September 9, 2007
Farrah and I left Los Angeles tonight for Frankfurt and her next visit with Dr. Vogl. When we left Germany at the end of June, Dr. Jacob had said Farrah needed to come back in about two months. The tumors in her liver that Dr. Vogl had treated with the chemo perfusions might be small enough for him to perform the laser surgery to burn them out.
I haven’t been feeling well the last couple of weeks myself. I think it’s probably due to stress and anxiety about leaving again for a long trip. I had to cancel a trip back to Houston, where I was supposed to be the guest of honor and featured speaker at the fiftieth anniversary celebration of the high school that I graduated from, Stephen F. Austin. I felt it was quite an honor that they had asked me, considering that Mrs. LeGros, the dean when I was a rather rebellious senior there, had once said that I would never amount to anything more than a carhop (well, I was a stewardess for a while!). I had also made plans to visit my eighty-five-year-old uncle in Nacogdoches, Texas, my hometown, and I was feeling terribly guilty about disappointing him. But this trip is about trying to save my friend’s life, so it has to take priority.
September 10, 2007
We landed and came straight to the hospital to meet with Dr. Vogl about Farrah’s surgery tomorrow. She had an MRI, and afterward he showed us what size the tumors were now and which ones he would laser. Some of them were already dead or dying from the chemo treatment she’d had on the last trip. Farrah wanted to know why he couldn’t laser all of them, but he said that it was dangerous to do too many at one time. It can cause severe bleeding. That was so typical of Farrah. She didn’t want to mess around; she wanted to face them head-on and burn the suckers out. All of them!
Afterward we went to check into the hotel, a small, modern structure with colored neon lights in the lobby. We dubbed it “the disco hotel.” We ate, showered, and went to bed, exhausted from the long trip and our afternoon with Dr. Vogl.
September 11, 2007
I’m lying on the other bed in Farrah’s hospital room, watching her sleep. We’ve been here all day and I’m dying to go back to the hotel and shower and eat, but I don’t want to leave her until the private nurse gets here. God, she’s had the day from hell. We arrived at the hospital around nine and they began preparing her for the laser surgery. I was nervous because Dana, my astrologer, had said they mustn’t do the surgery between 10 A.M. and 2 P.M. She said that if they did it during those hours, it might have to be repeated. Farrah has probably never consulted an astrologer in her life, but she knows I put a lot of stock into it, so she goes along with it. Especially about something like this.
I told Dr. Vogl what the astrologer said, but I prefaced it by saying that I knew he would think I was a crazy American. Dr. Vogl is very rigid and Germanic, but now that we know him better, Farrah and I both get a kick out of giving him big hugs when we see him. I think we enjoy it because he receives our hugs with a kind of embarrassed stiffness, patting us on the backs like an uncomfortable father. Farrah thinks he likes me because I always flirt with him a little so he’ll let me film.
He promised they’d be through by ten, but I have my doubts. The first part of the laser procedure ended up being excruciatingly painful. Dr. Vogl didn’t tell Farrah about this part. She was given pain medication by IV but was not out completely, and they inserted these thin metal skewers, for want of a better word, that were about eighteen inches long, through her skin and her rib cage into her liver. The pain was almost unbearable for her. I had been filming it, but I had to stop and go to the anesthesiologist. I demanded they give her something stronger to knock her out. This guy looked like an SS officer and spoke with a German accent that was right out of a Saturday Night Live skit.
“We cannot do that. She must be awake so she can breathe when Dr. Vogl says. The instruments must be inserted very precisely.” Then, with a sadistic little smile, he said, “Dr. Vogl is the master of the puncture!”
“This is inhuman. You can’t let her be in this kind of pain. Can’t you give her stronger pain medication?” I pleaded.
“I will give her something more,” he relented. Then he explained, “When she goes into the other room for the laser surgery, she will be completely out.” Well, thank God for some mercy.
I couldn’t film the actual laser surgery because they said it would destroy the tape in the camera, so I waited outside. Dr. Jacob had just arrived, so we went to see Farrah in the recovery room when she came out, still under the anesthesia. Dr. Vogl came out and said that he had removed one tumor close to the wall of the liver, two small inactive ones on the left lobe, and one larger one. There was another tumor that was still too large and too close to a blood vessel to laser, so he wanted to wait a couple of hours and then do a chemo embolization and perfusion to further shrink the tumor.
Unfortunately, Farrah will need to have another laser surgery in a few weeks. I can’t believe what she’s been through this year. Nobody deserves to have to suffer like this. But somehow she manages to retain her sense of humor. Later, when Dr. Vogl came into the room to see her, she asked him if she could have a set of the “skewers” that he uses to puncture the liver. She said she wanted them so she could practice on other people! He smiled. By now he’s getting used to her sense of humor.
Dr. Vogl examined her briefly, declared the laser surgery a success, and swept out of the room without further conversation. Farrah nicknamed him “Dr. In and Out.”
September 12, 2007
We were picked up by Dr. Jacob’s driver and began the five-hour drive to the new clinic where Dr. Jacob has moved her practice. It’s in a little town called Bad Wiessee on Lake Tegernsee, one of the most beautiful areas in Bavaria. Each of the surrounding towns and villages is right on the lake, surrounded by the Bavarian Alps. It’s quite breathtaking. We arrived at the Alpenpark, the new clinic, and were taken to our rooms, which were up two flights of stairs. No elevator in sight. But they had a beautiful view overlooking the lake and the mountains. The clinic itself was very different from the Leonardis, which I loved because it was small and the service was very personal. This clinic was a large, sprawling facility that treated mostly older German patients recovering from orthopedic surgeries and needing rehabilitation. Dr. Jacob had rented a small area of the clinic for her practice. It felt big and impersonal and slightly confusing, and the hallways at night had an eerie feeling. The first night I told Farrah I felt like we were in The Shining. I expected Jack Nicholson to leap out of one of the rooms with a knife. Here we were again, beginning a brand-new chapter in our adventure.
September 20, 2007
I went to sleep while Sean’s preliminary hearing was still going on back home. This would determine whether his case would go to trial, and I checked my e-mail for the results the minute I woke up. I was disappointed to learn that the judge hadn’t thrown the case out but had sent it to trial, which will take place in a few months. I was pretty upset, but I couldn’t reach anyone until later because it was the middle of the night in L.A. Then Farrah and I had to leave the clinic to go to Frankfurt on our friends Bren and Mel Simon’s plane, which they very kindly gave us for the day. Farrah was to have the final tumor in her liver lasered, unless it hadn’t shrunk enough, in which case Dr. Vogl would do another embolization.
We got off to a rocky start when the driver waiting for us outside the clinic pointed out two paparazzi hiding in the bushes. Apparently the groundskeeper of the clinic had just chased one with a pitchfork. Way to go! I made Farrah stay inside while the car went around to the back entrance. I tried to photograph the paparazzi with my camera, but they slunk away deeper into the woods. We got to the plane (a beautiful G5), took off, and landed in Frankfurt without incident. But when we arrived at Dr. Vogl’s clinic there was another paparazzo waiting, and he got a picture before we realized what was happening.
Then, when we arrived in Dr. Vogl’s office, he explained that he couldn’t laser the tumor because it was too soon after the other laser treatment. “It could be dangerous,” he said. “So I will embolize it.” Farrah was surprised and quite disappointed because she’d hoped he was going to do the laser treatment and then the tumors would all be gone.
She was really nervous and crying a little when they put her on the operating table, but by the time the IV started to take effect, she was chatting and joking with Dr. Vogl as he performed the intricate procedure. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. This man is a true scientific genius. He let me stay in the operating room filming it, as I’d done before. I know I’ve said it before, but they would never allow this in the States.
Afterward, when the drugs started wearing off, Farrah started complaining of pain in her liver. They gave her some pain drops and nausea drops orally in water, which I knew was a mistake. I even questioned the doctor before he gave them to her, warning him, “She tends to get very nauseated after any procedure and can start vomiting violently.”
Did he pay any attention to me? Of course not; he’s German.
So, about thirty minutes later, when I was in the anteroom talking to Dr. Jacob on the phone, I heard this splashing noise, then another, and another. I rushed into the room to see Farrah projectile vomiting. “Oh God,” I said to Dr. Jacob. “She’s throwing up!” The last time it happened after this procedure was the time Ryan was with her, and she threw up for over eight hours nonstop. I told the doctor who had given her the drops that she must have the medication immediately to stop the vomiting, but it had to be given by IV, not orally. The oral meds would take too long to work.
Nothing they gave her had any effect at all. It would look like she was nodding off, and then suddenly she’d start throwing up all over again. She was almost totally knocked out from all the drugs they’d given her, but still nothing stopped the vomiting. Dr. Vogl kept coming in, checking on her, and scratching his head. It was the first time I’d ever seen him at a loss for what to do.
“You think you can still make the plane?” he asked. She kept mumbling, “Yes, I want to go,” in between bouts of heaving.
He shrugged and then turned to me: “Well, she seems to want to go.”
Okay, now I was pissed. Who was the doctor here?
“She just threw up again five seconds ago,” I said. “Do you really think she’s capable of making that decision?”
“Well, you’re her friend. You know her. Do you think she can go?”
I hate when people answer a question with a question. I said, “Look, I’m not a doctor, how can I know if she’s able to go?” This was getting ridiculous. There was no way she could travel—back me up on this, will you, Doc?
Finally, after it was apparent that nothing was going to stop her violent vomiting, even she realized there was no way we were getting on that plane. I called the pilots and explained what had happened and how sorry I was. They called Bren Simon, and she told them to spend the night and bring us back the next day. God bless her. A five-hour ride in a bouncing van would have been a nightmare. Unfortunately for us, the nightmare was just beginning.
This was a day clinic, where people don’t spend the night, but we had no choice—we weren’t going anywhere. So Dr. Vogl arranged for a small room with two beds and his private nurse to stay with us. When we got to the room, it was around 9 P.M., and Farrah continued to throw up. They kept giving her more and more medication, and I was getting more concerned by the moment. I kept calling the doctor, asking what was causing such a violent reaction, and he said it was the chemo.
“I had to give her a very aggressive dose in order to kill this terrorist,” he explained. He always referred to the cancer as a terrorist. “Some people do have this kind of reaction.” Thanks for telling us now. Just when the medication seemed to be taking effect and Farrah would doze off, the next moment she’d be reaching for the barf box (for lack of the technical term). She threw up about seventy-five times altogether (she told me the next day that she’d kept an accurate tally).
After a bit, I sneaked out into the hallway to eat the pizza and spaghetti Bolognese I’d had delivered before all this started. Who would have thought that I of the squeamish stomach could actually wolf down a pizza while my best friend was throwing up in the next room? But I was starving.
Then, in the middle of all this, Sean called, very upset about the outcome of his hearing. My nerves were raw. We argued and he hung up on me. I was upset and called Dana Cole, his attorney, to try to make some sense of what was happening. He said it wasn’t as bad as Sean thought it was, that very few cases got thrown out in the preliminary, and that the other side didn’t have a strong case at all and we did. I felt slightly better and somewhat relieved, but still, every time I thought about it I felt weak in the knees. After all, he is still my baby boy.
Luckily, I’d brought a pair of pajamas in my carry-on case and even found my eye mask from the flight over, so I brushed my teeth and crawled into the tiny bed next to Farrah’s. I turned out the lights hoping for the best, but no such luck. Every time I’d hear her reach for the throw-up pan, I shot up in bed, turned on the light, and went to get the nurse. The poor nurse didn’t speak English and just kept throwing her hands up to the sky and saying, “Mein Gott! Mein Gott!” Pleading for God to intervene didn’t seem to be working. She was kind of crazy and very melodramatic. Farrah looked at me between sieges of vomiting and said, “Oh God, they’ve sent me a loon!” From that moment on, we officially called her “the loon,” and couldn’t stop laughing when she walked into the room. We always managed to find the humor, even in the most harrowing situations. All my life I practically fainted at the sight of blood or even a hangnail. And here I am holding Farrah’s head as she throws up and wiping her face. This gives a whole new meaning to friendship for me.
There wasn’t much I could do for Farrah except call the loon and try to make sure she was warm enough and as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. Finally, around 4 A.M., she fell into a deep sleep. Thank God, I thought it would never happen. I went to sleep as well, after taking two Ativan. I’d told the nurse on duty not to let anyone wake us under any circumstances; we both needed to sleep. She said Dr. Vogl usually came in at five thirty.
“Is he crazy?” I snapped at her. “Tell him I said that if he wakes us up, he’s risking his life. You got that?”
I’m not sure she understood what I was threatening, but I must have looked like I meant it. She was intimidated enough to leave us sleeping until eight thirty, when the orderly came in to take Farrah for an MRI.
Farrah was a wreck, poor thing, but at least the vomiting had stopped. I was holding my breath, hoping that it didn’t start again. We went for the MRI, where a mean technician yelled at me and wouldn’t let me film her. Funny that Dr. Vogl, the god of all doctors, let me film everything, but this woman ordered me out. I was cranky enough already from lack of sleep and I was about to get into it with her but decided to let it slide. Pick your battles.
Dr. Vogl came into the room afterward and said that the tumor had been destroyed by this second embolization and that Farrah was now free of any active tumors.
“It’s worth all you went through last night to have such a good result, yes?” he said.
That was for sure, we both agreed, and hopefully she’ll never have to go through such a horrible experience again.
After that, everything went smoothly. We were picked up by the driver, went straight to the waiting plane, and were even able to take off two hours earlier than the time slot they had given us in the tower. We arrived in Munich and got into the waiting van, and Farrah slept for the hour’s trip back to the clinic, as usual. Her eyes close the minute she gets into anything that moves. (I wish I could be so lucky.)
For years I’ve been trying to get Farrah to go on a road trip to Texas with me, just the two of us going back home. Whenever I bring up the idea, she always answers, “Why would you want me? You know I would just get in the car and go right to sleep and you’d be driving the whole way by yourself.” I guess the only way to keep her awake would be to keep stopping for Mexican food. That would do the trick.
September 21, 2007
Farrah and I went outside and sat in the sun. Well, I sat in the shade, and she sat in the sun. At times in my life when I’ve felt terribly overwhelmed and anxious, I’ve envisioned having one of those old-fashioned southern nervous breakdowns that my mother was always having, and going to one of those sanitariums where people in the South used to go. Farrah and I used to joke about it; we would say what a nice rest it would be, to sit in our lawn chairs with blankets over our legs, staring blankly out over the green, rolling hills. It hit me while we were sitting outside today that this place fits that picture to a tee. I guess you have to be really careful what you wish for.
We’re quite a pair. People always think we’re sisters because we look alike—it must be the hair. “Yeah, she’s the older sister,” I’d always say whenever they’d ask (never mind that I’m a couple of years older).
“Yeah, Alana gets younger every year,” Farrah would tease back.
I’d try to convince her that she needed to lie about her age, but she’d always resist the urge.
“Why bother?” she’d say. “It always says, ‘Farrah Fawcett, comma, insert age here,’ when they write about me.”
I’d smile, but then I’d see her name in print and she’d always be right.
She always was a Texas girl.
In October 2007, Farrah and I went to Texas, after the second trip to Germany in September. We were there for her dad’s ninetieth birthday, which was where this picture was taken. We stayed with him and his second wife, Sophie, for three or four days. Farrah gave him this sweater, and he was so happy that she had come home.
After a few days with her dad, we headed for Nacogdoches, my hometown, to see my Uncle Gene. Farrah wasn’t feeling great, but she was determined to be a trouper; she didn’t want to let me down. She was probably the only friend I’ve ever had whom I could always enjoy Texas with, who understood what it meant to be home. We had the most fun on that road trip—just two Texas girls cruising around the back roads, miles and lifetimes away from Germany and everything from the last year. We kept joking that we were Thelma and Louise without the .38.
All along our drive, we’d stop in these little dive restaurants, and the college girl waitresses would say to Farrah, “Does anyone ever tell you you look like that actress from Charlie’s Angels?”
She’d smile and reply, “Yeah, sometimes…”
We stopped at Johnson’s Café in Corrigan, Texas. We had heard they cooked a hot lunch buffet with chicken-fried steak, turnip greens, and black-eyed peas, and our mouths were watering. We were in hog heaven. The owner, a man named Dooley, said that if we let him know when we were coming back through, he’d cook us up some chicken and dumplings (my personal favorite) and some pies. We kept to our word, and so did he—and he made us lemon and coconut meringue pies to take home with us.
We spent the night in this motel and we had little adjoining rooms. Farrah went into her room and there was this huge bug in the bed. So after trying to oust it unsuccessfully, with much screaming and giggling, she came into my room and slept there instead. We were crazy, silly, and loving every minute of being Texas girls once more.