Katie My Beautiful Friends

At the end of January I was watching a TV show called Katie my Beautiful Friends. Katie was a British model and absolutely gorgeous. She broke up with her boyfriend in 2008 and in revenge he got a friend to throw sulphuric acid in her face. She swallowed some which scarred her throat. To eat, she had to have her throat surgically opened every six weeks. The acid blinded her in her left eye and she had hundreds of surgeries to create a new face after hers melted off. Although it was difficult coming to grips with her new self, she went above and beyond, starting a charity for disfigured people. I felt humbled when I looked at her. Although I was fighting a disease, no one could see it. When they looked at me, I appeared normal. She couldn’t hide what she was going through. She had to endure every comment, every stare, every painful moment without a reprieve. Yet in-between hospital appointments she managed to touch the hearts of millions and help many through their own dark times. I hadn’t done anything since I got diagnosed but pretend I was fine. I hadn’t advanced any cause or helped anyone. I hadn’t even been brave. I was completely useless. After the show I stayed up until 1am and then I took two sleeping pills. I lay in bed and took the lift to Keanu’s apartment. I stepped inside but no one was there. The waiter, the bartender, the couple on the balcony, they were all missing. The tray of drinks sat on the bar untouched. Then I heard laughter from the next room. I wished for Keanu to come through the doorway and give me that wonderful hug. He appeared and stood in the passage. He saw me but never came forward. I stood in the empty room beckoning him with my arms open. I couldn’t move toward him and he refused to walk towards me. Katie’s attack had given me a feeling of hopelessness about myself and about humanity. Even Keanu didn’t think I was worth hugging anymore.

      In the middle of my Keanu crisis I was worried that I was depending too much on the zopiclone. I had increased the dosage and I had been taking the pills every day. But the apprehension of wondering when I was going to die and the weekly steroid use caused my heart to feel like it was leaping out of my chest. Then one morning, after sleeping in until almost 10.30am and waking up feeling fuzzy, I made myself a deal. I would cut down on the pills if I could substitute something else. I decided to try a couple of glasses of wine instead, anything to just get me to relax. I tried it for a few nights. I would lie in my bed after two glasses of my favourite sauvignon blanc, shut my eyes and try to clear my head. But with nowhere else to go, images of me dying floated past. I gave in. Not only did I give in, I began to praise the little blue sleep-givers in my journal:

      January 5th: Thank god for the sleeping pills or I would be a wreck by now. I wouldn’t sleep from the worry.

      I needed to get Keanu back on my side. Without him the sleeping pills had a much tougher job. In a desperate bid one night I called out to him: “Okay come on Keanu it’s time to go to your party.”

      I shut my eyes. The elevator doors opened and I walked into his apartment. Guests filled the main room, talking and drinking. I rushed out to the balcony and stood expectantly with my drink. But Keanu didn’t come. As soon as I realised he was never going to come I put down my drink and walked slowly back to the lift. On the way to the ground floor I switched scenarios to my airplane. The family of four dutifully jumped out of the plane again but this time I gave them parachutes. (I don’t know why they always had to jump. Perhaps I believed a family of four jumping out of the airplane was more realistic than a family of four being moved to first class mid-flight.) So I stretched my legs across the five middle airplane seats but there was something wrong. This time I couldn’t get comfortable. My head was in a funny position. My arms didn’t cradle it correctly. I could feel the seatbelt digging into my side. I tossed and turned all night.

      The next night was the same. I went back to Keanu’s apartment but there were only a couple of people there. They moved past each other silently like robots. No one looked me in the eye. There was no bar, no server, no drinks. Keanu was nowhere to be seen. I ran down to the dance floor but there was no music. The whole apartment was as silent as death. Back on the airplane, the family of four sat next to me and wouldn’t move. The children kicked the seats, the man snored, the woman chortled and dinner trays rattled. I squeezed myself into a ball in my single seat and tried to get comfortable. I shut my eyes and listened for the hum of the engine. I waited for the cabin to become dark and peaceful. I wanted to recreate the blissful feeling of having my legs stretched out across the seats. It was no use. Reality had crashed into my dreams. I couldn’t stop thinking about my illness.