Not again.

Me: on morphine and fentanyl which was WOWEE

So. Yeah. Yikes. Hi Everyone. Al here—providing a brief blow-by-blow health update in the latest chapter of ‘Adventures of Al’s Not-Colon.’

It's been a while since a health update was necessary (blessedly), but I'm writing to you from my hotel room here at the Marriott Lincolnshire with the white-hot clarity that can only come from... a liquid diet.

In brief: I'm fine-not-fine. 

I'll be fine. 

And right now I am (physically) stable, and we're on the road to "figuring it out."

WTF happened:

 

This weekend I had an experience onstage during the Saturday matinee of The Music Man. After an "uncomfortable" but not unmanageable first act, I experienced absolutely blinding, lightning-fast 10/10 pain in my viscera during Act 2, and could not continue with the performance. This has never happened to me in my career. Even in the early days of colitis. It was emotionally obliterating. 

 

Backstage, roiling in on the floor backstage, I ripped the pins out of my wig, the microphones off my head while Janet called Alec (at the airport on his way to Sacramento— whom I gently had to ask "please stop speaking to me in ALL CAPS") and then my poor mom, as an ambulance arrived and carted me away. Everyone was incredible: stage managers, company managers, the ushers (!), upper management, the Marriott staff, the cast. 

 

 

Oh the drama.

 

I am generally fairly un-embarass-able. Perhaps it's a symptom of 11 years of ulcerative colitis. You face it all and then some when it comes to the challenging of one's dignity. But the sinking feeling of despair  was almost as blinding as the gut pain. 

 

One of the many reasons I had the J-pouch surgery was to avoid this exact scenario: of being compromised because of my health not just in public, but on stage, observed by thousands and unable to continue with the show. It was in many ways, my worst case scenario, manifested. Even though I know I'm tough as nails, and nothing about this is "weak," those voices reign supreme when I make self assessments in moments of adversity. My favorite question to ask Mom and Alec throughout the surgical journey was "Am I a weenie?" To be clear: I would never be this cruel to anyone else. Of course.

The cast and crew were so respectful as they returned to their dressing rooms and waited. No one flooded me trying to over-help; no one "looky-loo-ed." When I came-to in the emergency room and returned to my phone I awoke to a flood of well wishes and a gigantic bouquet of flowers "from everyone in River City."

 

Proof positive: there's no people like show people.

Of particular note, and a memory I won't soon forget is that of our very stoic, very excellent, not-actually-grouchy, grouchy nerd with a heart of gold, our main sound engineer John. John is a character whom I would never have expected to be so intensely THERE for a work colleague who is essentially a stranger— pushed me in the wheelchair to the main entrance. He kept audience members from poking me on the way out. He held my hand while I writhed and wept, and he reassured me with a level of profound intensity, he made me believe I would overcome every element of this. It was breathtaking.  

 

Thank you, John. I'll never forget this shared moment that felt like a poem.

 

John reminded me of a wonderful male nurse I met once after colonoscopy number infinity somewhere in the 20-teens. This nurse (coincidentally, also named John) could tell I was weary, strung out, and absolutely out of hope. He held my hand as I quietly cried on the table, and was still gripping it firmly as I awoke from the anesthesia in the recovery area.

That little gesture. It meant everything. 

 

 

Back in Chicago: I was hospitalized. Given incredible drugs. Tested within an inch of my sanity. The Emergency Room team was not a specialist team and they weren't able to help me figure out what had happened. Blessedly, a gastroenterologist happened to be on call that night! He had heard of the J-pouch surgery! It was a start.

 

 

I have no idea what is wrong with me, I'll update you when I do. But I have both a physical and psychic sense that it is... not good.