Leggy Blonde: A Memoir (27 page)

“Mr. Drescher, would you please leave the room?” asked the doctor.

Reid thought he was going to examine me, so he left. When the doctor and I were alone, he screamed, “Just stop making a big deal out of this! Let the system do its job! You’re such a pain the ass!”

Oh, I
was
a pain in the ass. I had always
been
a pain in the ass. Doctors had been calling me one since I was six years old. But this was the first doctor who screamed in my face about it minutes before he was to take a knife to my eyes. He was angry, overbearing, and mean. Mussolini would have objected to this guy’s bedside manner.

If I was anxious before, I was approaching meltdown now.

“I’m just really nervous,” I said weakly. We were alone in the room. No Reid, no nurses. I was the last patient of the day. He just wanted to get out of there before the hurricane, which I sympathized with. But he didn’t see how he’d save time if I had local anesthesia. It’d be faster, actually, considering recovery time. Not that I wanted the surgeon to rush. The very thought sent my anxiety through the roof.

I was cowed by his screaming, though, and kept quiet. I got on the table and was wheeled to the operating room. The anesthesiologist put the IV into my arm. I looked up at the doctor and asked, “Are you still angry?”

He said, “Yup.”

“Are you going to be nice?”

“Nope.”

And then he grabbed my head and injected my left eye with a local anesthetic. My eyelid blew up. I don’t know if this is normal. All I know was my eye was glued shut, and a seriously pissed-off surgeon with a tray full of scalpels was hovering over me. With my open eye, I saw the furious look on his face. He could be the greatest plastic surgeon in the entire world, but that face was terrifying.

He came around to inject my other eye. I said, “Stop right there. I’m not doing this with you.” I sat up.

He said, “All right. Let’s call it a day.”

He might’ve been relieved I saved him from himself. If he’d been angry during the surgery and made a mistake, his career would have been over.

I found Reid in the waiting room. He was completely cool and calm to see me with one huge swollen eye and no bandages ten minutes after being wheeled into surgery. The doctor told him we changed our minds. Reid asked, “Aviva, are you okay?”

“Let’s get out of here,” I said. I was kind of embarrassed, but relieved. For two weeks, I had one huge, swollen black eye. (Never got the surgery after all.)

The doctor shouldn’t have bullied me, and he knew it. He gave us our money back.

•  •  •

One of the weirdest experiences of being on a television show in this era is that strangers can communicate with me through social media. At first, I was surprised by the hundreds of comments about me. When I did a good deed on camera, they were positive. When I created drama, they were negative. I was fascinated by the psychology of anonymous posters. Sometimes, I read the comments and smiled. Sometimes, I was hurt. Now I just laugh. I have become bulletproof. The plethora of opinions is simply one of the hazards of this profession.

I had a few conversations with Fran as well. She talked me down. Her ex-husband, Peter Jacobson, a TV producer and a creator of
The Nanny,
offered some hysterical, intelligent advice. “This is show
business
. Get it?
Business
. You should watch all of the old soap operas and become one of those characters,” he said.

“What should I say when Ramona tells me my apology was disingenuous?”

He said, “Tell her, ‘I always knew you were a smart woman, Ramona.’ ”

Peter had me on the floor laughing and reminded me not to take it too seriously, or seriously, at all.

Another Hollywood friend from high school, Jack Amiel, said, “Just remember the show and everything you do is just what happens between the commercials.”

Early on, though, I was rattled by it.

•  •  •

After the reunions, the show was done. I resumed my ordinary life. I didn’t regret doing the show. I wasn’t happy that I appeared to dwell obsessively on my leg and my anxiety, though. Most of the people in my life had no idea about my fear of flying or panic attacks before the show aired. Since age eleven, I aspired to not make a big deal of it. That was my coping mechanism.

The show put my anxieties front and center. It seemed like I didn’t talk or think about anything else. I’m obsessive about nonstick pans and health, but not in talking about my problems. It is my nature to put my leg and panic in the background in order to live to the fullest. That was my intention when I signed on to do the show.

I proved an amputee can do anything. During one of the last scenes of the season, I walked in a charity fashion show for Heather. She asked me to put a jacket on, and I decided to take it off at the last minute. I didn’t mean to disrespect Heather or her undergarment line. It was a charity event, and I was glad she asked me to participate. What I thought was so funny about the negative fan reaction
to “Jacketgate”: no one asked, “What the hell is a forty-two-year-old woman with a fake leg doing on a runway in her underwear?”

The fact that I was exposing my leg—and my middle-aged body—didn’t warrant a ripple of disapproval. That thrilled me. I’d succeeded at turning the attention away from my leg. No one cared a bit about it, or questioned my right to walk the runway. My behavior drew viewers’ attention away from my leg. I got no special sympathy for it. They loved or hated me based only on who they perceived me to be. They forgot about my leg entirely.

Mission accomplished.

A
viva’s not only lost her leg, she’s lost her mind!”

That’s pretty much the reaction I was expecting when I signed on to be a
Real Housewife of New York City
. Primetime television is a sort of über-Facebook and my “status” would be out there—really, really out there. I assumed current friends and acquaintances would treat me as some kind of freak. Voices from the past would ring out with ridicule. And the response from the general public would be of the “real-housewife-my-ass-and-who-does-she-think-she-is” sort.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. I’ve never experienced such an outpouring of warmth and support. Especially gratifying has been meeting so many amputees—children and adults—who seem to have gotten some strength and confidence from seeing me show my own condition.

Another exciting benefit has been the raised awareness and
increased contributions that have helped get prosthetics to more people in need. Even the acquaintances who didn’t know about my prosthesis and friends who weren’t aware of all my quirks responded with warmth and understanding. I’m very grateful to the
Real Housewives
world for giving me this forum.

Most of the letters from people from my past were pleasant surprises. One out-of-the-blue email via Facebook, though, really took me by surprise. I actually held my breath when I saw the address. Here it is, with permission:

Hi, Aviva. I’ve wanted to reach out for some time—decades even—I suppose in an effort to get a handle on an emotion that defies capture. Yet somehow the moment hasn’t felt right. I really just want to say hello after all these years. Seize the day, as they say.

It has been a challenge just to slow life down for a minute to write you. Life seems to keep charging ahead regardless of how much I crave stillness. In the past month alone, a new job and a new house have taken up much spare time. I also have four children (ages 3–9), so “spare time” isn’t quite the right term here, as you know.

This is all really just to say that I have been rooting for you all these years, and have been a champion in your corner, albeit invisible. Not many weeks have gone by when I haven’t thought of you, wondered how you were, if our paths would ever cross, wondering how this experience of life was unfolding for you, and hoping for the very best for you. Here you are now with an incredible family, a loving supportive husband, a beautiful life, and of course an impeccable and enviable wardrobe.

I haven’t seen the episode with your father, but my parents
watched it. They can’t believe how fantastic he still is. “He was always the most fun man in any room at any time,” claims my mom.

Well. So. Hello. After 35 years.

Much love, Rebecca

Becky Morgan! The girl who said, “It’s a big deal,” to ride the curve of the barn cleaner. The dare that changed my life—and hers.

So how big a deal was it? I don’t claim it was tragic. But I’m not an idiot; it was huge. But huge in that abstract way that I know it must have been huge. I mean, I lost my bloody foot when I was six years old. I’m sorry, it just doesn’t seem that big to me. It happened. I accepted it. I went on. Okay, I’ll never be a prima ballerina (though I think I could kick ass on
Dancing with the Stars
if the whole
Housewives
thing doesn’t work out). But I’ll never be a violin virtuoso either.

Loss is a fact of life. Losing a leg isn’t the worst loss in my life. As I reread these pages (to take out the stuff that could get me sued), I realized that I chronicled a number of losses, from the profound (my mother) to the serious (that limb) and the ordinary (lovers). I also noticed that there’s a theme about how I felt about these losses: I came to terms with all of them. Not with forgiveness, because who am I to forgive? Not with forgetting, either. I’ll never forget the people and history that are important to me. Not with closure, because I’m not even sure what that means. Not with “getting over it,” because I’m not sure I can. I just made peace. I reached my kind of emotional settlements. Some were easier to accept than others, of course.

My Current’s Ex.
Mffft. Glbbt. Rsstd. You know, I still don’t get it. What an enormous waste of time and money. Coming to terms with something doesn’t mean you have to let go of
all of your feelings—positive or negative. But I do have some understanding for Jane’s feelings and aggressive behavior, and I’m not without sympathy. Most important, she’s my oldest daughter’s mother, and we’re tied together in love and caring for Veronica. That’s a very close bond. While there’s still anger and regret, there’s a whole lot that’s beautiful.

My Dad’s Guru.
Okay, sorry, I’m not a saint. Neither was Sai Baba. And in whatever bizarre afterlife he may be enjoying himself in his celestial ripping off of the vulnerable, he can go fuck himself. That’s the only term I’ll come to with that whole thing.

My Ex.
Making peace isn’t like having a lobotomy where the offending part of the brain is removed. “Harry is a great guy”? Well, not entirely. I still love those parts of Harry and I love the son we have together. For me, Harry’s faults are not obscured by his considerable charm. I don’t think he’s ever going to grow up, and that can be very irresistible in a man. As it turns out, it’s not so much for me. In so many ways, Harry is a great guy. I wish my ex-husband, the father of my first-born, nothing but the best.

My Left Foot.
If I had to do all over again, I’d keep you. Becky, I never blamed you for the accident. Forgiveness is not an issue. People usually grow apart from their childhood friends after they move away. Now I’m grateful you’re back in my life.

That day changed both of our lives forever. We share it and how it affected us both.

My Angel.
Mom, you were there for me when I needed you most. Now that I have children of my own, I can only imagine how horrible my accident was for you. That couldn’t have helped the demons that pushed you to finding comfort in wine. I love you and think about you every day.

Love.
That’s how I came to terms with just about everything. So that’s my life so far. It’s a work in progress. Stay tuned.

It takes a village to get a book done and published! I’ve got a lot of people to thank.

Thanks Valerie Frankel, Judith Newman, Tricia Boczkowski, Jennifer Bergstrom, and Louise Burke for convincing me that I had an interesting story to tell. Thanks to Paul Schindler and Mark Merriman for your help. Transcriber Lynn Monty did fast and fabulous work typing my stories. Faren Bachelis did a wonderful job copyediting. Elisa Rivlin was very thorough. Thanks for asking me one hundred times, “Did that really happen?”

Thank you, Bravo and Andy Cohen, for this amazing opportunity and the platform to help amputees. By hiring me, so many physically challenged young, old, and new saw me on TV and had hope. Thank you, Shed Media, for putting in the meaningful scenes that made a difference. Your production team is stellar. Thank you, Jake Spitz and Bethenny Frankel, for the gig.

My
RHONYC
castmates! Thank you so much LuAnn, Ramona, Sonja, Carole, Heather, and Kristen for all the laughter, headaches, and silliness. You have been a pleasure to work with. We operate in a weird alternative universe few can understand.

The
RHONYC
viewers! Thank you! I love every minute of you. Your comments are awesome and the blogs are hysterical. You make the show so much fun to be a part of. I’m still amazed my life has taken this crazy turn, and that you’ve been there every step along the way.

Thank you, Rebecca Morgan. Your kindness and support after all of these years has shown tremendous courage. I only wish thirty-five years had not gone by without you in my life.

Thanks, Dad, for giving me a great life filled with laughter and total craziness. Thanks for allowing me to scream. I love you.

Andre, Barbara, Michele, and Phil: You have been unconditionally giving and loving my entire life. I love you.

Dave, Adeline, Marilyn, Meryl, Stephen: Thank you for being in our lives. You bring our children tremendous joy. Here’s to Ginjer—wherever you are—you were right.

Harry and Jane: Thank you for being wonderful parents.

Thank you, Jill Kargman, for believing in my writing and my story from Day One. You are the greatest well-wisher I know. Your cheering me on has been life changing. Your confidence, wit, and humor are awe-inspiring.