Brooklyn

Author’s Note:  The following post contains some intimate ladies’ health details.  If you are not a board-certified gynecologist, please skip it.

In 1991 I had a ski accident on Snowmass Mountain.

And after a long, shame-making sled trip down the mountain, a short clinic once-over, a bouncy ambulance ride to Aspen Valley Hospital and an endless stint on a gurney (if it hadn’t been for Danny Lee taking charge, I’d still be on it) the docs informed me that I had shattered my upper tibial plateau.

Subsequent visits to the North Shore offices of my orthopedist here also revealed a broken pelvis and internal injuries that had to be surgically repaired.

But I was determined to ski again- and I did.

But there was one nasty side effect of rehab that almost undid me.

Modesty forbids me from going into detail but I can not tell this story without it.

Let’s just say that at the same time I came down with a delicate complaint that was treated by a substitute Ob-Gyn (mine was away) with the wrong medication.

I was allergic to it and what followed was agony.

I was in unrelenting, excruciating pain, and no matter what Doctor M.- my regular guy- did, it wouldn’t ease up.

Back Story on Doc M.  Born and bred in Brooklyn.  Went to NYU undergrad.  Attended med school here in Chicago.

And although he has lived in Chicago for close to fifty years now, he has never lost his Brooklyn accent.

Woody Allen, Mel Brooks, Tony Danza, Larry David, Harvey Keitel, Eli Wallach, Larry King, Andrew Dice Clay- take your pick.  He sounds exactly like dese guys.

Unmistakable in person and over the phone.

Poor Dr. M.

He tried everything in his black doctor’s bag of tricks to help whenever I called.  And I called him often.  And unlike many doctors we all know- even with his busy practice- he would promptly return my calls.  He cared about my pain.

I saw and spoke with him constantly.  Finally he had to do surgery, and even after that, I still suffered.  It took about five years to resolve.  I have never forgotten the horror of it all.  Don’t even mention the word “Terazol” unless you want a complete hysteric on your hands.

But during this nightmare, my life resumed to (almost) normal.  I carried out my everyday duties.  At that time, I was the chairman of Special Events of the Chicago Historical Society and that meant I was in charge of creating gala little occasions that would enhance the rep- and the coffers- of the Costume Committee of the museum.

The board gave me carte blanche.  And there is nothing I like better.  I designed two events- one for day and one for evening.

My daytime fête was a luncheon and lecture by the then-sizzling-hot CNN fashion guru, Elsa Klensch.  She was the “it” girl of the “House of Style” and I was swamped with RSVP’s.

My guest list was distinguished. (Everybody from the mayor’s wife, the late, great Maggie Daley on down was in attendance.)

The lunch was good. (The Four Seasons- it ought to have been.) My speech was charming, (the secret to a good one is brevity- and tons of practice) my suit navy Ungaro and Elsa killed ’em.

She was polished, witty, and controversial.  (I remember that her ideas about wearing white after Labor Day shook the crowd to its Vogue-loving core.)

My after-six soirée was “An Evening with Victor Skrebneski.”

Fashionistas and Chicagoans amongst you will have no problem recognizing this name.

To those of you who do not fall in either of these categories, let me save you the trouble of googling him.  Victor is our answer to Richard Avedon.  A famed photographer- noted for his gorgeous ad campaigns and fabulous portraits.

He discovered Cindy Crawford.

And for too many years to count, he has photographed the likes of Vanessa Redgrave, Orson Welles,  Audrey Hepburn, Andy Warhol, Dennis Hopper, Bette Davis, Fred Astaire, Francois Truffaut, Diana Ross, Hubert de Givenchy, Ralph Lauren…well, you get the picture- if you’ll excuse the pun.

Victor was a friend, and when I prevailed upon him to give a little talk about his illustrious career, he graciously said yes.

He was a delightful speaker and his slide show? Every famous person who had ever lived had had their portrait done- usually wearing his trademark black turtleneck- by Skrebneski.  (I even know a few people who had their passport photographs taken by VS. That’s classy)

Victor did some Q. and A. too.  And there was some glossy coffee table book-signing in a jazzy silver felt-tip pen.

The whole evening was an Art Deco triumph for me- and the treasury department of the Historical Society.  And later, some of us went out to a late supper and there he regaled us with show biz insider stories of George Cukor and John Ford.  It was a wonderful coda to the festivities.

I went to bed on Cloud Nine.

I woke up in Hell.

The pain had started all over again and before I could open my eyes, my hand was dialing Dr. M.’s number.  I didn’t care what time it was.  The service told me he’d call back as soon as the office opened.

At nine on the dot, my phone rang.

“Ellen, how are you?” came the unmistakable Brooklynese of my gynie.

“Oh, Doctor M.  I am so glad you called.  The pain has started again.”

And so I told him.

In gory, X-rated detail.

I described parts of my anatomy my husband(s) had never seen.

There was dead silence after this impressive outporing of V-word grief.

“Um, Ellen.  This is Tony Rossi– from Saks?  I was just calling to tell you how wonderful last night with Victor was.”

Sidebar on Tony Rossi:  Started in the fifties at the suburban Saks Fifth Avenue.  Went on to head up the couture department and ended his forty-year run as assistant general manager.

Never married.  Loved ladies- and their clothes.

But if I had to guess, I’d say he wasn’t too familiar with any part of a woman’s anatomy on a first-hand basis.

And did I happen to mention that Tony had studied fashion merchandising at the Pratt Institute because he was from Brooklyn?

He was so mortified about my TMI that I didn’t have to be.  The gaffe was so awful that there was only one thing left for me to say to him.

“Tony, I think you’d better tell me to buy two dresses and call you in the morning.”