“How long are we going to be here?” I asked Dr. Fisher and Dr. Hoffman. And I think they were a little surprised I asked that question. Perhaps they thought I was getting a little ahead of myself?
“Uhm, all goes well, maybe a week or two,” they said brightly.
I made a list of what I would need from home and set myself up for another extended hospital stay. I was grateful that the cot this time didn’t have a bar that hit me in the center of my back. Over the weekend we once again had a trail of visits from various doctors: Dr. Hoffman; a lung surgeon; and Dr. Geemee Chung, our lovely and smart infectious disease doctor . . . And although Patrick may still have been slow and weak, his attitude was great, he was taking this in stride. But we could see that there was great concern among his doctors that the infection in his lungs would not respond to the antibiotics and get much, much worse. His health was in a compromised state, after all. In anticipation of this possibility, alternative, more radical approaches were discussed, the most reasonable being to remove the part of the lung with the infection. Okay, I had been keeping a finger on the pulse of this situation, and now . . . I started to feel a good deal of apprehension.
“Can he function with that much of his lung gone?” I scrunched up my face.
“Yes, it shouldn’t be a problem,” Dr. Hoffman said. “It’s just making sure that . . .”
Of course surgery always carries additional risks, and further infection was always a worry. But the biggest problem I saw was that it would put Patrick off treatment for another six to eight weeks. That was a very long time for the disease to run unchecked, and that frightened me more than anything. As far as the surgery was concerned, both Patrick and I were like, okay, if this is what we’ve gotta do, then this is what we’ve gotta do. I could see that familiar look on Patrick’s face—he thought this was all pretty fascinating. And it is pretty amazing that you can go and have a quarter of your entire lung removed and walk out within a week. Hell, I was fascinated, too!
Donny came to visit and was confused by our attitude. As I found out later, no one was as confident as we were about Patrick’s regaining his health. Everyone feared that this might be the thing that killed him. Donny saw how Patrick was looking and worried. On top of that, Patrick casually mentioned . . .
“Oh, yeah. If the infection doesn’t show some response to the antibiotics tomorrow morning, I’ll probably go into surgery in the afternoon to remove that part of my lung.”
Donny smiled gamely, but was flabbergasted. He just said he might have part of his lung removed! How could he be so calm? Donny, too, feared that his brother might be looking at the end.
The end. Call us ignorant, but we never thought that way. As far as we were concerned, we were in this for the long haul. I looked at Patrick, and I knew this wasn’t “it.” Everyone could prophesy doom and gloom until the cows came home, but this horse was staying in the barn.
Monday morning came and another X-ray was ordered . . . And guess what?
The large pocket of infection was diminishing. It was responding to antibiotics.
Patrick was dodging yet another bullet. But this one was like Neo in The Matrix bending backward with slow-motion ease to dodge flying pieces of metal. I should point out how coincidental it was that we were already on our way to Los Angeles when he started coughing up blood. Angels seemed to be watching Patrick’s every step. It wouldn’t be the last time that incredible, impeccable timing like this happened for us.
With the new X-ray results, there were smiles of celebration from everyone. But cautious celebration. Patrick wasn’t entirely out of the woods and was still considered to be seriously ill. He was carefully monitored as he continued his antibiotic treatment.
While we were in the hospital, we had quite a few visitors. Annett; our lawyer, Fred; our agent, Nicole; and our manager, Jenny, all worked nearby, and in addition to visits, they sent over cookies for us, cookies for the nursing staff, and a steak dinner for me from the Ivy. Various friends and family members were able to stop in. It was a nice change of pace, and the visits gave me an opportunity not only to run home, change my dirty clothes, and say hi to the dogs, cats, and horses, but also to get out of the hospital for a couple of hours, which helped me keep my attitude fresh. All the visits were great, no one stayed too long, and Patrick still got plenty of rest.
It was during one of these visits that our agent, Nicole, mentioned that she had been approached once again by the William Morris book department to see if Patrick wanted to do an autobiography. This had come up again as a result of the Barbara Walters interview, which had aired while we were in New Mexico. Everyone was greatly moved by the interview. People wanted to hear his story.
“I’m just letting you know about the request,” Nicole said. No pressure.
When we were alone, I turned to Patrick and asked him what he thought. He kind of shrugged noncommittally, in a way which said to me, “Tell me what you think . . .”
I had been urging him to do a book for a few years. “You have so much to say,” I told him. I’d even organized a rough chapter outline for him. But he always kind of balked. I think he resisted because he put so much pressure on himself to be great at whatever he did, and with a book, he wasn’t as sure of his ability. Also, in the past, I wasn’t as available to help him as I was now. But every few months, I had revisited the idea with him, hoping to engage him. I had some nice little cameras, and when he got sick, I even offered to film him telling his story, thoughts, and ideas, and I would transcribe, edit them, and put them down on paper. But filming was getting to be less and less a good idea to him because he didn’t feel like he always looked good.
And now . . . now the idea of a book was on the table again. And he had just shrugged, not “yes” and not “no” . . .
“I think if you’re ever going to do it, now’s the time,” I offered casually, shrugging, “The people involved are great. It’s the right team, and we can do this however we want.”
He nodded affirmatively, “Sure, why not? Let’s do it.”
And twelve months after his being diagnosed with a fatal illness, after finishing shooting a television series, sitting in the same hospital where he first got the dreadful news of his cancer and where he was now recovering from a scary bout with pneumonia, we decided we were going to write a book. And we started making plans.
“What if I can’t finish it?” he finally posed the sobering question.
I had wondered about that, too. What if? But I couldn’t think of that. Of course he can finish it! He’s going to finish it! But I didn’t want to sound hysterical; I gave the “more calm” answer.
“Then we’ll just have to figure something out.”
That sounded like an acceptable plan to him. And I was happy, happy that he was finally going to do it. And happy that he had something to focus on, I had seen what a big difference that made in his attitude and energy. I also knew that it might be a tricky thing to pull off considering his health issues, but whatever obstacles we might run into, like I said, we’d just deal with them as they came up.
—
IT MIGHT seem strange that we’d launch into doing a book when the future was so uncertain. But in a way, I think that the nature of the work we did made it easier to deal with that kind of pressure. Patrick and I had been involved in the performing arts for most of our lives. And if there’s one thing about doing a performance, there is never any guarantee how it is going to come out. It’s part of what you leave yourself open to as an artist. You’re not looking to copy, imitate, or mimic; you’re looking for it to be fresh, real, like it’s the first time ever. To do this is like putting yourself out on the flying trapeze. When it’s your turn, you let go and twirl and trust that you’ll catch the bar on the other side. Sometimes you don’t! But if you want to do good work, you have to take those kinds of chances. It’s thrilling, terrifying, and takes a particular kind of courage. For us to launch into a book with such unknown conditions ahead of us was almost normal for us. If we flew
into the air without a net and caught the bar on the other side—fantastic! And if we didn’t . . .
—
TRUE TO plan (ours, anyway) it was exactly one week after checking into Cedars-Sinai that we checked out and went home, just in time to watch the season premiere of The Beast.
Of course, after we landed from New Mexico, we had gone straight to the hospital and not The Beast’s press conference that was scheduled the next day. From experience we knew what a big difference press made in a project’s success—if they don’t know about it, they can’t watch it. In this day and age, with so much media being thrown in people’s faces, it’s hard to get people’s attention and hold it! You’re getting smacked with all sorts of stuff every time you turn around! And now, after a gastric bypass and battling pneumonia, he was looking pretty thin. Other press requests came in, but he felt uncomfortable, and he shook his head firmly . . .
“Could you imagine me going on Leno or Ellen?” he said, “People will be sitting at home going, ‘Look, Martha, he looks skinny! Look how skinny he looks. My Lord! I wonder how long he’s got?’” he used his best midwestern accent. “It wouldn’t be about the show,” he added, “it’d be about how I looked.”
I didn’t want it to be true, but he was right.
—
COMING OFF pneumonia, Patrick had been bumped up to a stronger pain medication—Dilaudid, also called Hydromorphone. The fact that he was ready for this stronger medication confirmed for me how much his pain had increased and that he needed relief. Hydromorphone is considered to be five to eight times stronger than morphine, and I would draw it out of a vial and then inject it straight into his port, with a saline flush before and after to keep the line clean. It can make a person pretty stoned-looking! I joked that he was like the mother in Eugene O’Neil’s famous play Long Day’s Journey Into Night. During the course of the play, Mom is addicted to morphine and pretty much floats in and out of the room during the entire production saying who-knows-what. Patrick was pretty float-y himself on this morphine derivative. However, its effects are not long-lasting, and I gave this to him on an as-needed basis on top of his regular pain meds.
The Dilaudid was delivered to us shortly after we arrived home along with other medical supplies. There was a ton of stuff! I was amazed at the amount of supplies that was delivered. I had always been economical and avoided waste. I grew up in a large, struggling family, and besides having to be thrifty, we were environmentally conscious about turning off electrical items and not letting the water run unnecessarily, long before it became politically correct to do so. All these newly delivered supplies looked over the top! But I was soon to find that I would use all these items and that I could spend all day trying to figure out how to use this stuff economically. But it was easier to just use what I needed, when I needed it. I had also underordered saline flushes twice and kicked myself for being so idiotic. I had to get over myself and go for the gold, ordering more than I needed. Bring it on! And that seemed to work out just about right.
Jose, our Harley-Davidson-motorcycle-riding nurse at Dr. Hoffman’s, bailed us out by coming over to take blood and had given me the instructions on how to give shots. Other than these special trips, I had taken responsibility for all of Patrick’s care at home from the time he got ill. To have someone unfamiliar come in would have been more stressful than it was worth. We would have worried about what might be reported to the world outside our sanctuary. We’d already had leaks from inside the medical profession. We were private and intended to continue that way. I had also graduated to more advanced nursing care. In addition to injecting the Dilaudid through his port access and giving his Lovenox shots, I also administered his antibiotics several times a day, hooked up fluids and albumin on occasion (which can be messy and a challenge to get going!). I was getting savvy enough to start suggesting possible solutions to some of his comfort issues, and anticipate his reaction to various medications and procedures. I also graduated to changing his port access, which involved the utmost of sterile procedures and additional bravery in sticking him at the port site with another needle, which I would then secure until the next week when I changed it again. This was all with his regular schedule of medication, food challenges, helping with hygiene . . . It was a lot. And I was starting to wear down.
Bad Day . . .
What a beautiful morning it was. Slept late, o’well. I organized myself and felt positive that I could actually get some things accomplished this day. This day . . . until I went in to give Buddy his first pills. He was sleeping. Sleeping late. Later than usual. And I guess I knew he wasn’t feeling well before he ever opened his eyes, or uttered a word. And instantly I felt depressed. And it isn’t that it’s, “Wow, what a surprise,” but I was feeling so good beforehand and was reminded how sad and heartbreaking life can be at this moment. And I can run, but I cannot hide from this fact. I just have to find some way to live through this.
It’s depressing. And do I blame him for it? Not for one moment. God, not at all.
February 2009
I was exhausted after The Beast wrapped. And then there was the gastric bypass at Stanford, Christmas, and then the stress of another hospital stay for pneumonia and waiting to start his chemotherapy again . . . It was all accumulating, and I was running out of reserves. For the first time I started to wonder how I was going to keep going and I felt panic rise in me. What would happen if I couldn’t hold up? Who’s going to carry the flag if I can’t? I tried to fight for the little moments I could give myself a break, but they were no longer doing me any good. Oddly enough, it was almost one year exactly since I had crawled into bed with Patrick and, weeping, told him that I couldn’t bear to deal with this illness. That first time I was emotionally wrecked, and now I was physically falling to pieces. I was thinking that maybe there actually was a limit to my staying power, because I was starting to hit a wall. But then someone stepped in to rescue me . . . Donny.
He moved into the house and started to help me. And his incredible support gave me the meaningful breaks I needed at that time. Suddenly my workload was cut by 30, sometimes 50 percent, and I got some of the rest I needed. And Donny was wonderful, had a keen sense of humor, and was conscientious and dedicated. I remember showing him how to give Patrick his Lovenox shot in his belly, gently explaining how to do it, showing him how he could practice the injection on the rubber pad, offered the DVD that had instructions. And then, hardly blinking an eye, he went ahead and gave Patrick the shot without fanfare.
“Is that good?” Donny looked up and asked.
Hah! It’d taken me a couple of months to feel really comfortable with giving a shot, and it was a snap for Donny!
“Yeah,” I nodded, “That’s good.”
—
NOW WE just had to hang in there until we could get him back on treatment. It was just a few weeks away now.
We started working on the book by talking, remembering all the stories we had and figuring how to put it all down. This was something that was going to take a lot of focus and effort, and some days he was up for it, and some days not. But he did his best, and we steadily, sometimes unsteadily, plowed our way forward. And it started to come together . . . In the prologue of the book we eventually titled The Time of My Life, I said:
You’d think that when someone close to you receives a death sentence it would inspire amazing insights and lessons about life. I know that’s what I thought. But after his diagnosis and after I started to recover from feeling I was trapped in a perpetual nightmare, I looked around and couldn’t see a damn lesson in sight. Yet slowly, as I’ve been dealing with getting past the initial grief and fear, living each day that comes and running around preparing for all the things one can’t possibly prepare for, the lessons have started to ease out into the open. I couldn’t force them out any sooner. They come in their own time when they, and you, are good and ready.
So true . . . It happens in a way that makes you almost unaware that they are happening. Because they a
re happening on such a level of truth . . . they feel and happen like they are already an integrated part of you. Does that make sense? How about—
They happen before you know it.
I was amazed by how accepting Patrick and I had become of each other. Usually I hate that word “accepting.” It sounds so . . . boring. It indicates a state of having “given up” to me. You know—I can’t change it, so I’m going to have to accept it. But this “accepting” was so much more.
Maybe “accepting” isn’t the right word. In its definition, some of the first things listed are consent to receive, give an affirmative answer to, treat as welcome . . . What I would add is—with an open heart. With an open heart . . . What a thing it is to open your heart and allow someone so deep inside you. And you see that other person feels the same. It’s like you’re giving each other direct access, short-cutting to your truth.
“Compromise” is another word that doesn’t have such great connotations for me. But . . . compromise, commitment, sacrifice . . . aren’t those words a big part of marriage? On their own, they sound awful, so conforming and restrictive. But when it’s about someone you may not have for long, they describe love that is unconditional and unequivocal. And isn’t that the love we dream of? Of course when we dream of this kind of love, we dream of it without the high price.
Buddy’s and my relationship was just what it was. I discovered I had a wonderful freedom from the thought that I needed to change our relationship, or change him. There had been so many times that I felt there were aspects of our relationship that I couldn’t bear to live with, that there were things I needed and felt were necessary for my happiness. But these things dissolved from my life. Evaporated. I’m sure this came about because of the possibility that I might not have him for long.
But do we really have anything, or anyone, for long? Even our own lives? I’ve always acted like it’s a forever situation, and it’s not. And it’s gone so fast . . .
Worth Fighting For: Love, Loss, and Moving Forward Page 17