Worth Fighting For: Love, Loss, and Moving Forward

by Lisa Niemi Swayze; Lisa Niemi

  So his questions would land with a loud thud, one that reverberated and shook the dust in the cracks of the house, and lay heavy in the air.

  He pondered if he had made a mark on the world. If that mark had really meant something . . . If he had left a legacy with his work, with his work with horses, the forest on our ranch . . . He also wondered if he had been a good person, what kind of man would he be remembered as? It wasn’t often that he voiced these thoughts, but he was pondering them . . .

  Much of his life he lived out on the edge, and you can’t do that all the time without making some mistakes. The edge can be a dangerous place. And I know he had some regrets about some behavior that had been very difficult for him to admit to and live with. And it was hurting him now. But the truth of him is, he’s a very sensitive and goodhearted person. What was so hard for him wasn’t so much that he hurt other people by his actions as that he let himself down. He had a very clear picture of who he wanted to be. And that was someone who was very kind, strong, and honorable. The hero . . .

  One thing that happened with Patrick when he got sick surprised me. He became humble. He’d always acted like he was somewhat invincible. He even joked that being raised with his mother was like being in Pre-God School. She demanded the absolute best from him, and subsequently, he always had high expectations of himself. And sometimes Patrick acted like the world revolved around him. He had some bumps along the way, like when he came off the horse and broke both his legs against an oak tree during the filming of Letters from a Killer. But he came back, and he refused to be limited. And then suddenly with his diagnosis . . . he became mortal. Now, for some people to fall so far from their own pedestal might make them angry or bitter, lashing out at the cruel turn life had given them. What happened for Patrick was—he became an even better person. There is a beauty I’ve always seen deep inside him. And he proved to me that I was not wrong about this. It’s what he called up into his life to face this cancer. And he had his weak moments. But they were the exception and not the rule. He was humble; there was a kind of fearless wisdom, kindness, love, and beauty that seemed as natural on him as anything. And he was still a fearsome fighter and a warrior who could be, and still was, kicking ass. He had just taken a higher road. He walked the talk. And it made him an even bigger man in my eyes as I witnessed what he was capable of doing physically, emotionally, and spiritually in this incredibly tough situation. It all came from an impressive strength within him.

  —

  WE WERE not going to let Christmas pass without celebrating. So we had the families over to Rancho Bizarro, and Patrick, still recovering, made his appearance for the holiday. But I could tell that his heart wasn’t in it. It had only been nine days into his recovery after his gastric bypass. But although he felt weak, woozy, and uncomfortable, he would still manage to smile when called upon and grin when there was a joke being made. He even made some hilarity out of a hat that was bought for him and looked terrible on him. Everyone howled as he made a goofy face and then facetiously thanked his sister-in-law for the gift. She laughed, too. Hah! You had to be tough in the Swayze family. They can get as much mileage out of a bad moment as a fantastic one.

  Part of me wished I could skip Christmas and just let him rest. And it probably would have been a helluva lot easier for me, too! But realistically, there was always the possibility that it might be the last Christmas we all had together. And what if it was and there were regrets that we didn’t have the opportunity to be together one last time? I was concerned about the family. I knew this meant a lot to them.

  Everyone of course noticed that Patrick was not feeling well during the holiday. I looked through their eyes and could see that Patrick looked like he was sick. For them, this was a different Patrick from what they were used to. Patrick, or “Buddy,” as he’s called, was usually one of the rabble-rousers. He was the older brother, and his word was law, or so he liked to think. He always brought energy into the situation, whether he was mixing it up with someone or sitting saying nothing. And here he was now—frail, quiet, and skinny. No one said anything about his weakened state and everyone went ahead and conducted Christmas with the usual raucous noise that attends all our gatherings. Patrick was recovering from major surgery, but I worried that they might think Patrick was going downhill.

  In a way, when I was looking through my family’s eyes, I was looking through my own at something that was hard for me to see. It was not easy to see him look like this. It hurt. I knew I had to allow time for him to heal, but patience is not my strong suit. My brain was always measuring every moment, taking stock of his every breath . . . In a way, his illness kept forcing me to slow down and not keep getting ahead of myself. Slow down . . . slow down . . . And when I did, time opened up for me. And it was a good, grounding place to be.

  I knew he would recover. I knew it in my heart. We just needed the cancer to stay at bay during that time, and then we could get back on track. In the meantime, we were going back to our ranch in New Mexico.

  —

  ON NEW Year’s Day, we packed up the dogs and cats and flew to Rancho de Dİas Alegres. It had been almost twelve months since his diagnosis, and we were going to welcome in a New Year. We held optimism that this year would be as good as or even better than the last. Barring any complications, New Mexico was a great place to heal. It was a moment to settle ourselves, get real again, and nurture the strength in our hearts as we moved ahead. Donny came with us, which was wonderful. I was very tired and hadn’t yet gotten a chance to recover from our last weeks on The Beast, and December had been a busy month. Donny of course had quickly become an expert at helping out with Patrick’s health shakes and oral medications, so he was of great service to me, in addition to being great company.

  We loved the ranch and Patrick was always happy there. He liked it so much that in the summer of 2002, when things were rough in our relationship and we had a big argument, he went to the ranch and subtly threatened that he might not come back! And at that particular moment, that was just fine with me, a relief in fact! “No, you stay,” I said, “stay as long as you want.” When he saw I wasn’t going to capitulate, he just got on the plane and came back to LA. Of course this was during one of his bad drinking spells, a really bad one . . . It’s kind of ironic that it took this illness for him to put away drinking once and for all. And as much as I wanted him to stop and never go back, it was a terrible reason to have to quit. There were more than a couple of people who suggested that he should just go out and drink, raise hell, and have a good time for the rest of whatever time he might have left. What did it matter anyway at this point, they reasoned. Patrick had a certain appreciation of this line of thinking. He would have loved to have had some kind of escape from all this, but he turned to me with that ironic smirking grin of his and said, “I would go out and party, but I can’t drink!” Alcohol was painful for him. Like that glass of champagne on New Year’s Eve in 2008, it felt like pouring acid on his insides.

  We were more isolated in New Mexico, and I was determined to make it as comfortable as possible for him. I set up an extra television in the bedroom for the times he needed to rest, and I had arrived with six large shopping bags of supplies, equipment, and food that he’d eat. I was getting very good at organizing all his medications nearby where they were easy to access. I knew he liked this organization. It made him feel like all his “bases were covered.” Same as the backpack he carried with him at all times. That backpack was famous amongst our close circle of friends. It was loaded with all sorts of stuff: pictures, knives, adapters, address books, writings, lighters, scripts, handyman tools, multi screwdrivers, flashlights, Altoids, compasses, computer, nylon baggies, plastic baggies . . . I teased him every chance I got about carrying all that stuff everywhere. His bag must have weighed fifty pounds! “That’s okay, go ahead and make fun,” he’d sniff in jest in front of our friends, “but let us be back on the ranch and have the truck break down. I will be the only one that can get us out.” And it
was true. The one time in twelve years that we broke a tire rod back on the ranch, Patrick had the one tool we were missing to fix it and get us back to the house. So, yes, it was great that he was so prepared. And any little thing I could dream up to ask for—Visine, cough drop, walkie-talkie—he would have.

  Patrick’s energy was very low, and he was taking it slow. He spent a lot of time in bed, but when he was up, he’d quietly spend much of his time in what we called The Outback Room. This was “his” room, dedicated to all the outdoor equipment: special tents, sleeping bags, flashlights, picnic baskets, batteries, fishing equipment, maps, gun safe, gloves, water purification tablets, and on and on. We still had a large storage room in the Cowboy Bunkhouse next to our tack room for the bulk of the camping equipment, but this was the personal, special equipment that Patrick had put together for us. And even though he was not feeling well, he spent hours down there fiddling and organizing.

  He emerged one evening and slowly ambled into the kitchen. “I’d like to think about organizing a camp trip in the spring,” he announced, “You know, get some people together.”

  I was a little shocked . . . For him to say this while he was still coming back from major surgery was . . . amazing. It showed he was still thinking positively. His intention was to be here, and he wanted to use that damn camping equipment!

  “Sure, let’s plan it. We’ll make a list,” I nodded.

  Now, our camp trips are not simple affairs. We don’t grab a sleeping bag and a little one-burner stove and just go. We have tents, foam mattresses, horses and saddles, water to haul, cast-iron cookware . . . One camp I even brought a generator out and strung chili pepper lights and played country music on the boom box for a party. It was pretty amazing for people to drive up in the middle of nowhere, and out of the darkness and silence, see the glow of this beautiful camp all lit up and booming out music! What a treat! If Patrick wanted to go camping, then we’d figure out how we could do that. It’d be even more logistically challenging than usual, considering all the medication and health supplies we’d have to haul into the forest, but we’d done crazier things. If he was up for it, I’d find a way. I just needed a little rest first! But I had until spring to figure it out.

  —

  A YEAR before Patrick’s diagnosis, our marriage had almost disintegrated. We had gone through a long, rough time, and I felt we were beyond the point of no return. I had given up. But then the thing that I thought would never happen—happened. We discarded all the things that were standing in our way and came back together with open hearts, better than ever, and we were living the love we really felt for each other. It was like we were Prince Charming and Snow White—the man and woman of our dreams. But we always had been . . .

  I couldn’t imagine what the journey through this illness would have been like if we hadn’t had that profound healing in our relationship before his diagnosis. It was lucky regardless of whether we were faced with an illness or just continuing to live our lives together in health. And although I couldn’t believe the cruel timing of this disease, I was grateful that we were with each other now. Of course, after he was diagnosed, even if we had parted, I would have come back to him no matter what. Like I said, I loved him, and that was something that was never going to change. But he would have thought that I came back out of a sense of responsibility and guilt and not because I cared. Because we had this almost fairy tale–like healing before entering into this dark forest of cancer, he knew without a doubt how much I loved him. We faced the journey together, like we had faced the rest of our lives. And my being there made it easier for him, because he could trust me unequivocally with his mind, heart, and body, and he had my strength and love to lean on. And it made it harder in another way—he knew just how deeply I felt.

  And then we had our wish granted for our New Year’s visit in New Mexico—it snowed. Heavily. Big white flakes covering the mountains, weighing down the tree branches, covering the ground in pure, velvety white. It was beautiful. And it just kept coming until we were completely snowed in and the generator kicked on. Yeah! What might have seemed like an ordeal to other people was a treat to us. And as always, we enjoyed the time, isolated from the world, until a snowplow made it through a couple of days later.

  When the snow had melted enough at our local airport, we packed up the dogs and the supplies and loaded the plane to leave the ranch and fly back to Los Angeles. Patrick was feeling stronger now and was due back in Los Angeles for a press conference to promote the premiere of The Beast, which was scheduled to air the following week. We took off late in the day, as always, because Patrick always hates to leave the ranch. He was feeling a little tired and weakish by that time, so instead of flying copilot, he sat in the back with Donny, and I flew up front. The night sky was dark and the stars sparkled ahead as I listened to music on my iPod in the glow of my instrument panel. There was not much conversation, so I figured Patrick was sleeping most of the way. Every once in a while I’d look back and Donny would just nod and smile . . .

  It was a nice smooth flight. We landed at Van Nuys airport, and I taxied onto the ramp where we park our plane and shut down the engines, their whirring hum winding down into silence. After the engines had stopped, Donny cleared his voice and said from the back . . .

  “Uhm, Lisa? We didn’t want to say anything while you were flying and upset you. But Buddy’s been coughing up blood for the last two hours.”

  Chapter 14

  GIMME SOMETHING REAL

  Lucas poses for Patrick’s lens.

  IF YOU HAD read Patrick’s medical reports, as I did not long ago, you would have wondered why we even bothered. In the reports, it looked incredibly hopeless, “Oooo, this guy is outta here.” But it’s different living it . . . Different when you’re looking into his eyes . . . Different when you tell a joke and there’s laughter all around. A smile, a touch of a warm hand . . . And when you see that the person doesn’t really want to go anywhere, when you see him look on the day and see the gratitude he feels, the privilege to be here . . . then read the medical reports . . . They have nothing to do with the mystery of living. They can only point and remind us that we are mortal. But a written word, by itself, cannot make us die.

  Even our smart, scientific Dr. Fisher said how important it was to see a patient in person. “There’s a lot you can tell by looking at a person that you can’t read on a page.” We aren’t stats on a page, we are not our prognosis, and we don’t always obey the laws of medicine.

  —

  I HAD learned to react as quickly and effectively as I could when things came up. And I wasn’t going to take anything lightly, especially when Patrick was coughing up blood. I sat in the back of the plane with him, and he showed me the stuff he was coughing up. Bloody spittle. I took out my cell phone.

  “Let’s just go home first. We can call someone from there.” Patrick wasn’t about to be too alarmed.

  I was already dialing Dr. Fisher’s number. “No, I’m going to call him now, this is too important.” I put the phone to my ear.

  “We’ve got the dogs anyway, and our bags . . .” he was reasoning.

  Dr. Fisher answered and we talked briefly. I hung up and turned to Patrick. “We’re going to the emergency room. It’s the best thing,” I said before he could protest, “Donny? Could you call Paul and see if he can come pick you and the dogs and our luggage up?”

  Within a few minutes, Donny confirmed that my brother Paul was on his way so that Patrick and I could jump into our car to drive directly to Cedars-Sinai’s emergency room. I called Dr. Hoffman on the way, and by the time we got there, they were expecting us and ushered us through quickly with hopes that no one would recognize us on the way in. Over the next few hours, he had completed a battery of tests and X-rays. I hadn’t taken anything with me except my purse, and I was freezing! I felt guilty about snatching a thin blanket out of a closet to wrap myself in, but I was starting to learn how to work my way around in hospitals, and some things were fair game. It wa
s midnight when the results were final and the verdict came:

  Pneumonia.

  It was a very large pocket, or infectious mass, that was located at the bottom of his left lung. They checked us into a room and began antibiotics. The doctors assured us that the hospital was the best place for him. This wasn’t something to fool around with.

  “I had pneumonia once,” Patrick told them. “Do you remember when I had pneumonia?” he asked me, “ ‘Walking pneumonia’ was what it was called.”

  “Yeah, I do,” I replied. Twenty or so years before, he was feeling kind of sluggish and finally went to the doctor, who told him he had “walking pneumonia.” It was pneumonia, but very slight, so he was still able to function, and it was easily treated with a course of antibiotics. It’s funny—from then on, whenever I thought about “walking pneumonia,” I always pictured Patrick in his jeans coming out of our dusty horse corral down near the house looking tired but bright, and . . . walking. That infection was easy to treat. There was no reason for us to think that this would be any different. We just had to be careful, that’s why we were in the hospital, right?