Cancer Schmancer (16 page)

Harriet, waving a small brown paper bag, said, “I’m not late, I had to pick up her acidophilus.” She was supplementing the hospital medical supplies with her own homeopathy, but Enid just couldn’t stand her and the two of them began pulling on each arm, fighting over who’d get to put me to bed.

Finally, I stood my ground and shouted, “Enough! I can’t stand the fighting.”

“Who’s fighting? We’re not fighting,” they both said, like little kids who’re caught red-handed but deny fault anyway.

“Enid, you were great last night and I thank you, so go get some rest and let Harriet take over,” I said diplomatically. Exas-perated, Enid acquiesced, mumbling the words “she’s so stupid”

under her breath as she packed her bag.

In truth, they each had very different responsibilities. The nights were always more difficult for me. The pain would be worse, my temperature would go up, and I’d get more emotional. But Enid was like a rock, comforting, consoling, and caring.

During Harriet’s shift it was an entirely different situation.

Harriet needed to get things accomplished. During the day I needed to walk, I needed to shit, and I needed to eat.

And like a bad sitcom, Enid and Harriet continued to bicker at each changing of the guard both morning and evening. John and I called them “Heckle and Jeckle.” But after three nights of sleeping on a cot, John had had just about enough of them. By day four, we’d walk the halls on our own, letting Harriet take breaks or run errands, and Enid would sit outside the room at night reading, 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 130

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and would be called in only if needed. I didn’t have the heart to dismiss them early, and who knew? A complication could’ve set in, no matter how good my progress . . . better safe than sorry.

Walking down the hallways on my floor was a trip unto itself.

I’d always seen those sickly-looking people in hospital gowns shuffling down the halls, pushing their I.V.’s, and thought how terribly self-conscious I’d feel doing that. But guess what? It’s not so embarrassing when it’s you. For some reason, all the stuff that concerned me when I was a well visitor flew out the window when I was a recovering patient. John said half the time my ass was hanging out of my gown. I was wondering what that draft was . . .

I really appreciated all the art that lined the hospital’s hallway walls. I studied each piece as if I were in a gallery or a museum. It didn’t matter whether it was a poster, litho, or original, each work filled me with its beauty. I was lucky that Cedars understands the importance of aesthetics; it truly did make a difference.

Sometimes there’d be a man walking down the halls in his hospital gown, pushing his I.V. I remember one time I decided to try to catch up to and beat him in a race he knew nothing about, all the while covering the event like it was a horse race. “And here comes Fran, the long shot of the day, closing in on the favorite.

And there’s Fran running neck and neck, and now she takes the lead! And it’s Fran by a length!” The man had no clue, but I for some reason got a real kick out of it. That was the first time since my surgery I started to feel a little joy, as if my old personality was coming back. John and I explored all the closed doors on my floor.

We entered offices and rooms like a couple of mischievous kids.

I hated that I couldn’t get fresh air. All of the windows were screwed shut. How are you supposed to get better when you’re surrounded by sick people and can’t even open a window? I’m a big believer in the curative powers of fresh air and a nice breeze.

Whenever anyone has a cold, I immediately open a window to 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 131

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get everything circulating. Perhaps I’m trusting in old wives’

tales, but I put great stock in fresh bed linens, clean pajamas, opened windows, and chicken soup.

When Rachel and Greg were preparing to stop by for a visit they phoned to ask if I needed anything. I simply replied, “A Phillips-head screwdriver.” Greg, bless his heart, was so happy to help he picked one up at a hardware store on their way to the hospital.

It was great watching Greg and John roll up their sleeves and get to work. What is it about men and tools? It was just what John needed after spending the last few days in that hospital with nothing to do but read and watch TV. In no time the windows in my room were wide open and beautiful summer breezes were blowing through the curtains. I was worried we’d get in trouble for doing it, but everyone turned a blind eye.

It wasn’t long before my doctors switched me from morphine to lesser painkillers. But some upset my stomach or made me drowsy, while others made me nervous or put me in a bad mood. There’s a million different prescriptions out there. I forced the physician to discuss all options until I felt the best I could under the circumstances. I started taking Vicodin, which is a fairly strong narcotic but really effective against pain. In fact, I’d say it works almost too well, because during the pill’s peak performance, I felt so good I ended up bending, lifting, and doing more than I should have. Some people take Vicodin to get high, but it didn’t give me a buzz. Damn! Also, it would aggra-vate my stomach if I didn’t take it with food. So during the night I was forcing myself to eat crackers and pudding and rice hoarded from the day. Okay, I’ll admit it, at first I relished the excuse to eat starchy stuff like macaroni and cheese, but after a while even I had had enough!

It was gross, pushing food down when I didn’t want it, so I 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 132

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asked what else I could take. I decided to try a new drug called Vioxx that’s described as being a twenty-four-hour, Advil-type medicine. I liked this pill. It was easy to take—only one a day and it seemed to do the trick. The hitch was that it lasted for only sixteen or eighteen hours out of the twenty-four. So I mostly stayed with the Vioxx for the sixteen hours I was awake, then at night would knock myself out with a Vicodin. It was just a matter of trial and error before I figured out which routine worked best.

Nobody ever knocked when they entered, and one nurse after another kept walking into my room. It took getting used to, not having locks on the doors and people coming and going at will. I soon realized that the only thing private about a private room is that you aren’t sharing it with other sick people. That’s where the privacy begins and ends.

On the third day of my hospital stay, my surgeon came waltzing into my room, all chipper and smiles, followed by Doctor #8, the gynecologist who’d finally diagnosed me. I was still mad at all the doctors I’d seen, but her above all. This was the doctor who’d initially insisted I didn’t have cancer and had given me birth control pills with estrogen! I began bleeding 24/7, which I found very alarming. She, who was supposed to be the big Hoo-Ha, with all her books and TV appearances—shouldn’t she have tested me sooner?

My surgeon knew I was angry at my gynecologist, yet she let Doctor #8 come right in with her. Why hadn’t she told the gynecologist to wait outside while she inquired if I wanted company? I suppose I should have expected it: Doctors align with doctors, and the surgeon wasn’t about to get in the middle of it.

There was the gynecologist, acting like she was the heroine of my story, glowing with pride. Had she forgotten the other details along the way? Well, I hadn’t been in therapy for as long as I had to remain passive. No sir. I’d spent too many nights agonizing over my fate not to open a mouth!

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There she sat. There they both sat, and I was going to get some satisfaction. I was sick of wondering why. I had cancer, and I’d had half my guts removed, and I simply didn’t give a damn who’d feel uncomfortable by my confrontation.

So I just came right out and said it. “Ya know, I have to ask you, why didn’t you give me the D&C right away?” With that, the smile on the gynecologist’s face disappeared.

“Well, I wanted to go the less invasive route first. It was only for a month,” she responded, seemingly surprised I was even barking up this tree.

“Less invasive? It’s a two-minute test.” I was becoming incensed. A two-minute test that could have diagnosed my cancer two years ago, if any of my doctors had thought to give me one.

Meanwhile, it wasn’t a month I was on the pill, it was a week. What made her think I, in my right mind, would ever have stayed on those pills for a whole month when they were making me bleed 24/7?

And that was when I really put up my dukes. “I mean, you weren’t the first doctor I’d gone to. You knew how long I’d had these symptoms. And Doctor #9 said that everyone is taught in medical school, when there’s bleeding between periods, you biopsy.” What did I care if I was pitting one against the other. That is what she said. Who was I protecting?

“Fran, don’t forget, it was Doctor #8 who did diagnose you,”

the surgeon cut in.

“I understand that, and I’m grateful for it,” I acknowledged, because who’s kidding who, I was glad that someone had finally figured out what the hell was wrong with me.

That’s when Doctor #8 surprised me with her response:

“Fran, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve given this a great deal of thought. In the future, when patients have symptoms such as yours, I’ll be more apt to perform a D&C to rule out uterine cancer before prescribing hormone replacement.”

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That’s all I needed to hear. “Well, I appreciate your saying that. It does make me feel better.” And that was that. They left through the unlocked door of my hospital room. Probably couldn’t wait to get out of there fast enough. I felt vindicated, though. The question of why that had consumed me was satisfied and could finally be put to rest. More or less . . .

The next day, unbeknownst to me, a beautiful vase filled with two dozen roses arrived addressed to Fran Drescher. They were from one of the executive producers on The Nanny. It was lovely, generous, and thoughtful of the sender, but to John it signaled that the cat was out of the bag! News of my cancer must have hit the airwaves.

John didn’t allow the flowers to be brought into the room. Instead, he kept them at the nurses’ station until he could figure out what was happening. Obviously, there’d been a breach in security, and the last thing he wanted was my getting upset. When a nurse from the floor said there was a call at the desk, he nonchalantly left to answer it. Allan, Elaine’s husband, had just taken a call for Elaine, who already was on her way to the hospital. It was from a newspaper asking questions about my cancer. John took down the information and waited anxiously for Elaine’s arrival.

Even though all this was happening around me, I had no clue, and John was determined to keep it that way. When Elaine arrived with not one, but two fishbowls of white flowers, John pushed her back into the hallway before I even knew what was going on.

Slightly annoyed, picking freesias off her chest, Elaine listened to John explain the situation’s urgency. Tearfully, he said, “You’re going to have to be the one to tell her. I don’t have the heart.”

Elaine immediately shifted into full-throttle mode. There wasn’t a moment to lose, and with New York’s being three hours ahead, she had to jump on this pronto or who knew how the headlines might read? So she contacted Cari, the publicist I’d worked with 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 135

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throughout the years on The Nanny, and asked her to return the reporter’s call and do a press release. Meanwhile, I was inside my room trying to down some turkey tetrazzini that I’d ordered from the menu, without even a hint of suspicion. Got any butter?

It was on the day I was scheduled to be released, five days after my surgery, that they told me. Elaine arrived as John and I were finishing breakfast at the little dining table in my room. By this point I was trying to shift into somewhat normal behavior, like eating at a table and walking unassisted to the bathroom.

John braced himself for how I’d react when Elaine told me. He knew that was why she was there. He was counting on my usual reaction. I’d get very upset but then, in almost a childlike way, having had my release, quickly feel better.

Now, Elaine has never been one to pussyfoot around. “A good surgeon makes his amputation with one clean cut. A bad one hacks away with multiple cuts and leaves a lot of scars in the process.” That’s what she always said, and they’re words she lives by, too. So without any mollycoddling she simply told me, “Fran, a New York paper picked up on your cancer and wrote an article about it.”

As anticipated, I immediately burst into tears, dropping my face into my hands. This meant I couldn’t sweep this illness under the rug, quietly recover, put everything back to normal and deny my cancer, even to myself. Essentially, I’d been “outed.” The illness was official now. I was a cancer victim and the world knew it.

Elaine pulled a fax copy from her purse. “I brought it so you can read it and see it wasn’t bad. They kept it simple.” The headline read MISS FINE IS FINE. She was right, it wasn’t bad or sensational.

But still, I felt exposed. And, as John had anticipated, I let out all the pent-up emotions and fears and then was done with it.

It was Sunday, in the late morning, when I returned home.

John and I drove in one car and Elaine followed with the flowers 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 136

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in the other. My parents anxiously awaited our arrival. When we walked in the house it was so white and clean and filled with fresh flowers. I was so happy to see the smiling, loving faces of my parents and feel the kisses and licks from my beloved Chester.

John and I walked out onto the deck of my house that overlooks the sea. If ever I had a religious experience, this was it; all the celestial beings in heaven seemed to gather around to welcome us home. Words couldn’t even begin to do justice to the miracle of it all. The breezes were blustery but warm, the clouds were puffy and white, moving across a sky as blue as a Maxfield Parrish painting, and the ocean itself seemed to dance in soft white peaks as it sailed across the horizon.