Ozzy Osbourne - I Am Ozzy

There seemed to be only one rational explanation for all of it.

I was dying.

So every other week I had a new test. It was like a new hobby. But none of the results ever came back positive. Then I began to wonder if I was getting tested for the wrong things. I mean, it was cancer that had killed my father, not Parkinson’s disease. So I went to see a cancer specialist.

‘Look,’ I said to him, ‘is there some kind of high-tech scan you can do that’ll tell me if I’m gonna get cancer?’

‘What kind of cancer?’

‘Any kind of cancer.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Yes there is… sort of.’

‘What d’you mean, “sort of”?’

‘There is a machine. But it won’t be available for another five years, at the very least.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they haven’t finished inventing it yet.’

‘Is there anything else you can do, then?’

‘You could always get a colonoscopy. Although, y’know, I really don’t see any warning—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘Let’s do it.’

So he gave me this kit to get my arse ready for its close-up. It was basically four bottles of liquid, and you had to drink a couple of them in the afternoon, shit through the eye of a needle, rinse yourself out, drink the next two, shit through the needle again, then not eat anything for twenty-four hours. You could have seen daylight through my arse by the end of it, it was so clean. Then I went back to the doc’s for the test.

First he got me to lie on this table and put my knees up to my chest. ‘Right,’ he says, ‘I’m going to put you under with some Demerol. Then I’m going to insert this camera up your rectal passage. Don’t worry: you won’t feel a thing. And I’ll record everything on a DVD, so you can watch it yourself at your leisure.’

‘OK.’

So he jabs me with a needle, and while I’m waiting to pass out I notice this massive flat-screen TV to the side of me. Then, all of a sudden, I feel something the size of a small house go up my arse. I yelp and close my eyes, and when I open them again, the TV screen is showing a high-definition image of a big red cave.

‘Is that the inside of my arsehole?’ I ask.

‘Why the hell aren’t you asleep?’ says the doc.

‘Dunno.’

‘Don’t you feel groggy?’

‘Not really.’

‘Not even a little bit?’

‘Nope.’

‘I’m going to give you some more Demerol then.’

‘Whatever it takes, Doc.’

So he gives me another shot of the good stuff. Ahhh. Two minutes later, he says, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ I say, still glued to Journey to the Centre of my Arse on the TV screen.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he says. ‘You’re still awake? I’m going to give you some more.’

‘Go on then.’

Another couple of minutes go by.

‘How about now, Mr Osbourne? Blink if you can hear me?’

‘Blink? Why can’t I just tell you?’

‘That’s impossible! You’re not human!’

‘How can I fall asleep during this?’ I say. ‘Any minute now you’re going to find some long-lost cufflinks up there, or maybe an old watch, or a pair of Sharon’s tights.’

‘I can’t have you awake right now. I’m going to give you one last sh—’

Black.

When it was over, the doc told me he’d found a couple of abnormal growths up my arsehole—polyps, they’re called—and he needed to send them away for testing. Nothing much to worry about, he said. And he was right, ’cos when the results came back, everything was fine.

But then I convinced myself that Sharon also needed to get a colonoscopy—’cos she never went for regular check-ups. In the end I nagged her so much that she finally agreed to go before flying off to New York with the kids to do some filming. She was still there when the results came back. This time, they weren’t good: the lab had found ‘cancerous tumours’. But as devastating as that news was, the way we found out was fucking unbelievable. The woman from the doctor’s surgery just called Sharon’s work number in LA and left a voicemail. It should have been me who broke the news to her, in person. Instead she found out when some chick from the office called up with her list of end-of-day messages: ‘Oh, by the way, are you sitting down for this? You’ve got cancer.’

The first thing Sharon did was call me.

‘Ozzy, please don’t freak out,’ she said. ‘I’m coming home tonight and going into hospital tomorrow.’

Stunned silence.

‘Ozzy, it’s gonna be OK. Stop freaking out.’

‘I’m not freaking out.’

As soon as she hung up, I was literally on the floor, howling. When I was growing up, no one ever recovered from cancer. I mean, the doc would always tell you it was survivable, but everyone knew that was just bullshit to calm you down.

But I had to pull myself together before Sharon’s plane landed in LA. So I showered, put on the brand of aftershave that Sharon loved, and got dressed up in a black evening suit with a white silk scarf. I wanted to look as good as possible for my wife.

Then off I went to the airport. When Sharon finally stepped off the plane with the kids and the dogs, we all hugged and cried on the tarmac. As much as I was trying to put a brave face on things, I was a fucking wreck. I’d been bad enough before the cancer scare, but this had pushed me into an abyss. My doctors were working overtime, upping my dosage of this, that and the other. My head felt like it was floating three feet above my shoulders.

‘I’m going to deal with this,’ was the first thing Sharon said to me.

Then we went back home, and the crew from MTV were waiting. They said, ‘Look, it’s OK

if you want us all to go home now. Just let us know. It’s your decision.’

But Sharon wouldn’t have any of it.

‘This is reality TV,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t get any more fucking real than this. Keep your cameras rolling.’

I thought it was very courageous of her to say that. But that’s my wife for you. Tougher than tough.

Looking back now, I had a full-on nervous breakdown in July 2002, which was made ten times worse by all the shit I was putting down my neck, twenty-four hours a day. It’s not enough to say that I love Sharon. I owe my life to Sharon. The thought of losing her was unbearable. But I never gave up. When something heavy like that happens, you get this force field around you, and things that would normally rattle your cage just don’t mean anything any more. It’s hard to describe—I just went to this other place in my head.

Sharon’s operation was on July 3, 2002. When it was done, and the cancer had been removed, the doctor said that she’d make a full recovery. But while they were digging around up there, they took out a couple of lymph nodes for testing. Days later, the lab confirmed that the cancer had spread into her lymph nodes. Which meant the worst wasn’t over—not by a long shot. I didn’t know it at the time, but Sharon’s chances of survival were only about 33 per cent. All I knew was that she’d have to go through months of horrific chemotherapy.

They were the darkest, most miserable, terrible, fucked-up days of my life. And I can’t even begin to imagine how bad it must have been for Sharon. Almost immediately, her hair started to fall out, so she had to get hairpieces made. And every time she got zapped by the chemo, she’d come home so badly dehydrated—because of all the vomiting—that she’d have a seizure. What would happen is, the first day she got back from the hospital she’d be wired, the second day she’d be all spaced out, and the third day she’d go into a seizure. And the seizures got worse every time.

One evening I went out for dinner with the kids, and when we got back, Sharon was worse than I’d ever seen her before: instead of just having one seizure, she was having them one after the other. It was fucking terrifying. There was no way we could wait for an ambulance, so I ran into Fort Apache, and shouted at the MTV guys, ‘Get us one of your trucks. We need to drive Sharon to the emergency room, right now, because if we wait for an ambulance, it’s gonna be too late.’ Then I then ran back to the bedroom, picked up Sharon from the bed, and carried her down the stairs and out to the drive-way.