July 7, 2009
We spent an entire week at the health spa, Cal-a-Vie. Patrick loved it. Heck, I loved it! And it felt like stolen time. I don’t think I’d seen Patrick smile so much in a long time. Of course, you can really use it to get in shape. The spa offers up to thirty-five exercise classes a day—from cardio, weight training, Pilates, to sessions in their Olympic-length pool, to Zumba, and I was gung-ho to take advantage and, I hoped, quick-start my routine into exercising more. Maybe even start losing the weight I’d gained from eating all those hospital cheeseburgers and fries. What a concept! So I was up early to work hard and happily in several classes before collapsing back at our bungalow for lunch. We’d then spend the afternoon and evenings working on his autobiography—that is, unless we had a spa treatment . . .
Patrick always did like to be treated luxuriously. And it wasn’t that he was some snobby connoisseur. If anything, he seemed like he was a kid being secretly treated to an ice cream cone or something special like that. He looked to have the same delight with his clothes. Most of the time he wore faded, torn-up jeans and T-shirts (long before it ever became fashionable to do so). And he was one of the few men who could look hunky in a sleeveless, cut-off T-shirt that read, “In case of nuclear disaster, put your head between your legs and kiss your A** good-bye.” But he appreciated the finer suits he had to wear on occasion, straightening a jacket in the mirror before we went out, noting the material, the cut of the garment, saying, “God, this suit is beautiful!” It would make me smile. “Yes, it really is.” And while I like his beat-up wardrobe, I loved how beautiful he looked in the finer stuff.
Patrick’s attitude really improved at the spa, and even his skin started to have a bit of glow again. The staff went out of their way for him, tailoring his massages and spa treatments, coming up with ideas that might help relieve the swelling that had been happening in his legs and other things that had been plaguing him. And the chef whipped up his own fresh, delicious protein shakes whenever Patrick wanted.
Of course, everyone’s face lit up when they saw him. And they didn’t treat him like he was sick. I think that’s what made the biggest difference to Patrick—for the first time in a long time, he was being treated like a human being rather than a patient. A pampered human being at that. And it was revitalizing to him.
And when we went back to Rancho Bizarro, it was with a fresh attitude, and lots of pages for his book.
—
IN BETWEEN his next treatments of FOLFOX, we were back at the ranch in New Mexico with friends and saddling up for a trail ride. Since he came off Abraxane, his hair was growing back and the short, tight hair looked good on him.
Our friend and neighbor to the south, Steve, also had some friends visiting, and we all decided to ride from his roping pens to our camp meadow through the forest. Steve had plenty of horses, just “come on down and get on,” he said. I had been working hard and was happy not to groom and saddle four horses! We were all packing our saddle horn bags with water and lip balm when Patrick announced that he was taking his horse Nation to ride, a handsome, big gray Arabian gelding. My heart sank. Taking Tamnation was not a good idea, not at all, and this was why: First, although Nation can be the perfect gentleman, he is one of those horses who doesn’t behave well if he hasn’t been worked in a while, and I hadn’t worked him in a long, long while. Second, Nation is a freakin’ idiot when it comes to trailers. Nation doesn’t even like to be tied next to a trailer, let alone to a fence by himself. And today was no exception.
When Patrick and our ranch hand went to put the saddle on him, Nation squirreled around and the saddle shimmied to the ground, further spooking him and getting him prancing about. I yelped as I watched him step all over one of our favorite saddles. But it was so typical of Patrick to do this. He was always pushing the envelope. What’s one more wild horse to deal with? It’s not the first time he loaded a too-fresh horse up and launched into an adrenaline junkie trail ride. In earlier days I would go along with his ideas, whether it’d be taking a horse up a mountain, grabbing the yoke of a strange airplane, or jumping off a cliff into a strange lake all the while cringing at what was happening and could happen, but not wanting to be a scaredy cat. If I balked, Patrick would sigh in exasperation, as if I was being thoroughly unreasonable. And sometimes I was being unreasonable, and sometimes I wasn’t. As I got older, I learned how to say no to the things I didn’t want to do, and it surprised Patrick every time.
“Lisa, why? Come on! What are you worried about??” he’d shoot at me and impatiently throw up his hands.
“Naw. You go do it,” I’d say brightly, like it was not complicated, “I’m staying here.”
And sometimes he would, but nine times out of ten, he’d turn around and stay with me. I think he much preferred the company. I didn’t feel bad . . . he had years of coercing me into doing things.
And today, here in the beautiful New Mexico air, I could have, but I wasn’t going to help Patrick with this horse. I kept my mouth shut and held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t get hurt handling the silly-acting Nation.
I held my breath. Because of his illness, and although he was looking better lately, he was not moving fast and his strength had dwindled substantially. All his resources had been going to fight the cancer, and it was a tough battle. But I thankfully let my breath out when Patrick walked over to the car. “I’m leaving him here,” he said and shook his head with disgust.
Yippee! We drove down to the pens. Of course, we were two hours late and the other party was long gone. (See Chapter 6, Patrick is always late!) No matter, it won’t stop us from riding. And we cinched up and untied our horses.
But when we pulled them around to mount them, Patrick heaved his weight up the saddle and promptly settled back to earth after moving only a few inches. He looked at me, a little distressed, and whispered, “I’m so weak! I can’t get up on the horse!”
The cancer had substantially reduced his muscle mass. And though the status of his health had drastically improved from the bumps earlier in the year, his weight was still down.
“What can I say?” he shrugged with a wry smile, “I’m a skinny guy.”
And though he was pretty bony now, he was still a large man and his presence was still big. But strength was an issue, and more than once he’d remark how weak he was with a puzzled kind of amazement. I was tempted to ask him to arm wrestle, but I was afraid I might win this time, and that would not be such a happy victory.
The last time we arm wrestled was when I was flying aerobatics. The plane I flew was a Pitts S-2b, a beautiful, cherry-red biplane. It’s a very sturdy and nimble aircraft, but heavy, meaning that the forces on the stick took some muscle to handle. My right arm and forearm had become like steel. I stood in the kitchen one night, showing my arm off to Patrick, trying to convince him of my new physical strength.
“Look! Look how buff I am! Hey, let’s arm wrestle!” I proposed excitedly, “Then you can see how strong I am!”
Patrick dropped his head and kinda chuckled a little, “Naw, naw, Lisa . . .”
“Come on! I bet you! I bet I can beat you,” I enthused. I mean, I was working my arm on this heavy plane several times a week, and he was pretty much sitting around doing nothing at that point. “Really, just try!” I entreated . . .
He kinda sighed, like he was indulging silly old me, and stuck his arm out. Within about one and a half seconds, he beat me, so easily that I took a step back and looked at him.
“What am I doing moving furniture and loading all the luggage?” I said. “From now on you’re the one who’s moving all that stuff.”
So, the moral of the story is—even though the cancer had made him lose so much strength, I was not about to underestimate him.
And holding on to the horse now in New Mexico, he confessed that he didn’t have the strength to pull himself up onto the saddle. I looked at him with concern, trying to figure out how I could support him in this moment, “Can I help some way?” He grimaced an
d looked around. Our friends were already on the other side of the trailers, out of sight . . . Patrick nodded over at a large wooden spool sitting cocked to one side, “Let’s go over there . . .”
I nodded, and we led the horse over to the spool. I knew what he was thinking.
“Let me get up here, and I’ll swing my leg over the horse,” he said, and he concentrated as he climbed carefully up onto the spool. Of course the horse wondered what was going on and spooked away from him and the spool.
“You’re going to have to stand on the other side of the horse and keep him still,” he said.
I was already nodding . . . and I moved the horse back into position. I wasn’t crazy about my foot possibly getting stepped on by a twelve-hundred-pound horse. But I so wanted this to work for Patrick, and the horse seemed reasonable. What’s a little foot getting stepped on anyway? I stayed close to the horse’s side to make sure he didn’t move away. And Patrick leaned in and swung his leg over. He grimaced uncomfortably and then settled himself in.
He was on!
I ran over and jumped on my horse, and we called out to our friends as they rounded the corner of the trailer on their mounts. And they called back, “Whooo-hooo!”
It was a two-hour ride to the campsite, through pine forest and up and down mountains. I hadn’t been riding much in the last year, and during the last thirty minutes of the ride I was getting unpleasantly sore. This ride was ceasing to be fun and getting exhausting! I looked back at Patrick to see if he, too, was getting tired, and he was riding along pleasantly. Whaat? We got to the campsite and my a** was kicked! There was no food, we had no extra water, and I rued the thought of riding two hours back on my sore bum. And then eureka! I had cell reception! Quick . . . “Uhm. I can’t take any more riding. Do you guys mind if I call and see if someone can come get us?” This was not exactly a pioneer-woman move on my part.
I looked around for any other sore co-commiserates, and there were none. Not our friends, and not Patrick, who had parked himself on a log bench and was enjoying the scenery. My eyes narrowed. He must be lying. But I was the one whining. He hadn’t uttered any complaint, not now, and not during the ride.
Our friends did end up rapidly capitulating, and Patrick—Patrick just shrugged, like, “Whatever blows your skirt up.” Happily, I maintained enough reception to call Steve. He and Jeff showed up with a trailer for the horses and a cooler with beers and a bottle of vodka. After a quick cocktail (except for Patrick), we jumped into the truck and headed back to the roping pens. There, Steve’s friends had already been knocking on a bottle of Jack Daniels, chatting, and just not hurrying off anywhere. I was sure that Patrick was not feeling well and wanted to get home, but of course not, he stood chatting for an hour or so . . .
“Hey!” Steve had an idea, “Why don’t we go to my house and light up the fire and hang out there?”
“Sure,” Patrick shrugged and turned to us thoughtfully, “What do you guys think?”
“Ahhh . . . No,” I replied, and said that we all were pretty pooped and wanted to get home. I wasn’t going to underestimate Patrick’s energy a second time. If we went, chances were we were not going to get home until two in the morning.
In New Mexico, we had gotten a beautiful blanket of snow that winter, and spring is always gorgeous with the river gushing and the new green leaves and newborn ducklings, turkey, and fawns. And then summer brings the tall, warm grass and moody afternoon thundershowers. Patrick and I strolled down to the tack room together to visit the horses lazing under their shelter and to look at the camp storage room and the new shelves that were now up and getting organized. The air was breezy, the grass lolled in the wind, and the horses’ manes drifted on their necks as they grazed. The sky was just moody enough to cast a mysterious light across the fragile earth. Patrick’s gaze took him across our lively flowing river, the pasture, the forest beyond, the setting sun, and the horses with their hooves scuffing the earth . . . he turned to me and his eyes were earnest and misty . . .
“I want to live,” he said.
—
ON JULY 6, 2009, Patrick had another set of scans. The scans showed the disease was stable.
Stable!
We were beyond grateful.
—
BACK AT Rancho Bizarro in Los Angeles, at 4:50 P.M. I ran out of the barn as hard as I could and steered down to the house, legs and heart pumping. I was amazed that I could still move that fast when I wanted to.
I burst through the door of our house and yelled out, “Assirah’s foaling! Assirah’s foaling!”
“Are you sure?” Patrick asked.
“Yes, I’m sure! It’s going to happen now! You better hurry or you’re gonna miss it.” And I turned and hiked it back up to the barn, slowing as I approached her stall so I wouldn’t upset her. Her water broke and gushed out. At the same time, I felt a rush inside me. Oh, my God, this is really happening! A small foot appeared, and then another . . . I crouched in the stall’s doorway and waited for more. Assirah paced in her stall, these two little stick feet sticking out of her. Why won’t she lie down? If the baby comes out while she’s standing, I’m gonna have to play catch!
Within a minute, Patrick was there and my brother, niece and others were starting to congregate. I clumsily started to text people to let them know it was happening and to tune in to the webcam site!
We had a webcam set up because I was determined that we were not going to miss this foal’s being born. Up to this point, somehow Patrick and I had managed to miss every baby’s birth. So I had gotten a foal predictor kit and started milking and testing the mare every day for almost two weeks before her due date. My sister-in-law, Jessica, set up a webcam. It was fabulous. We could be in the house and still monitor the mare. We left it on all night beside our bed. I also gave the site to many of our friends so they could help be on “foal alert.” “Please call us immediately if you notice her pacing, or lying down, anything that looks like she’s gonna foal,” I asked. I even had friends in Europe tuning it (hey, they were up when we were asleep!). Everybody loved it and many left the site on all day, even at work. It was great for them when people came by their office desk (in Beverly Hills no less!), and when asked about it, they’d casually say, “Oh, just keeping an eye on a mare that’s about to give birth.”
As it turned out, I was checking Assirah’s progress on the monitor when I noticed her pacing with a little more agitation than usual, which sent me up to the barn for my discovery.
Assirah finally decided she’d lie down to begin the laborious process of pushing the foal out, and Patrick stood behind me in the stall doorway. When the baby’s nose was fully out, I reached over and broke the thick, pliable sac covering his delicate nostrils. He was wet and slick and lay still as Assirah kept pushing and resting, pushing and resting . . . I felt like a basket case. I felt like I was the one having this baby! I could hardly stand it! I glanced back at Patrick and he glanced at me, the same wonderment and excitement in his eyes.
The foal kept coming, down to his hips now. I held on to his front feet very gently to give Assirah a little traction. Oh, my God, to see a small horse come out of a mare’s uterus is like seeing her delivering a kitchen chair out her vagina. How does she manage to do this!
By the time the body was out, I could see the foal breathing. Thank God. He lifted his head and wobbled around and then sank back to the straw. Assirah lifted her head, barely, and wearily let it fall back down again. She was totally spent. Beyond exhausted! It took great restraint from all of us to not rush into the stall and to let mother and baby rest for whatever moments they needed.
The baby was the first to move. And instantly Patrick was in the stall!
He tied up Assirah’s placenta, which was hanging out the back, so she didn’t step on it when she got up. And he moved to assist the baby in standing. It’s an amazing fact that foals generally stand within the first hour of life, a necessity out in the wild, where the baby not only needs to stand to nurse, but al
so needs to run from predators!
I was pretty excitable at that point, happily stressed, my heart bursting with pleasure as the foal started trying to figure out how he was going to get up. “Get out of the stall!” I said urgently to Patrick. “Leave him alone! Let him get up on his own! Please, please!” Partly because I didn’t want Patrick to be too invasive with the foal, and partly because Patrick was standing on a webcam that anyone in the entire world could tune in to, and he was not only hooked up and carrying his medication pump, but he was doing so in his cowboy pajamas, the ones I bought him in beige flannel with little red campfires and cowboys cooking breakfast on them.
“You’re on camera!” I called out at him.
He grudgingly moved out of the stall, but was instantly happy again and easily forgave me my excitable antics. It was a joyful time, and everyone was pretty excited. When the foal finally stood up, he tumbled back to the earth, clunking into the sides of the stall on the way down. The next attempt had him crumpling with his legs twisting uncomfortably. After one more time of this, I was giving Patrick instructions again, this time for him to “just get back in the stall! Hurry! Just keep him away from the wall! Please!” And Patrick helped to protect the baby in his falls. And it was thrilling when the foal finally stood on his own, a monumental feat that never ceases to amaze. He wobbled and within a few minutes he scampered across the stall like an awkward spider. We burst into delighted and charmed laughter, proud of this first flight on his feet.
5:30 A.M. Shirin Jewel gives birth to a filly.
Chapter 19
AND ANOTHER THING
Worth Fighting For: Love, Loss, and Moving Forward Page 21