE said. 

I don’t exclusively adhere to the belief that silence ALWAYS equals violence. Sometimes silence is golden— because in that silence we can deeply listen and hear one another, our inner voices, and sometimes even the Divine.  

*

I’ve been so deeply "in the wilderness" recovering from surgery #4, that I'd put it entirely out of my mind that I'd (joyfully!) agreed to participate in the Equal Rights concert at 54 Below. Something that’s usually medium-fun (and can be medium-stressful).

I got there and …. Absolutely out of nowhere, I felt like something whispered to me

          “You must sing Leonard Cohen’s 'Hallelujah.'”

I’ve never sung it before. I didn’t really know the words. But a force was saying “do this.”

One of music’s greatest poets— the peerless prophet Leonard Cohen penned this in [my birth year] 1983, and “Hallelujah” has been lullaby, prayer and battle cry ever since, in countless voices. And although I joined this genius group of women to uplift my voice for the entire world, for me personally, this was a “cold a broken Hallelujah.” 

I’m emerging from another health miracle, experienced within a season of solitude— I am “a baffled King;” I am “beauty and moonlight” —all all all. I crawled to 54 below, not knowing what would emerge “from my lips” and what’s left of my guts… and surrounded by friends and strangers I was just: transported. It was like Gd (one I don’t always adhere to or believe in, the way we’re conventionally “supposed” to?) but — That Divine Force was with me. For sometimes songs are prayers indeed — and I felt a force move within me that whispered:

“Hey kid. You made it. Now sing. Now LIVE.”
 

Hallelujah.

“This world is full of conflicts and full of things that cannot be reconciled, but there are moments when we can transcend the dualistic system and reconcile and embrace the whole mess, and that’s what I mean by ‘Hallelujah. That regardless of what the impossibility of the situation is, there is a moment when you open your mouth and you throw open your arms and you embrace the thing and you just say, ‘Hallelujah!... The only moment that you can live here comfortably in these absolutely irreconcilable conflicts is in this moment when you embrace it all and you say, ‘Look, I don’t understand a thing at all—
Hallelujah!’ That’s the only moment that we live here fully as human beings.”

- Leonard Cohen

The Final Update on my Non-Colon

So. Hi Everyone.

Al here—providing [what I hope is] the last blow-by-blow health update in the latest chapter of ‘Adventures of Al’s Not-Colon.’

As previously mentioned, in May I had an experience onstage during a performance of The Music Man where I experienced blinding, lightning-fast 10/10 pain in my viscera, and was carted off-stage mid-show and hospitalized. 

 

A few weeks of tests in the Chicago area commenced, liquid diet, pain management, and I was delighted once again as I navigated the labyrinthine rigamarole of the American-healthcare system, as I was required to re-integrate myself back in to the Mount Sinai hospital system after 3 years of stability. 

 

What was wrong? I had 2 complex twists in my small intestine that leads in to the J-pouch, creating an obstruction and preventing me from being able to properly digest and pass food. The plan was to untwist me, and "tack me down" to prevent further twisting. And and and also? SURPRIIISE: once they got inside they discovered I also had a hernia! What can I say? I was always an over-achiever.

Last week—three months later—I was finally able to get the corrective "tune up" surgery I'd been waiting for since May, and wahoo: angels sang. If you have been through the joy that is the American healthcare obstacle course, you know how sweet the moment is when you finally get the treatment you need! I was home the same day and healing began. Slowly.

How it went/how it's going: Physically: 

 

The gist: healing at home was slow and FAR more painful than I anticipated. 

 

- Digestive: Amazing. I feel REBORN. It feels incredible to have the digestive system working again, drama-free. And I have returned to solid foods— which was incredible having been predominantly eating liquids since May. 

- Pain (internal): Going great. It started to ebb at day 3. 

- Pain (incisions): The major pain was the incisions themselves which were *eye-watering* in their pain level. The meds did not even make a dent in to the chandelier-ing I experienced whenever I vaguely moved, coughed, sneezed or made direct eye contact with any living creature. No exaggeration: these first 8 days post-op were beyond anything I had experienced in the first three surgeries (and, as a ridiculous statistic a proctocolectomy [removal of the large intestine, etc— ie, my first surgery] is considered to be the 4th most painful surgery to recover from — which is? WILD. 

How I am: Mentally 

 

I won’t lie to you friends, I am struggling.

 

I have felt wave after wave of physical traumatic-memory flood my body and psyche constantly in the last few weeks— sensations I had long anticipated putting to bed for good. While I was working my ass off between appointments to pay for all of this, the experience of going through some of these old “motions” (places, sensations, people, smells, sounds, literal pains) has not been breezy, and oftentimes has been outright (a word we overuse in pop psychology but I am told by professionals is apt here) triggering. 

One of the more frustrating elements of this has been the medical rigamarole of begging the system for help, waiting. Not getting to who I need to get to without doing a complex dance of charm-offensive, bureaucratic paperwork and sparring but judicious use of the "speak to the manager" voice (my least favorite voice of all). 

 

 Begging and waiting for insurance to cover things. And of course: not knowing exactly what was actually wrong, etc etc. 

- The greatest doctors I saw approached me with the respect and seriousness that comes with being the best in the world (thank you, Sergei Khaitov). 

- Some doctors met me with a “breeziness” that perhaps seduced me in to thinking this recent blockage experience is “no big deal” and something that could be handled relatively swiftly and without major interruption.  

- And then there were the doctors who outright convinced me I was “stressed” and that this was “in my head” and essentially: calling me hysterical without calling me hysterical. (It really is AMAZING being a woman... inside a healthcare system…)

It was… confusing. 

Further, so much of this was also experienced physically-without Alec— because our various jobs have taken us to different parts of the world since March. That has been extra hard. 

All of it led to me— (some of it not to be helped, some of it the power of denial)—  not really mentally grasping the scale and magnitude of what was going on inside me, partially because, I don’t think I wanted it to be true. In general I’m kind of a “slap-a-bandaid-on-and-get-on-with-it” kinda person. Not only do I not want to make a big deal, I don’t WANT it to be a big deal. I also don’t want anyone to think I AM A GIANT WEENIE. I don’t want to bore you all. I don’t want to talk about this anymore! Plus, I want to be "tough." I want to be "strong.” But sometimes toughness and strength are in surrender… Sigh. I am learning… 

I am heartbroken to have not been as present as I have wanted to be for my friends and family—missing milestones, big events; big shows, being with your children; not having the bandwidth for conversations and get-togethers that sustain meaningful connections, and sometimes forgetting or missing out on things that DO matter to me very much, simply because I am “doing colitis.” I think this is this colitis' greatest theft.

To illustrate how caught off guard I was by all of it I’ll describe the “aha" moment from the day of surgery last week. Moments before I went in to the actual surgical room, Dr. Khaitov's second-in-command surgeon Jackie (so nice, we go way back) closed her clipboard, took me by the hands, and said:

“Alexandra I want you to know we understand this is your fourth major bowel surgery in as many years, and we recognize that you’ve had a totally traumatizing surgical history.”

I stared at her. I vaguely blinkblinkblinked. Jackie continued:

"What you’ve been through is olympic, is cruel and unusual, and you’ve truly been SO great about it. But we’re going to do everything we can to make sure this is IT.” 

And then I just… began to sob. Because it was only then, only when this really nice surgeon was saying the actual words, giving me the permission about how I am allowed to VIEW this entire experience, that any of it actually registered with me. 

“…OH. Right,” my brain finally clicked. "This has been sort of...incredibly horrendous…and hard... and very very serious?” 

So I am taking a vulnerability leap here with my closest actual friends by sharing that I believe I am now experiencing  that “tabled” emotional reality in great big waves. I see it, I accept it, I apologize for not getting it sooner so that I could communicate it accurately to ALL OF YOU, and I vow to do and be and get, better. Healing is not linear, and these emotions must and will, be dealt with. It’s part of the healing. I once again ask for your grace as I navigate it. (You know. While also doing two unbelievably challenging plays. Because, art. But also because, healthcare.)

To every single one of you for your extensions of love, care, prayers, vibes, jokes, meditations. Thank you for the support, the gifts, the texts and voice memos and calls. The drives to appointments. The random FaceTimes. Thank you for being on my team. Thank you for allowing me to be any part of your lives. I have often said that being alive is worth fighting for— it is. But each of you, our connections and our stories and our love, is what that fought-for life is truly about. I am hungry to get back to it fully, ASAP. 

With all my heart (and none of the guts),

Al

Phoenix Rising

Thank you to the brilliant, visionary, cheeky, and utterly fabulous Dustin Dale Barlow for having fun with me dressed in my favo(u)rite celebratory colo(u)r in the heart of New York’s Chinatown. 

He’s the real deal.
 
For an hour I felt like the very best of myself.

Rising like a phoenix from an artistically abundant, but privately quite challenging (but ultimately victorious) summer of health ups and downs. 

Oh friends. I realize I'm being a little cagey and secretive about my health right now. There is a huge energetic difference between things that are "secrets" and things that are "private." Secrets contain deception, shame, fears of being disconnected with. Private points to things that are personal, not embarrassing or shameful but belong to a select, intimate few. 

 

I have never wanted my experience with ulcerative colitis to be secretive and drenched in any kind of shame. But I often sit on new while I collect information-- and this particular era of my life there have been a lot of waiting, wondering, holding patterns and "no new developments."

 

So I just... got on with things. As I always do. 

 

I really wanted my surgical journey in 2021 to mean the end of me discussing illness ever again publicly OR privately— but c'est la vie. Life happens. 

We persevere. 

 

All to say: this 60 mins of artistry and playfulness and celebration was more than a treat or a “play date”— it was a victory. 

 

These glorious photos were was last Saturday

I was in surgery Wednesday. 

And I’m still rising — stronger than ever— on this Monday. 

On the other side of the latest chapter.

Onward.
Upward.
Ever-rising.
Inextinguishable.