Puppy Dog Tales

I am half way through reading a new book I bought on Monday.

If you know anything about me, you know that I chain read the way people chain smoke. On Sunday, I finished reading the last installment of the Shopaholic series written by Sophie Kinsella. It’s good, funny chick lit. I pick up mindless tales when I have read something too real and need a brain drain.

The book I am reading now is infinitely interesting and far from mindless. Aside from the male protagonist, this book could be my own. You know, the one should I be writing right now, but am instead producing another blog entry.

I am currently reading a biography entitled Glamour Interrupted: How I became the best dressed patient in Hollywood. Fabulous fashion critic Steven Cojocaru wrote it, but do not be deceived by the comical name.

Cojo, as he is more commonly known, was in the midst of a rapidly rising career to the pinnacle of the fashion world. His witty humor and on-the-mark critiques of the red-carpet divas in all of their Versace, Armani and Valentino glory helped make Cojo the go-to guy for no-holds-barred commentary on who wore whom to where and why. He sugar coats nothing, but is affable and likeable and his huge smile and equally sized personality gave him a free pass through Tinsel Town.

Canadian born Cojo left his homeland and town of Montreal to move to Los Angeles and pursue some sort of career in fashion. He knew at eight years old that he was destined for television in some capacity consisting of fabrics and make-up and beauty. He was right. While tossing jokes with Matt and Katie on the outdoor set of the Today show in New York and covering premieres and red-carpet events in LA, Cojo stopped taking care of Numero Uno. He was flying cross-country almost daily. He was living on cigarettes, diet soda and the occasional cocktail when the event deemed it necessary. His life was a mess, but in public he was polished, professional and positively fabulous!

Then it all screeched to a halt.

While commuting between his gigs in New York and LA, Cojo realized that he had not seen the inside of a doctor’s office since moving to the States five years prior. He also realized that all the moisturizers, make-up, tanning beds, hairdressers and colorists and concealer were not hiding the obvious: He felt like crap all the time.

Therefore, he did what any respectful resident of Hollywood does. He asked around his famous circle of friends: “Whom do you see?” Cojo found and saw a doctor and the first thing he learned was that his blood pressure was sky high. The second thing he found out was that his kidney function was very low. The third thing he learned was that he had an actual disease with a name - Polycystic Kidney Disease (PKD)! And the last thing he learned was that a transplant was inevitable.

I could almost see his face with his big puppy dog eyes looking incredulously at the doctor. Like, hello??? Do you know who I am? I am the fabulous Cojo and I do not have time to be sick!

Thus begins the sometimes hilarious, sometimes painfully sad roller coaster ride of this book and its overly dramatic author. I relate to it on such an intimate level that it is as if I penned it myself. It has become a checklist of sorts.

aRaging fits of steroid-fueled mood swings - CHECK!
aUnflattering physical changes and body image issues -CHECK! aConstant insomnia - CHECK!
aPill juggling and handful swallowing of medications – CHECK!
aUnequaled terror of the word dialysis – DOUBLE CHECK!

Plus, a slew of other similarities I will not go into are in it!

Viewing Cojo’s journey through words makes me see that my journey, though unique in its own problems, is not that different from his and, I can only assume, many other kidney failure sufferers.

We ‘sickees’ seem to share a flare for comedic writing. It is a useful tool when you think that getting too real with your medical stuff will make folks flee from your side. A lot of stuff has happened to him (and me) and we need to take the edge off without use of alcohol or drugs (the other kind, not the prescribed). Humor is good medicine. It is also good concealer, when you just want to hide how you really feel. It is good makeup, when you want to look better than you feel. It is good moisturizer, to smooth over the hard side of your reality.

When I finally turn the last page of this book, I know that I will be nostalgic about its inevitably uncertain end. Unlike books that you read hoping there will be a happily ever after, this one will not. His very condition means that there is always a dark looming change down the road. Yet, I will close this book feeling a sense of camaraderie with someone I do not know and will probably never meet because he and I have been there and done that and we tried against all odds to look fabulous the whole damn time!