At the ripe old age of 55, I finally discovered a hidden talent I’ve had for nearly 50 years: I’m one hell of an actor.
While I am sure I must have been in some sort of informal school play as a kid, I’ve never performed on an actual stage; unless one considers daily life a stage.
As I look back upon my acting career, I realize I began to hone my thespian skills about 47 years ago; right around the time of my eighth birthday.
In late-1968, I began to live and manage life with a chronic illness, Crohn’s Disease, though I was not officially diagnosed with the illness until a few years later. Initially, its symptoms were uncomfortable, but not disabling: Stomach pain, bouts of diarrhea, loss of appetite. But at a young age, a kid wants to fit in and not be singled out. Thus, the birth of my acting career.
Despite missing numerous days of school and almost all of sixth and ninth grade, I realized early on that I needed to put on a performance each and every day. On the really bad days, I was unable to attend class. Even on the the not-so-good days, I learned to suck it up, take numerous meds, and forge ahead. The symptoms of Crohn’s and other bowel diseases are not the type of thing a person, let alone a kid, discusses with one’s mates or teachers.
For years my acting sessions began early in the morning.
I’d wake up each day and immediately run to the front door to grab The Detroit Free Press sports section, hoping to make it back to the bathroom before the morning blast of diarrhea. For 30-45 minutes, often longer, I sat on the toilet, expunging my intestines of more you-know-what than one could imagine. And we’re not talking about your average morning dump. This was some highly explosive, often bloody, mucus-filled diarrhea. Numerous times, I’d also begin to vomit in a bucket my parents strategically positioned next to the toilet. Once my morning bathroom session was complete, I’d take some time to assess my condition and then begin to perform.
At various times throughout the next 40 years, I continued a similar path into the day. Mornings are usually the worst for people with bowel disease. The simple routine of getting out of bed, showered, dressed and out the door to school or work often took hours, as opposed to 45 minutes on a good day. Even today, a “good day,” I’ve been out of bed for three hours. Yet, here I am sitting in a recliner, heating pad on my back, with an afghan covering my body. It’s when I need to be somewhere that the actor inside of me comes out, whether it’s to go to one of 4-6 doctor appointments a month or even heading out for a relaxing round of golf to escape the pain and near-constant emotional dread.
It’s amazing what our minds can do to convince ourselves that “we’re fine.”
A shower, a shave, the right combo of drugs, and off we go. The moment I step outside our home, subliminally, and sometimes quite overtly, I begin to perform. It’s what one feels compelled to do in order to fit in and attempt to be part of modern-day American society and culture.
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There’s no doubt I’ve faced some hurdles in life, but also had moments, even years, of a seemingly normal, some would say, an extraordinary life.
Whether a student, or later in life as a journalist or working in a college athletic department, to nearly 20 years in national politics as a campaign press aide, presidential administration appointee or senior manager of two nationally-recognized advocacy organizations, my ability to act my way through days were as valuable as any professional skills in my toolkit.
Over time I learned how to manage and tolerate pain. Various drugs certainly helped, along with a burning desire to be “normal” and be a responsible husband, father, and productive member of society. That sense of normalcy hit a major roadblock in the fall of 2011, shortly before my 51st birthday. As my beloved wife was heading out of town for a conference in San Francisco, I was in the midst of a major Crohn’s attack. On the morning she left, I was admitted to the hospital.
Within a short period of time, maybe a day or three, I woke up in a different hospital room. I glanced to my right and saw my mother and mother-in-law; the first indication something was not quite “normal.” They told me, or so I remember, that I had a suffered a couple of seizures and a “minor stroke,” which was why I was in the intensive care unit (ICU). Shortly after coming to and absorbing the fact that at age 50 I had suffered a stroke, the dynamic maternal duo called my wife in California. I remember reassuring her I was “fine” and there was no need for her to rush back to DC. Another in a long-line of award-winning performances. While the following three-plus years were probably the most physically and emotionally painful, they were more tormenting for my young family.
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When my wife and I met in October 1998, I was as healthy as I’d been at any time in my life. I was fully recovered from three abdominal surgeries in late-1996 and early-1997. After a year out of work to deal with the Crohn’s attacks, surgeries and recovery, I was back on the job. My office window at the U.S. State Department looked out at Virginia Avenue, with The Lincoln Memorial and the amazing National Mall a few minute stroll away. I played on two softball teams, biked 25-30 miles five days a week along the beautiful Potomac River from my house in Alexandria, Virginia to Mount Vernon and, of course, played golf nearly every Sunday morning.
After we married in 1999, despite a few Crohn’s flares and kidney stones, life was as normal as one could imagine for several years. Our son was born one day after my 42nd birthday in November of 2002. However, by the time he was six, I once again began to slide downhill. Even prior to the stroke there were months of hospitalizations due to continued bowel attacks, kidney stones, dehydration, kidney failure, etc. And through most of it, I continued to act as if life would return to normal any day. After the stroke, the thought of returning to even a semi-normal life seemed impossible. Yet seemingly out of nowhere, I woke up one morning in May 2015 and felt a bit better.
Over the past year I began to feel more like myself, but still in need of performing on a daily basis. Despite decades of managing a life complicated by a little known disease, which seems to have directly led to a variety of other ailments, each day requires intense planning: When do I take my meds? What am I able to accomplish today? Can I be awake when my wife and son depart for work and school in the morning? Am I able to care for our son on the odd day when he is not feeling well? Is it safe for me to drive; even a mile to a doctor? Will I be able to help our son when he comes home from school in the afternoon? Can I throw dinner together? Is it possible for me to do a load of laundry? Can I shop for groceries? When and what can I eat?
Each and every one of these questions is dealt with on a moment-to-moment basis. Once again we’ve actually been able to plan a family dinner out, an upcoming trip or a day at the golf course. Yet, I still find myself relying on my thespian skills to get by; along with a little help from my friends, such as an assortment of prescription medications, herbal remedies, and a careful diet.
While re-entering real life is a welcome relief, it’s also become clear I may have become too skilled at performing over the years. Many people seem perplexed how I can “look so good” or am able to play a round of golf. They wonder why I’m unable to work. The person they see now, enhanced by my years of acting, seems to be relatively fit at 5-foot-5 and 145 pounds. I have a fairly full head of dark hair and barely resemble the person of one year ago; a guy who was frail, bent over in pain, unable to eat and tipping the scales at about 110-115 pounds; let alone the man a year prior, who was much more critically ill and barely weighed 100 pounds.
I’ve finally become more comfortable in knowing many just “don’t get it” and probably never will. Outside of my wife and son, most people in our lives do not bear witness to the most painful and debilitating times. Very few are exposed to the several hours each morning of a “good day,” like today. The hours it takes to carefully plan, medicate, eat, and stretch, just to leave the house and perform.
I’ve also become used to the very real and usual whispers, such as, “I know a lot of people with the same illness and they deal with it just fine” or, the long-running classic, “No one can be that sick all the time” to the mind-numbing, “you must be faking it.”
This may seem like a bit of self-loathing, but it’s actually quite the opposite. It’s simply a person coming out. A person finally stepping forward to say, “I may not be “normal” in the traditional sense, but I’m still a person; a husband, a father. I do what I can do to help my family. I do what I can do to help me through the day, and sometimes, make it through the next hour. I really don’t care what others think about, or see in me.
I do care, I do hope by telling this story others may be able to relate and manage their own hidden or public traumas.
And, yes, when all else fails: Fake it.
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Photo: Getty Images
I completely understand.
This makes me want to cry.