20 The Times Magazineis better. I progress from walker to cane to
elbow-holding aide, to hands-free truckin’
down the hallway. I finally say goodbye to
my daytime and night-time helpers.
More good news arrives. Although I am
still a little wobbly on my feet, Spike Lee
wants me to do a cameo in a new film he
is producing. It seems like a low-stress way
to ease back into work.
Then this happens.
The morning of the shoot, I set out for
the kitchen to grab breakfast. I am pleased- “right chuffed”, as the English would
say – to be going to work. I am in excellent
form, my walking smooth. Emboldened, I pick
up the pace, just because I can, realising there
is no one here to chide me (at my insistence,
my family has remained on vacation on
Martha’s Vineyard). I kick it up another notch
and turn the corner into the kitchen, a sharp
right. I steady myself by lightly touching the
door frame. Then I plough ahead. Three steps
into the breakfast nook, I execute a quick
left – and that’s where it all goes sideways.
Something distracts me. I lose control, one
foot crossing over the other foot. I stop too
suddenly, slide on the tiles and down I go.
Get up.
Nope. I can’t get up. I delay that impulse
and, instead, survey my cranium for any
cracks or contusions, my face for any broken
bones or teeth.
Very quickly, my daze is surpassed by fear.
I need help, but there’s no one here. I am
alone, just like I had planned. What a genius.
My left arm is definitely broken. Not a clean
break. There is no locus of pain, just an ache
that soon becomes radiating misery. Although
getting up is not a possibility, I have to make
it to the phone. Scooching and slithering,
I arrive at the wall phone, where my worst
fears are realised. I can’t reach the cord. When
I shift my right glute to take pressure off
my throbbing left arm, I feel my cellphone,
tucked in the rear pocket of my sweatpants.
I want to call Tracy, but I don’t know
if I should. She can’t help me from Martha’s
Vineyard and I don’t want her to worry. This
is my mess – and no one is better at cleaning
up my messes than Nina.
I dial, and wake her. “Nina, call the
production office. Tell them I can’t make it
today. I fell. I think I broke my arm. It’s bad.”
The time it takes for Nina to get to me,
I put to good use, berating myself. I come
close to crying. What stays the tears is my
seething, self-directed anger. Idiot. Do you
realise what you’ve done? You screwed it all up.
Goddamn it, you just threw it all away.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” Nina tells me.
Now it all deteriorates into a fog of pain.
I do remember two ridiculously good-looking
paramedics showing up in my apartment.
They ask if I want morphine. “Yes, please.”
My next clear memory isn’t until I’m
wheeled out of surgery. A doctor looks into
my squinting eyes. “Mr Fox?”
I slowly nod. I think so.
“I’m Dr Galatz, chief of orthopaedic
surgery. I just fixed your arm.”
I try to focus. “Was it bad?”
She smiles. “It wasn’t good, but the surgery
was successful. That arm is rebuilt to last...
This is your x-ray with a stainless-steel plate
and 19 screws.”
She calls it a spiral fracture of the humerus,
which means the arm was twisted in the fall- like wringing a wet towel, only with bone
and flesh. Shattered from shoulder to elbow,
it took meticulous surgery, plus a half pound
of cutlery, to repair. As I will find out, a
broken humerus is no f***ing joke.Light rain, heavy traffic. Nina is driving. This
day has been circled in red on the calendar for
months. Dr Theodore had scheduled a follow-
up MRI on my spine, six months after the
surgery. The results would reveal if the
procedure had been successful.
Going into today’s test, I’ll admit to a
degree of anxiety. Normally, I could bluff my
way through it, but I was fearful. Not frozen
in my tracks terror, but legitimate fear of a
negative result. I had already lived it and had
no desire to live it again.
At the halfway point of our return journey,
Nina pulls into one of those generic mini
malls, basically life-support systems for
cavernous toilet facilities. I stumble out of
the car and into the building. I’m wearing
sweatpants, a green-checked flannel shirt,
two weeks of stubble and an aggressively
unkempt head of hair. I blend right in.
I lean against a pillar. My mind is processing
and analysing the day’s events. I convinced the
anaesthesiologist to employ a lighter touch
and, without the heavy sedative, I managed toremain still during the MRI. Shaking off a mild
Valium hangover, I think about the significance
of Dr Theodore’s reading of the results.
Tracy stayed in New York to attend our
youngest daughter Esmé’s swim meet, the
kind of event I miss on a regular basis because
of my freakin’ health issues. Dr Theodore
had spoken to my wife on the phone at the
moment I was out of the machine, so she
already knew the outcome. We’d have a lot
to talk about when I got home.
After almost 40 years in the public eye,
I am acutely aware of being observed. A slow
pan to my right and, sure enough, about ten
feet away, a guy stands eyeballing me. I’m
guessing he’s talking himself into coming
over to say hi, or to get a selfie.
And here he comes, a big guy, 6ft 2in
maybe. He’d be intimidating if it wasn’t for his
eyes... They’re light, bright and disarming.
“Are you Michael J Fox?” I nod. “Oh, wow,”
he says. “I’m binge-watching Spin City.”
“Thanks,” I say. He glances at my cane
and back up again. “I’m sorry about your...”
Suddenly I feel the need to explain.
“I had back surgery...” Am I really going to
go through the whole thing with this guy?
Then he saves me. “I’m ex-military. I’m
being treated for depression – PTSD – fora while now. It’s going well, really good.”
“That’s great,” I say. “I just wanted to tell
you that, because you’ve helped me a lot.”
He didn’t want anything. He just wanted
to give me something – and it was beyond
valuable. “I’m glad,” I say. “What’s your name?”
“Derek.”
I say goodbye to Derek, shake his hand and
he watches me limp-shuffle off. I’ll bet he’s
thinking: I feel better than Michael J Fox looks.
Back in the car, I fluff my pillow, ready to
nap all the way home. My mum will be visiting
soon from Vancouver. I look forward to telling
her the news. It’s official: the surgery took.
The tumour is not growing back. The spinal
cord is clear. It couldn’t have gone better. nMore than two years after surgery, there is
no regrowth of the tumour. Fox has maintained
his balance through weekly physical therapy
sessions. While he deals with the progression
of Parkinson’s disease, he is happy to report
no further incidents with his health.No Time Like the Future: an Optimist Considers
Mortality by Michael J Fox is published by
Headline, price £20, on November 17THREE STEPS. I SLIDE ON THE TILES
AND DOWN I GO. I CAN’T GET UP
With Muhammad Ali at a Parkinson’s hearing, 2002GETTY IMAGES