I'm Having Surgery: A Tale About My Dear Friend Rosie

Note: That is not a photo of Rosie

Yep, I’m having surgery, and I’ll talk about that a little, but mostly I want to talk about Rosie, and why this going under the knife doesn’t just suck for me, but also for her. Not that she’s upset. She’s always been very supportive and understanding. She’s just worried about me and hoping that I’m okay.

Rosie gave me my first big break as a writer.

It was the summer of 2010. I’d been doing the fitness writing thing for a year, and for the previous six months authored a twice-weekly column for AOL Canada at $100 a pop. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was a start, and it forced me to write a lot and get better at it.

But I had ambition, delusions of grandeur, even.

I wasted a lot of time pitching big health and fitness magazines. I later learned they mostly had staff writers and when it came to freelancing, had a short list of who they accepted work from. And since they were only monthly it was also very limited in terms of space. Then I got the idea that newspapers needed new shit every day, and might be a better target.

Since Los Angeles is fitness mecca, I figured fuck it, I’ll start with the Los Angeles Times.

Emails often get ignored, and I had years of experience in sales and marketing. When it comes to freelance writing, there is a popular rule that says never to cold call an editor, so I cold called an editor.

I googled “Los Angeles Times health editor,” found her, called the paper’s 1-800 number, asked for her by name, they put me through, and she answered.

“Hi, Rosie,” I said. “My name is James Fell, and I am the most entertaining fitness writer you will ever find.”

And there was this awkward pause, so I added, “And I can prove it.”

“Okay,” Rosie said. “Prove it.”

And we have a lovely conversation where I said I would send her samples of my AOL column, so I did. She got back to me quickly and said she loved it and wanted to hear a pitch for an article. Instead of sending her a pitch, I just wrote an article and sent it.

She replied with: “I love it. What do you want to name your new column?”

“Wait. What?”

“Your new column. I want you to run every two weeks. What do you want to call it?”

So that was cool, and it launched my writing career to a new level. I called the column “In-Your-Face Fitness,” and this was the first installment. Being a Canadian writing a regular column for a major U.S. newspaper convinced me that my delusions of grandeur were perhaps not so delusional, and that I could make it as a writer. I also got a lot of mileage out of it in terms of recognition so I could land more writing gigs, including at those aforementioned magazines, and book deals.

I loved working with Rosie; she was appropriately vicious in her editing, and I learned a great deal. I sent her a Christmas present that first year, a CD. It was “The Mask and the Mirror,” by Loreena McKennitt (shown in photo). I had no way of knowing, but Rosie was a long-time fan or Loreena and had even sent her fan mail. She actually already owned the CD, but her music became something we bonded over.

After I’d been writing for the paper for around a year Rosie was flying home to England for a visit. She purposely made a seven-hour stopover in Calgary so we could meet in person. I took her for lunch, and we went for a walk and just hung out and enjoyed each other’s company.

When I’d been writing for the paper for almost two years, I traveled to Los Angeles to run the L.A. Marathon, and of course to write about it for the paper. Rosie took me to dinner to a Mexican restaurant the night before the race. They had my second-favorite beer—Negra Modelo—but I had to keep it to just one so I wasn’t hungover for the marathon. The day after the marathon she gave me a tour of the paper, and that was cool. One of the web editors was a huge Rush fan and I remember him gushing over my Neil Peart interview.

A few years later Rosie moved to London for a new job, and the family was on vacation there and we met and went for dinner. My kids loved her.

It’s been over thirteen years since we first chatted on the phone, and we’ve kept in regular contact. And recently we had a chance to do something together that we always wanted: Go see Loreena McKennitt in concert.

Loreena has come out of retirement to do another tour, and she’s coming to Calgary. I told Rosie I was flying her to Calgary, and she would stay with us. I got us tickets that are middle of the second row for me, Rosie, and my wife. It was going to be amazing.

Was. But surgery. Fuck.

Last September I landed in the ER and modern medicine saved my life, but it was a temporary fix that includes pharmaceuticals with unpleasant side effects. It was just a random thing that happens to imperfect human bodies, but it requires surgery and then I can get off the drugs. Since I damn near died, the surgeon decided to put me in as a priority, and the date of my operation is November 10.

Rosie was going to be coming on November 11, and the concert is on November 13. My wife, a family physician, said no way I’d be in any shape to entertain guests, and that I might not even be able to go to the concert myself. It’s a moderately serious procedure that means no exercise for a month, if that tells you anything. My wife said even if I can make it to the concert, which is comfy chairs in a classy theatre and not like the arena rocking I did to Iron Maiden last month, that it will likely be unpleasant for me.

As I said before: fuck.

Rosie is only concerned about me and my health, but dammit I really wanted this to happen for us. My daughter is going to take Rosie’s place. And if I can’t go my best friend will take my place and then they can come home and tell me how awesome Loreena was to see in concert.

On the bright side, the only thing I have to pay for in all this is parking at the hospital. Yay for socialized medicine.

Speaking of paying for shit, please buy my sweary history book that Rosie helped make happen by seeing something special in my writing all those years ago.

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