Cancer Schmancer (17 page)

The aliveness of it all; the love of my parents and Elaine and Chester; the deep, deep feelings of love and devotion from John—

all combined to give me the feeling that somehow, despite everything, my life was going to be okay.

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First Week Home

J u n e 2 5 – J u l y 2 , 2 0 0 0

people always wonder whether they should call someone who’s ill or recovering or grieving. I, too, would hesitate at times, concerned I might be bothersome. Human beings are often awkward and uncomfortable around others’ pain. But I can now say for sure that it’s nice to be on the receiving end of people’s thoughtfulness. I didn’t always feel up to taking a call from a well-wisher, but I always got the message and appreciated the show of concern.

When someone you know is in a bad way, make that call, pay a visit, send some flowers. I was thrilled when friends and relatives sent bouquets, balloons, teddy bears, sweets, pajamas, bath products, and books, mostly self-help books. I had all the time in the world to read, but I just felt too lousy to concentrate. Not until I felt better did I even crack the first one.

So the books stacked up on a shelf as I watched endless hours of the Food Network. Who needed some know-it-all self-help author giving pep talks on how to be positive? To take my mind off things, I needed overweight people in orange kitchens playing with food. Molto Mario, Emeril, and Two Fat Ladies became my roly-poly bedside companions. It was the perfect distraction. Not 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 138

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heady, thirty minutes, and all about food. It just put me into such a relaxed place; the equivalent of sucking my thumb and twirling my hair as a kid.

I also spent time surfing the net, browsing rental properties in Tuscany. This pastime transported me to beautiful worlds far from my recovery bed. I’d dream of the day when I’d be able to rent a place in Italia and stay for a month or two. Each time I found a place I loved, I’d print the listing and stack it with the others on my wish list.

My right arm Kathryn would send me haiku e-mails and profound words from great philosophers. She’d share her own brave struggles with illness and surgery, quoting Hindu and Buddhist passages. She tirelessly helped keep my life running smoothly when I was too weak to pick up a pencil, let alone answer a call.

She kept things afloat. She was a lifesaver.

My folks, who were sleeping in the guest house, arrived every day to cook breakfast and didn’t leave until after the last dinner dish was cleared. Dad would sit on the deck and read his novels while Mom waited on me hand and foot. John, who literally moved in the day I learned I had cancer, never left my side. I wanted to resume writing the MTV pilot that had been derailed by my illness.

Camelia, my friend and coworker who’s very robust in her hearty affection, had a take-charge attitude. “I’m here for you, girl,” she’d always say. She organized all the thank-yous for the gifts I’d received from well-wishers, so I never stressed out over any of it. She talked about the loss of her first husband, told me of a girlfriend who’d survived cancer, and shared stories about her two lovely daughters.

Then there were the visitors. Some of my girlfriends stopped by one afternoon. Each brought a little gift and stayed for a few hours. The girls wanted to hear the whole story: What were my symptoms, who were the doctors, when did it all begin? With re-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 139

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spect to the procedures I’d undergone, everyone agreed that never getting your period or going through menopause was the definite upside.

They all wanted to see my incision, which I freely showed them. But upon exposing myself, I felt like a freak. Different from the rest. The unlucky one. What were they thinking? Probably they were glad it wasn’t them. Of all the girls in this group, I think I was the last person anyone expected to get cancer. They all had experienced gynecological problems ranging from precancerous cells (determined by Pap tests) to cysts (found by ultrasound) to endometriosis (scar tissue that grows abnormally). Not me, though. We all sat on my sickbed chewing the fat like everything was normal. How ironic that I was always the one who’d never showed weakness in this area.

My girlfriends all played significant roles in my recovery.

Shortly before my diagnosis, I’d had an urge to see my old friend Michelle, whom I hadn’t seen in years. This was one of those instincts that, in retrospect, made me think I was being nudged by the angels, because Michelle was the only one, in the end, who wasn’t working and completely available to me during those early weeks after my surgery.

She reminds me of my mom in her warm, loving, and nurtur-ing ways. I remember when she, my mom, and I took one of our first walks together. I had to move very slowly, and I couldn’t go far, but we noticed a house for sale that was open for viewing. We went inside and had some fun exploring. The house wasn’t far down the road, but far enough for me. Afterward, we turned around and slowly walked back to the car. I couldn’t wait to go home and lie down.

I can remember vividly when Donna called from New York to say that Danny was coming to town. We were very excited to see him. He was in L.A. for the filming of Pearl Harbor. It was only my 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 140

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first week home after the surgery, and by his reaction when he first laid eyes on me, I think he was expecting me to look like I was at death’s door. He seemed so relieved and happy.

I didn’t want to look like someone with cancer, so I spent a lot of time vacillating about what I was going to wear. I just didn’t want to feel insecure about how others perceived me. I gotta admit, that day Danny stopped by I did manage to pull it together in a soft jersey miniskirt and sleeveless tee. He just couldn’t get over me and I beamed with pride.

I was inspired to prepare a good lunch for him since he’s always such a generous host himself. As I was putting together the main course (shrimp marinara over pasta, with salad), my mother took the spaghetti pot out of my hands and scolded me for over-doing it. I insisted I felt fine, but it was really the painkillers talking. If drugs like that weren’t available, I’m sure I would have been totally bedridden and miserable. When Danny was there we ate and drank like old times, but when he left I needed to lie down.

Whenever I had visitors I’d crack open a bottle of wine and put out a spread. I don’t know, perhaps it made me feel more like a hostess than a cancer patient. What none of the doctors had mentioned to me was that it’s not really a good idea to drink alcohol when recovering from surgery, because it slows the healing process.

As it was, I’d adopted an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude, feeling I was owed some self-indulgence after everything I’d been through.

The ultimate example of this was the first time I got a craving for KFC fried chicken fingers and sent Ramon out to get me a bucket pronto. “Hurry, Ramon. Put the mop down and get to that Colonel now,” I said with a crazed look in my eye.

“But I heard those chickens have no beaks,” he said.

“I don’t care, Ramon, go!” I insisted, grabbing the mop from his hand. From that point forward I scarfed down one bucket af-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 141

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ter another for months, until one day it became all about the Taco Bell Chalupa. Ten pounds later, I’m still paying.

I think in that first week home, I was still in a state of shock over what had happened. Distracted by all the well-wishers and numbed by the painkillers, I didn’t allow reality to set in. By the second week, however, as things settled down, that all changed.

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Fourth of July, 2000

it had been a little over a week since my release from the hospital and I wasn’t happy. The only times I seemed happy were when I was trying to be the superwoman I’m not. I acted like everything was okay, seeking praise for how well I looked or how fast I recovered. I call it “doin’ the seal act,” because that’s what it often feels like. I’ve always needed to appear strong and together.

In my entire life I can barely remember a moment when I allowed myself to really break down and cry in front of others. I’d always heard people say, “If you keep everything bottled up, you’re gonna give yourself a cancer.” Maybe there’s some truth in that.

“Fran never cried,” my mom always said when describing my childhood. I don’t really think that’s healthy, but growing up in my house it seemed praiseworthy to me. Even after I’d been raped at gunpoint, Elaine sat with me on Donna’s porch and felt the need to say, “It’s okay to cry.” But all I could do was hold back the tears, unable to speak in full sentences for fear the pain would come pouring out like water from a broken dam. Couldn’t let that happen. Uh-uh. No sir, not me.

I hated the way my body looked after the surgery. I thought it would never return to its previous state. So swollen and bruised, it didn’t even look like my shape. I worried I’d be stuck forever with this matronly, misshapen, ugly, bruised body. I didn’t want John to see what I looked like. But I saw—as I stared in my completely mirrored bathroom, lit by a skylight, no less. My flesh was 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 144

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shades of green and purple in spots. Every ripple, every bulge, everything looked worse in those mirrors under the cold, harsh shaft of light from above.

And the incision! Oh my God. I’m ruined, I thought. Such a cruel-looking red horizontal gash across my pubic line. They’d shaved my hair for the surgery so the scar was shockingly noticeable. And then there was the estrogen patch. To add insult to in-jury, I had to look at this plastic patch stuck to my hip. Stuck there for the rest of my life. Stuck to my body like I was stuck in my situation.

Finally, I just gave up on myself. There was nothing I could do but put on some clothes and walk away from the mirrors. I slid back into bed where John lay reading. It was hard to find a position that was comfortable. My insides felt gelatinous, and every move I made seemed to discombobulate already traumatized organs—ones that hadn’t yet rerooted themselves in my newly hollowed-out abdomen.

I laid on my back staring up at the ceiling and began to feel sorry for John. As tears rolled out the corners of my eyes, I worried my relationship with him was too new to garner this kind of loy-alty and devotion. I decided he was responding out of guilt and obligation. I knew those feelings ruled him—imprisoned is a better word—and I never wanted him to feel that being with me was

“doing time.”

When he asked me what the matter was as I wept by his side, the words that came out didn’t acknowledge my concern for his burden. Rather it was my pain, my profound sorrow, my grief that erupted.

I didn’t just cry, I bellowed. Clenching my hands into fists, I pulled on his T-shirt and buried my face in his chest. He could barely understand what I was saying as I let out what could only be described as a primal scream. There was so much raw emotion, I 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 145

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can’t even begin to imagine what it was like to be on the receiving end. He tried to calm me, to quiet me, but like a hysterical child, I eventually just wore myself out. As I lay on his chest, limp with exhaustion, the two of us retreated quietly into ourselves.

Once again, I began worrying about John. Tending to my needs both day and night was all-consuming. The pain and grief were overwhelming, and it was beginning to sap him of his strength. Being the main caregiver in a situation like this can be like trying to save a drowning person whose panicked efforts to save himself almost pull you both under.

I also worried that John wasn’t opening up to his friends, sharing the nightmare with them. None seemed to have an awareness of what we were really going through. Once I heard him on the phone saying, “Everyone’s fine, things are great,” and I questioned why he said that. No one was fine, nothing was great, and his friends should have been told so they could start functioning like true friends. But John never feels comfortable complaining about his needs. I could appreciate his not wanting to burden me, but he certainly should have opened up to them.

When one of them was having a Fourth of July party in the afternoon, I encouraged John to go. My parents would be with me. The one thing I asked is that he tell his friends the truth, that we were in hell over here: “Life is shit. Fran is in pain and cries all night. I’m in over my head. Please come up to the house and visit us. I need my friends to support me.” Through it all, I knew how much better I felt soliciting the help of my friends, and I wanted him to do the same.

He was afraid he’d be a downer at the party if he dumped his problems on his friends who wanted to have a fun afternoon.

“That’s what friends are for!” I insisted. So halfheartedly, he left my side for just a few hours—literally, for the first time in weeks—

to go to the Fourth of July party.

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Unfortunately, once he left to go do his own thing, I couldn’t keep up my facade anymore. My parents came over to stay with me, and they both sat on my deck reading their books while I began to feel like a chipped soup bowl from the reject china shop.

Everyone was out having fun, going to parties, and eating barbe-cue—everyone but me, that is. John was healthy and young. All the people having fun at the party were healthy and young. But I wasn’t healthy or young.

The cheese stands alone. That was me. The house was too quiet and the isolation seemed to point up the terrible turn my life had taken. Even my parents, who sat side by side reading, could claim a deeply committed, mutually loving, long-term relationship and great health. In my frustration I walked out on the deck, looking to instigate something. “We should have made plans today,” I said petulantly.