Giving Thanks

It's a cold, dreary Wednesday in November of 2002.

I'm in New Jersey at my parents house and it's the day before Thanksgiving. Tomorrow will be a big family dinner and then on Friday I leave for a 10 day trip to Italy with my former boss, The Big Man.

I've always wanted to go to Italy. It's been a dream of mine for...well, forever. My division of NYU had a study abroad for a semester session in Tuscany and I thought about it but I was so in love with New York at the time that I thought I'd miss something if I was gone for that long. I thought I wouldn't be able to function without the power of the city fueling me. Foolish. But so it was at the time.

I've always wanted to go to Italy but I thought I'd do it with my family, or with someone I was totally in love with or by myself. So I was on the fence about this trip. The Big Man called me out of the blue months ago and asked if I wanted to go. I told him I had to think about it. I called Mom right away. She said, "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. You'll be going in high style. You'll eat and stay at all the best places and the two of you travel well together." She wasn't wrong. The Big Man and I had been to London multiple times, DC and so on. I just couldn't get it out of my head that this wasn't how I had planned my first trip to Italy. But I was also unemployed and still living off of student loans, so I called him back and said "Yes." He planned the entire itinerary (Rome, Florence, Venice, Rome). All I had to do was follow along.

We have a complicated relationship, the Big Man and I. I started out as his intern when I was only 20 years old. He had a powerful job and a powerful personality. I was naive, young, smart and funny. He saw something in me and...well, nurtured would be the wrong word but he certainly pushed me to achieve things I hadn't thought possible. He also, after working for him for a year and coming very close to a severe nervous breakdown, understood when I quit but rode my ass to get out of a job in a non-theatre related position. He knew this was all I could do. And after some time away from him I realized how to say 'no' and set up my boundaries and stand up for myself. And I've gone back to work for him numerous times over the past 10 years. The problem is, as with many people in this business, he still sees me as a casting director, not a director. And I was good at casting. It could have been a great career for me. If I liked it. But it lacked artistry for me. I was always serving someone else's vision. And just when you put all the pieces of the casting puzzle together, you're done with the process. You miss all the production meetings, the set and costume design meetings, the rehearsals. As a casting director, you're forgotten. People think it's an easy job but, like stage management, it's underrated in its complexities and execution. But when a cast is "bad", you're the first person blamed.

I digress. Work talk will come later.

So, I'm in New Jersey. It's the day before Thanksgiving and two days before I leave for Italy. I had been to the doctor's a few days before for a check up. Something was wrong with me but I wasn't sure what. I was sitting in my parents cozy, warm living room reading a book and wishing I could smoke a cigarette when the phone rang. It was my doctor. Mom was upstairs washing her hair and Dad was in the studio working but I still wanted to take the call in private. I answered the phone in a hush and quietly opened the front door and slipped out.

"Hello?"

"I've got the results of your blood work and I'm afraid I have some bad news."

A sharp intake of breath. And then I held it. Bile churning in my stomach.

"Are you there?"

I manage to squeak out a 'Yes.'

"You've tested positive for chronic Hepatitis B."

I don't know what that means.

"There are two kinds of Hepatitis. A and B. We'll vaccinate you for the A but there's nothing we can do now about the B, of which there are also two kinds; chronic and acute. Acute can come and linger in the system for a few days or a few weeks but it goes away eventually on its own. Chronic means you have it for life. Hepatitis is a disease that attacks and breaks down the liver and the liver enzymes. It affects the blood as well. Your levels are sky high which leads me to assume you've had it for a while and it's had time to strengthen and grow. I need to do some more blood work and there are medications we can try out that do their best to stop the multiplication of the virus or even make it undetectable but...you're going to have it for life. I'm also going to need to send you for a sonogram on your liver and spleen and also, possibly, a biopsy. It's also highly contagious. You need to be careful and warn all your sexual partners. When are you available to come back in?"

I...uhm...I...

I need a cigarette asap. But more than that, I need to run away. I'm hearing his words but none of it registers. My instinct is to run, but where to? Physically, I just want to run. I hop back and forth on my feet instead.

I...uhm...I, well I'm home for Thanksgiving and then I'm going away on Friday. To Italy for 10 days. I guess I can't come in until after that.

"Well, that's fine. There's no rush at the moment since it appears you've been living with this for quite some time. But let's make an appointment now because I want to see you and get moving on this as soon as you get back. Alright?"

Yes. I just don't understand how...

"Look. Don't dwell on it. Genetically, you're predisposed to get it. So even if you had been vaccinated, chances are you still could have acquired it. You have it and we're going to treat it. Don't beat yourself up for it. It's an unlucky roll of the die but there it is. We'll deal with it."

Silence.

"Are you there? What are you thinking?"

I was thinking what to say tomorrow when we go around the table and give thanks for something. Hepatitis?

"You're going to be OK."

OK.

"I'll see you when you get back.

OK.

Have a safe and fun trip.

OK.

The front door opens and Mom pokes her head out, "What are you doing out here? Who are you talking to?"

No one. I'm coming right in. I'm toxic, Mom. Diseased. A carrier. Tainted. Unhealthy.

"No one, Mom. I'm coming right in."

A raindrop falls and hits me on the face. Then another and another.

"It's raining," I say to no one in particular.

I don't want to go inside. I don't want to go to Thanksgiving. I don't want to go to Italy. I don't want to be me.