My Journey with Farrah - Alana Stewart [38]
June 3, 2008
Farrah went with me to Dr. Rotorooter in Munich. Now I’m the patient, and she’s the support system. Crazy how the tables have turned. As concerned as I am about her not being strong enough to make this trip, I’m so glad she came. I would be really terrified if I had to face this alone. And she would never let me.
The clinic was unlike any I’ve seen in the States. It’s actually quite impressive—very modern, lovely art on the walls, a small dining area, a trolley with tea and cookies. It sure put UCLA to shame with its crowded waiting room, busy nurses whose attention you can never get, and tiny examination cubicles. The girls who worked at the Munich clinic were all dressed in white jeans.
“Look at that one,” Farrah whispered mischievously. “She’s got on black panties underneath…” We giggled. A gyno office staffed with sexpots!
They took us down a hallway and into one of the large private rooms where you get undressed and prepared for surgery and where you return for the recovery period. All very lovely. They brought in a beautiful vase of fresh flowers. I was mentally ticking off all the costs (probably another grand for the room and the flowers).
Then Dr. Rotorooter came in (his real name is Dr. Phutzenreuter, but since he’s a doctor of female plumbing, Rotorooter seemed apropos). He reminds me of a cross between Gene Wilder and Peter Sellers. Not sure if that’s a good likeness for a doctor to have. I told him I didn’t want to do the more radical surgery, just the biopsy, and then I’d come back later if I needed the more comprehensive one. I figured the biopsy would be fine. Only 5 percent chance of anything being wrong, according to the doctors in L.A. He really pressed for the complete procedure, but I insisted, so he relented.
Then the anesthesiologist, a tall, dapper, balding man, came in and introduced himself: Dr. Peter Wagner, “like the composer,” he informed us. He immediately turned to Farrah and asked her if she’d ever known Steve McQueen, who was his favorite actor.
“No, sorry,” she replied.
I figured I might as well score points with my anesthesiologist, so I piped up. “Hello? I knew him.”
“Really?” he asked, lighting up and turning all his attention to me.
“Yes,” I replied. “In fact, I dated him for a while in the seventies.” That really impressed him. In fact, I think it even impressed Farrah, who hadn’t known it before. I was never one to kiss and tell. Until now. It’s funny that you can be such good friends with someone and still not know everything about them.
I’ve never seen anyone so interested in someone who’s been dead so long; the doctor peppered me with questions about him. I finally had to fess up that I hadn’t dated him for that long, and try to get him back to the subject at hand: sleep-inducing drugs. I said I didn’t want to be put out for long and asked if he could give me Versed and Demerol, the combo they give you in the States when you have a colonoscopy. After the first time I had it, I understood why people do drugs. It was the most incredible sense of well-being and joy I’ve ever experienced.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have them, so I had to settle for the one they use, which served its purpose but without the euphoria.
As the drugs were starting to take effect, a funny thing happened that Farrah took great glee in recounting later on. The nurse came in to put the green paper surgical cap on my head.
“Oh, don’t put that thing on me,” I protested. “My hair looks so beautiful.” And then, according to Farrah (this part I don’t remember), just as I was fading out,