Somewhere in the middle of treatments, actually on April 19, Felicity gave birth to Emilia. She was born by cesarean, which as we know is easiest on the baby and not so great for the mother for quite a while afterward, although vaginal birth isn’t exactly a thrilling experience either. （Let’s face it, if men had to give birth, there would probably be only a total of about 47 people living on the face of the earth today as opposed to billions, and abortion clinics would be just another department in Walmart alongside auto parts, golf gear, and firearms.） Luckily, I was strong enough to be present at the birth to see Felicity and our sweet issue afterward, but I soon had to disappear into my bed again. I kept thinking I would regain my strength enough to hold Emilia and help Felicity, but by the fifth week I was so weak, was so nauseous, and had lost so much weight I practically begged to have a feeding tube implanted in my stomach. That tube was to remain in me for almost six months.
By the time my treatment had ended, I had lost thirty pounds （about two stone）， had lost all of my facial and neck hair, and could barely walk up a flight of stairs. Upon our return to London, I had to stay in bed all day and feed myself through the tube, with either protein shakes or, eventually, food of my own making. I had missed cooking so much that I would struggle through the smell of the ingredients just to be able to stand at the stove and create something I knew I could eat. What it tasted like didn’t matter, as it was going directly into my stomach by way of the tube, but it was important to me that if someone else were to eat it by mouth they would find it appetizing. I would puree beans and chicken stock with some pasta or even egg fried rice, but had to thin it all quite a bit with water or more stock so it wouldn’t clog up the tube. The tube was also the way I hydrated myself, as I could not even drink water by mouth because it burned like battery acid.
When confronted with my weakened condition, my older children, Nicolo, Isabel, and Camilla, were very positive and encouraging. However, I knew how hard it was for them to see me so ill when, not even a decade before, their mother had suffered similarly. It was evident that my being diagnosed with cancer really frightened them, but Felicity and I reassured them that mine was a very different prognosis than Kate’s. However, the trauma of losing a parent never fully disappears. Only the parent does. I knew that no matter how much reassurance we offered, part of them feared that they would have to experience that trauma all over again.
Week after week, month after month, as Matteo’s height and vocabulary grew, Emilia began to sleep through the night and learned to crawl, Nico and Isabel applied to universities and graduated high school, Camilla approached her junior year, we somehow moved into our new home, Felicity healed from her surgery, I slowly started to get better.
However I will admit that it was a much longer and more difficult recovery than I’d anticipated. I had suffered from depression during treatment, and even after treatment my depression continued for months. There were so many days when being confined to my bed, listening to my family go about their lives downstairs while I was unable to participate in any way, made me feel like a ghost in my own home. There were times when I believed I would never ever be able to cook or enjoy a meal again with the people I love.
Six months after my last treatment, I flew to New York City for a scan and stayed with our friends Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively. （If you thought the name-dropping was over, I am sorry to break your rice bowl.） I wanted to go to the scan alone but Ryan insisted on coming with me. （He’s the only pushy Canadian I know.） The team of doctors gathered around with the results of that morning’s scan, which showed “no evidence of disease” （now my favorite four words in any language）。 Needless to say I was greatly relieved. Ryan had tears in his eyes, as did the female doctors, but I know it was only because they were in such close proximity to him.
The doctors all agreed that I could finally remove the feeding tube from my torso, and I was thrilled. A balloon filled with water keeps the tube from slipping out of you and onto the floor, and to remove it one simply drains the balloon, grabs on to the tube, and gives a good yank, which I was told would feel like a punch in the gut, and that’s that. I asked if we could do it then and there instead of waiting for the doctor who had inserted it. The mood was buoyant because of the good news and the presence of Mr. Reynolds in the room, so Dr. Bakst gave the go-ahead for the indecorous appendage to be removed. One of the female doctors, who, like the rest of the staff, including the men, had been in a constant blush since Deadpool himself had entered, said she would do the honors. Still in the amorous delirium of the starstruck, she grabbed the tube and was about to yank it from my wizened torso when I cried, “Wait!”