June 19, 2008
Farrah definitely can’t travel today. She’s still too weak. This morning, for the first time, I felt her determination starting to slip.
“I was thinking earlier that I wasn’t going to make it this time,” she confessed to me. “I have just never suffered as much as these last two days.”
I did my best cheerleading. “Of course you’re going to make it. We just have to take it a day at a time.”
Truthfully, I’m worried about the trip to Frankfurt for the liver perfusion. To travel five or six hours in a car in her weakened state and go through another surgical procedure is asking a lot. She’s so weak she’s having trouble just walking to the bathroom. I know Dr. Vogl and Dr. Jacob both feel she must have this second perfusion to continue to shrink the tumors in her liver. Dr. Jacob is more worried about the liver than anything else and feels it’s essential for Farrah to have it. I suggested we take a nurse with us, and Dr. Vogl seconded the idea. We’ll have to see how she is tonight.
I can’t believe Dr. Jacob left for a conference and isn’t here all day. She is so busy, and as a result I have to make important decisions for Farrah without any medical advisement. And we’re here in a country where we don’t speak the language. This is crazy. I feel like I’m in over my head—a child trying to do something she’s not equipped to do. This is all new to me. I sometimes feel like there’s no one to drive this stagecoach and it’s getting out of control. But having said all that, I know I’m strong and I have to help her through this. No one could go through this alone. You have to have someone there all the time, fighting for you.
June 20, 2008
We’re on our way to Frankfurt after all. Dr. Jacob finally came in this morning and spoke to Dr. Vogl again. The only choice now is to go today or wait for almost three weeks. Dr. Jacob also talked to Dr. Forman at City of Hope in Los Angeles last night, after we coordinated the phone call and insisted they speak. He’s going to try to get Farrah into a trial of a new cancer treatment that both he and Dr. Jacob think could be very beneficial for her. She couldn’t start right away, however, so he was also in favor of her going to Dr. Vogl if she can make it.
Farrah decided to go for it. She’s so weak and in so much pain, she can hardly walk. At my insistence, they finally found a nurse to come with us. I told Dr. Jacob that, with Farrah in this condition, they couldn’t just send us on a five-hour trip on the autobahn, not speaking a word of German. Like a medevac Thelma and Louise!
At the moment, we’re a couple of hours away from Frankfurt, and Farrah is sleeping. I’ve had to delay my PET scan until Tuesday. I’m a little nervous about it. God forbid they find anything. I need to get my thinking straight. I want to live, I really do, although I don’t think I could go through what I’ve seen Farrah go through this past year and a half.
Later
Thelma and Louise are back on the road again—the long drive back to the clinic. Fortunately, it was all a success. Dr. Vogl said the tumors had shrunk 30 percent from last time, which he was very pleased about. Thank God we came, and thank God for Dr. Vogl.
I’m so exhausted that I can’t wait to get into bed. Unfortunately, I won’t be getting into my own bed. I slept in Farrah’s room last night because I’ve got this horrible, musty odor in my room. I’m convinced it’s mold and it’s slowly killing me. The housekeeper thinks I’m crazy. I’ve had every piece of upholstered furniture taken out of the room. She couldn’t smell the odor, although Farrah smelled it immediately, and so did the night nurse. Finally, I dragged Dr. Jacob in this morning and she smelled it, too. I kept thinking maybe I was crazy or neurotic, and didn’t want to be any more of a pain in the ass than I’ve already been, but after sleeping in Farrah’s room last night, I felt much better.
Dr. Jacob said that the room next to me will be free on Sunday. I’ll sleep in Farrah’s room until then. It feels a little like a slumber party. Farrah said, “I like you sleeping in my room. You should just move in.”
“I’d love to,” I said, “but I don’t think we could fit all our clothes.”
June 21, 2008
Good news! Dr. Jacob came into Farrah’s room this morning very excited. She spoke to Dr. Vogl late last night. He’d just reviewed the scans and said that Farrah’s tumors had shrunk more than he’d originally thought. More than 50 percent, which he said was “amazing, better than anyone had ever reacted from one perfusion.” Dr. Jacob said the new treatment regimen has helped turn things around, and that the vaccines she’s now giving Farrah are changing the genetic makeup of the tumors and helping to destroy them. She feels much more positive about Farrah’s progress and is quite hopeful now. She was so happy that she had tears in her eyes. It’s great to have some good news after these very difficult four weeks.
We’re leaving on Friday, but I’m worried that when Farrah gets back to Los Angeles she will try to jump right into editing the documentary for NBC. I don’t want her to put too much pressure and stress on herself at a time when she desperately needs to focus on healing. But when her mind is made up about something, it’s tough if not impossible to stop her, so I’ll probably have to let it go.
This is where I have to detach from people I care about. I can’t make myself feel responsible for their decisions about their health or anything else. I have to be there as much as I can, be an advocate when it’s needed, and be a supportive friend, but I can’t control the decisions they make or the resulting outcome. It’s the same with my kids. I watch them make decisions that I know are going to have negative results, and eventually when that happens, they come to me, and it causes me pain to see them suffer. In the end, though, they are making their own choices.
June 22, 2008
I’m sitting on the terrace outside Farrah’s room, waiting to move into my new room. The musty odor in my room has gotten so bad now that all the doctors can smell it and they agree there is definitely something there. I’m in a state of paranoia about it. Farrah and I have dubbed it “the mold suite.”
Farrah is sleeping now. She was in such horrible pain that Dr. Jacob came in and gave her a pain IV. All she could do was just lie there and sob. God, it breaks my heart to see her in such pain. There’s nothing I can do but be there—and that makes me feel helpless. I can only try and comfort her and assure her that it will be better soon. Just hang in…
Farrah and I went to Mimmo’s last night for dinner. I was afraid it would be too much for her, but she really wanted to go. Speaking of Mimmo, I was so pissed at him I barely spoke to him. He had called earlier and said there was a big soccer match on Sunday night, so he wouldn’t be able to take Farrah and me to dinner. It reminded me of Rod when we were married. Mimmo goes bicycling all day on Sunday whether I’m here or not, and when Rod and I were married, he played soccer all day every Sunday and then went to the pub with the boys afterward for hours. He’d always come home late for Sunday dinner, which by that time would be stone cold, but not as cold as me. It wouldn’t have been such a big deal except that Sunday was the only day he had to spend with me and the kids because he was in the studio all week.
It became a big issue in our marriage. Now, I look back and think, “Why did I let it bother me so much? Why didn’t I just let him do what made him happy and not take it so personally?” I always end up with men who are completely self-centered and then try to change them, and when I can’t, I get angry at them. I end up feeling, in some way, that they don’t care enough about me and are not making me a priority in their life. Since this has happened with every man in my life, I think I’d better look at myself and my part in it. Funny how history—or at least my history—repeats itself.
I really have to remember that things always work out for the best if you just let go and don’t try to control them or take them personally. God, do I need another thirty years in therapy to figure it all out? By then I’ll be ninety and too old to care.
June 23, 2008
Farrah was so sick last night, I was afraid she would go into one of those all-night marathons of vomiting. I’m not sure what the record is now. Ryan swears it was the night he went with her to Frankfurt for Dr. Vogl’s perfusion, and she threw up for six hours in the van all the way back to the clinic. I still think the record is that seventy-five times in twelve hours, again in Frankfurt.
There was only one nurse here last night. She doesn’t speak English very well and Dr. Jacob was away in Frankfurt. Farrah finally went to sleep, thank God. I slept in her room in case she got sick again.
Today was a brighter day. Now if we can just get our room situation sorted out. I’m starting to smell that musty odor in my new room, which is next to “the mold suite,” and in Farrah’s room as well. They may think I’m crazy, but I know mold when I smell it. Farrah said last night, in the midst of her pain, “We’ve got to get out of here. They’re trying to kill us.” Well, it is starting to feel that way!
And on top of everything else, I have to go to Stuttgart tomorrow for my PET scan. The doctor reads the results to me right afterward. What if they find something and I’m there alone? I know I have to think positively, but there’s been so much shocking, unexpected news on this trip that I’m a little gun-shy.
June 24, 2008
I’m on my way to Stuttgart for the PET scan. I can’t believe that June is almost over. I barely remember it. The surgeries, the doctors, the hospitals and clinics have all blended together into one dreary, wet, German blur. We’ve been hoping to get out and do some filming by the lake or in the mountains. There are so many beautiful places around here in Bavaria, but we haven’t been able to make it. We thought for sure we’d be going home this week, but Farrah doesn’t seem to be getting better fast enough.
Farrah would have come with me for the scan, but she’s just too sick. She had a terrible night. At midnight, just as I was going to sleep, the nurse called me to say that Farrah had started throwing up again and was in terrible pain. They gave her all the right things, but nothing was working. I’d taken an Ativan and could barely keep my eyes open, but I stayed in her room with her. I ended up sleeping there. Every time I’d drift off to sleep, I’d wake up a few minutes later when she would start throwing up again. Finally, the doctor gave her a shot that put her to sleep and I was able to get a few hours of sleep myself.
Now it’s raining cats and dogs, accompanied by thunder and lightning that seem frighteningly close. God, please, just let us get back to sunny California. I feel very alone right now. Alone and scared.
Later 2:20 P.M.
I just finished the PET scan and I’m sitting in the office, waiting for Dr. Horr to give me his report. I wasn’t allowed to eat all day and I’m hungry, weak, and nervous. I’m wolfing down a banana and wishing there were something more to eat here. He’s calling me in now. Boy, is my heart pounding!
“Sit down.” He gestures to a chair in front of several computer screens lit up with slides of my body and brain.
“So, do I have any tumors?” I blurt out. I can’t wait any longer to know.
“No, no, you are fine,” he says matter-of-factly, not realizing that he’s just told me I still have a life to live. Thank you, God, thank you, thank you, thank you! I’ll never complain again, I swear it!
Later 6:30 P.M.
I just left Dr. Rotorooter’s office in Munich. I wanted to get it all over with in one day. Gynecologists are really different here. First of all, there’s no nurse in the room when they examine you. He had me take off my clothes from the waist down and lean back in this large chair with my legs in stirrups, up in the air and wide apart. No sheet, nada. When he finished examining me, he sat back, took off his gloves, and proceeded to talk to me while I remained in the same spread-eagle position. All the while he was talking, I was wishing I had the camera and could shoot him from my point of view, framed by my wide-apart legs.
The good news was that everything had healed well. I then asked nervously if the cancer could come back. He said, as best as I could understand with his limited English, he had lasered the whole area and the surrounding tissue was cancer free. He added that I should still get Pap smears every few months. I guess I’ll never get a Pap smear again without holding my breath for the results.
So, now that this major worry is over, I can get on with my life. But it’s not the same life. How could it be? If this experience wasn’t a wake-up call, then I don’t know what is. I can now honestly say that I feel there’s a Higher Power out there who wants me to live. Maybe it’s so that I can be here for Farrah? I feel a deep sense of commitment to continuing this path with her, no matter where it might lead.
I started this journey with her, particularly the German part. I wanted her to come here because I thought they could help her. I felt she’d die if she stayed in the States, and now even some of the doctors there are admitting that she probably wouldn’t be alive today if she hadn’t come here. The first time she came, a year ago, I told her that I’d stay as long as she had to stay. After that, I felt like I had to come back with her because I knew the routine. I’m not being self-important; it was just a fact. I felt I had to stick by her.
I’m sure that a big part of it has to do with what happened with my grandmother and my mother. When my grandmother’s colon cancer came back, years ago, I didn’t try hard enough to make her go into Houston where there were better doctors. She didn’t want to leave Nacogdoches and the local doctor there, so I didn’t push it. At the time, a part of me may have even been relieved by her choice, because I didn’t know any doctors in Houston and it seemed overwhelming. Then she died, minutes before I arrived at the hospital, and I never got to say good-bye to her. I was devastated, and even now it brings tears to my eyes that I didn’t make more of an effort to spend time with her when she was alive. I’ve felt tremendous amounts of guilt about that ever since.
That guilt only got worse when, shortly after my grandmother’s death, my mother died of an overdose of prescription drugs. Once again I did not get a chance to say good-bye, leaving me riddled with guilt that I hadn’t done enough to save her.
So maybe, in some way, by doing this for Farrah, I’m atoning for the past when I didn’t give my all, for times when I allowed myself to be distracted or caught up or when I lost sight of the connections, the people in life who really matter. That’s why I’ve always gone the extra mile and more when it’s come to trying to save my sons from their addictions. I know from years in Al-Anon that I can’t “save” anyone, but if something happened to one of them and I hadn’t done everything in my power to help them, I couldn’t live with myself.
I don’t have a lot to give materially to my friends, but I can give my friendship and my time. This whole experience has changed forever the way I value friendship. Would someone do this for me? I know Farrah would.
It reminds me of this lovely birthday card Farrah gave me last year that I keep in the drawer next to my bed. On the front it has these two little girls with pigtails, holding hands, walking barefoot on a dirt road. It says, “By my side, step by step…that is where you are for me, that is where I will be for you.” On the inside she wrote the following:
Dearest Alana, not only do I wish you the happiest healthiest birthday but I want to say thank you for your unbelievable friendship. You are my best friend forever and I appreciate you and all you’ve done and continue to do from the bottom of my heart. I love you, sweet girl, and you are, as my mother would say, as beautiful on the inside as you are on the outside.
All my love,
Farrah
We called ourselves “The Do Nothing Girls.”
In 2001 we went down to Don Soffer’s big sprawling house in Harbour Island with our friend Nicollette Sheridan and my son Ash. Farrah and I did nothing but sleep late and lie around the pool (hence our nickname).
We took the Jeep one day because we wanted to drive down to the beach. When we got there, we walked along this beautiful deserted beach together, leaving our footprints in miles of pink sand. Farrah got the brilliant idea that she wanted to take the sand back to use in the sculptures she was doing for an exhibit at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. We went back to the house, got large baggies, then went back to the beach and filled them with sand, but they were so damn heavy that we could barely lift them.
“I can’t believe you’re making me carry this!” I complained.
But I did. We kept walking with our bags of sand in our arms, lugging them all the way back to the house.
When we were packing to leave Harbour Island, Farrah loaded the bags of sand in a box to take with her. I knew this was a bad idea; it was like tempting fate with customs. But that’s the thing about Farrah: when she decides she’s going to do something, it’s really hard to talk her out of it. Believe me I tried. In the end she won and the sand came with us.
We flew back with the sand on Don’s private plane and landed in Miami to go through customs. Not surprisingly, when the customs officers got to the box of pink sand, there was much discussion and delay. The official finally asked, “Did you get it off a private beach?”
We looked at each other and we didn’t know what to say—we were afraid they’d arrest us if we said the wrong thing.
After a long pause, Farrah flashed the officials one of her brightest smiles: “Can you make that a multiple-choice answer?”
Sure enough, we got through just fine, the bags of pink sand sitting pretty in our suitcases.