Still crazy after all these years

On 21 February 2012, after four and a half long and arduous months in hospital, my battered body turned forty. It was a limp-over-the-line effort, but we got there somehow.

The day started badly. I was not in the best frame of mind as I had hoped to have had the transplant by this date. Logic told me that this thing does not respect my deadlines but sentiment had been fooling me into thinking that there would be beautiful symmetry in receiving the ultimate gift on a milestone birthday.

I had made plans to have dinner with my good friends, David and Kate Schwarz, at a fine eatery in the City called Urbane. Then, Camilla and I would spend the night at a posh hotel. Alas, the Impaler had other ideas and I began the morning with a flourish of stigmata from the VAD wounds. It gushed all morning.

Camilla and my parents visited and made a gallant effort to cheer me up. The nurses did a whip around, bought me a cake and sang Happy Birthday.  But I was far from festive. Camilla called Kate to postpone the dinner and she cancelled the hotel booking.

Then the Impaler decided to give me a little break. The bleeding stopped. Dr Thomson gave us his mandate to venture out to dinner, so Camilla called Kate with the delightful news that dinner was back on.

By mid-afternoon, Rhino had arrived for a visit so I invited him to dinner. He obtained a leave pass from Helen and Thunderbirds were go.

Dinner was wonderful. We savoured a seven course degustation feast. We ate crayfish, wagyu beef and lamb. We drank some great wine including a punchy Blanc de Noir Champagne and a sublime Chateau d'Yeum generously donated by another friend.

For a few hours, life was good. I wasn't the guy in hospital waiting for a transplant. I was me. Thanks for the evening, guys. It was the best fortieth one could have!

The only downside was that I got to enjoy it with a select few. When I get better, I am going to have history's biggest 41st. It will be the party of all parties. Here's what I have in mind.

I'm going to invite all of my extended family. This thing has shown me that family is everything. I am privileged indeed to be part of a great clan.

I'm going to invite my friends. Many of my mates have stood tall and been counted when times have gotten tough. Mates have brought me meals, stopped in to chat, helped Camilla at home and given me books and dvds. Emma even arranged a surprise visit from Melbourne. Thank you one and all.

I'm going to invite my workmates. These guys have been tremendously supportive, as I have demonstrated in previous posts. Work mates indeed.

I'm going to invite all of my doctors, nurses and therapists. I know we are going to get this thing over the line together, one day. And I've heard that nobody parties like the medicos.

The cuisine will be Lebanese-Irish to reflect my ancestry. Guinness pie and tabbouleh. Kibbeh and stout. I'll invite my favourite chef, Anthony Bourdain, to handle the catering. Tony leads my ideal life in that he writes, travels and eats, all very well. Sort of my retirement plan. He also has great taste in music and may be able to bring some pals  (I'm thinking Lou Reed and a few Ramones) to play a few tunes. They can jam with my house band for the night, the Pogues. Naturally, His Bobness is also invited to attend and do whatever the Hell he likes. Shane MacGowan can prop up one side of the bar with him.

I'm going to invite Al Pacino, the world's greatest living actor. When I've had a few, I start to think I look a little like Al, and start to channel the Pacino presence. Then as I sober up, it becomes more Dustin Hoffman or Paul Simon. By the next morning, it's back to Rowan Atkinson or George Caloumbaris.

I'm going to invite Kinky Friedman. For the uninitiated, the Kinkster is a Jewish writer and country singer who emerged from Texas with his band The Texas Jewboys in the Seventies. He now writes mystery novels starring himself as the wisecracking, hard drinking private detective and his mates as his crime solving accomplices. He recently made a semi-serious run for Texas Governor. He prides himself as being the only Jewish adult in America who doesn't own real estate. Last year, Bellbowrie and I got to see Kinky in concert and chatted with him after the show. It was a great night and I laughed like a drain. I didn't laugh again until a couple of weeks ago when Dr Thomson arrived with Dr Javorsky to check out Pinochet at his worst. He pointed to his surgical mask and said, "You realise we just like to put these on and pretend to be doctors?" It was classic Hawkeye Pierce. Better invite Alan Alda too.

I'm going to invite my favourite writer, PJ O'Rourke. He may be right of Attilla the Hun but I love the things he writes about and how he does it. We just violently disagree a lot.

I'm going to invite Stephen Fry. The man is a genius. A modern Rennaissance man adept at writing, comic acting, serious acting and just about whatever else he pleases to attempt.

Finally, I'm going to invite Russell Crowe. After all, somebody needs to pay for it!


Until next time,