In 1997, I travelled to Sundance to meet with Robert Redford who helped us create a children’s health summit. John Travolta’s wife, Kelly Preston, worked with us on a video about children’s health called Not Under My Roof, which became a huge educational tool. Later, I went with Jim, Nancy and Kelly to Washington, DC for a congressional gathering in which Hillary Clinton and Senator Boxer spoke of the most important mission on earth: protecting our children.
Children are our future and they really deserve to live in a world with clean air, water and food.
After Colette passed, I never went forward with the adoption because my hands were full and my heart took a long time to mend. Instead, I put my energy into this work. I served as the Goodwill Ambassador for the United Nations’ Environment Programme. The environment is something so close to my heart and I was so proud to carry that banner for them. Later, during my recovery from breast cancer, I would write an album called Gaia.
One of the lyrics is:
I am your mother – born of the sun.
I gave you shelter – what have you done?
Your heart’s in turmoil – my world’s in pain.
I need to turn you back home again.
I felt so closely connected to the earth at that time that I wrote it from Mother Earth’s perspective because I felt her pain so deeply.
Nancy and Jim remain two of my dearest and closest friends. How they handled their unrelenting grief while still caring for others earned them my lifelong respect and love. These were two people who always asked, even during that incredibly painful time, ‘How are you?’ They have been such an integral part of my life and happiness. Grief is just proof that you loved.
Long before we had children, Nancy’s stepdad, Gerry Breslauer – my business manager for many years – told me, ‘One day you will meet my daughter Nancy and be best friends.’
His words were certainly prophetic.
Don’t ask why me, why me, why not me?
In 1992 I was doing a breast self-examination at home and I felt a lump, but I didn’t panic because I’d had lumps before and had them checked, and it was always fine. My gynaecologist diagnosed me with ‘lumpy breasts’, or fibrocystic breasts. I had even had needle biopsies for lumps in the past and luckily they were all benign. But this lump did give me a moment of pause.
I was extremely tired. In fact, I’d said to Rona recently, ‘My blood feels like water. It’s like someone drained all the energy from me.’
Maybe it was that I’d just come back from Brazil where I’d represented the UN at the Earth Summit and recorded a song for the environment. I was truly honoured to be there, but it took a lot of energy out of me.
I came back to Los Angeles worn out, and I knew I didn’t feel right.
When I found the lump in my right breast, I went to have it checked. Why did it feel different from the others? It was a little painful to the touch, and I’d felt occasional little shooting pains shoot through my upper chest when I was in Brazil.
But the mammogram revealed nothing. I insisted to my surgeon, Dr Phillips, that we do a needle biopsy – and we did. It also showed nothing of concern. Given the way I was feeling, though, the doctor and I discussed it, and he felt it was important to do a surgical biopsy. I would have to wait for the results.
Some women might have stopped at that last bit of good news, but I always say that if you feel deep down like something is wrong with you, then you need to trust your gut. You know your body.
Ask for the tests.
It’s what saved my life.
While I was waiting for the results, Rona and I received a call saying my father was very ill and we should get there quickly. We jumped on a plane and arrived in Australia to face the fact that my father, who had been diagnosed with liver cancer, was very ill. It had snuck up on him and the entire family. One day, he was reading the paper and sipping his coffee, and the next day, he was in a foetal position, barely able to speak. He deteriorated so fast.
With great pain, I had to tear myself away from my father’s sickbed to return to Los Angeles to start rehearsals for my world tour. I told him I’d be back soon and had to leave because I had so many people counting on me. Again, the show must go on. All night long on that plane ride home, I cried and cried.
In my heart, I knew I would never see my father again – and I was right.
‘Daddy, I will be back to see you the minute my tour ends,’ I told him as I kissed him goodbye for what would be the last time. He smiled and said he would look forward to it. I didn’t want to leave that room and lingered for a long time. I loved my father so much.
What was wonderful was that my mum got a chance to see him one last time. Something good always comes out of the bad. I truly believe that in my heart and soul. My mother and father were able to say goodbye to each other. He even apologised for hurting her all those years ago.
I came home from Australia right before the 4 July weekend, planning some of the million things you do before a world tour. There were set-lists to create, plus meetings with my manager and my musical director, along with my clothing designer. I spent as much time as possible with Chloe, savouring every minute.
I even forced myself to relax a bit.
When the world ground to a halt for the holiday weekend, we went to the San Juan Islands, joining some friends at their beautiful vacation home. Pat and John were with us.
This was a special place for me where the snow-capped mountains seemed to touch the sea and the scent of pine trees filled your senses while you witnessed the beauty of the elegant and majestic madrone trees. On one particularly memorable visit, after all this stress, my spirit finally soared again when I experienced a rare and magical thing. It was a convergence of ninety-six orca whales from three different pods. My friend Debbie Bledsoe had received a call from the Whale Watch Society to say the orcas were out. This was a group of friends who couldn’t wait to call each other with a sighting. We’d taken off into the bay and turned off the boat’s engines in the middle of this beautiful orca convergence.
Don’t tell anyone, because you’re not supposed to do it, but we wanted to hear them breathing and talking to each other. There were mothers with their babies and elderly whales with worn, beat-up dorsal fins reflecting their battles and victories in their beautiful, silent world, of the ocean.
It remains one of the most magical moments of my entire life.
This time it was different – even a bit eerie. We took the boat out and I didn’t see one whale. The water felt bleak and the slate-grey sky was empty.
A sadness fell over me.
Later that day, I was beyond wiped out as we sat on the dock, listening to the lapping waves and the rattling of the chains on the boats secured to their anchors. It was supposed to be life-affirming and peaceful, but I couldn’t relax. Something was bothering me, and I had to ask Matt a question. He had been paged while we were changing planes in Seattle. Why? He just shrugged it off.
A few minutes later, Matt went inside to take a phone call. When he returned, I could see that something was wrong.
‘I’m so sorry to tell you, Liv. Your father has died,’ he said, hugging me.
It was 3 July in Australia, my brother’s birthday, and that made it even harder. But there was no time to deal with the waves of emotions over losing my beloved dad. Later that day, we flew home and I saw that the answering machine was blinking. Matt already knew what it was about, but he didn’t tell me. Remember that page at the airport? He held it in because there was enough to deal with concerning my father. The page was from my trusted long-time assistant, Dana, saying that Dr Phillips had called. He wanted to see me in person on Monday.
I knew right away.
Doctors don’t want to see you in person unless it’s bad news.
Oh God, I didn’t know what to do! Should I fly to Australia immediately to help make arrangements for my father’s services, or wait to see my doctor? And what about all those people relying on me for the world t
our?
Nothing could be decided until after that Monday morning appointment.
Just as I’d thought, the doctor told me I had breast cancer, and we would need to act quickly. My right breast, including the nipple, would have to be removed, in what’s called a ‘modified radical mastectomy’. The breast could be reconstructed in the operating room immediately following the mastectomy and the nipple could be rebuilt later if I chose. I was told that chemotherapy may or may not be necessary.
At first I was in denial, and made a lot of jokes to the doctor. Humour is usually my way of coping. From denial, though, I moved to cold fear.
Frightened to the core, all I could do was stay wide awake, thinking of Chloe who was only six. I was her mum – an unbreakable bond. What would become of her life without me in it? In those dark night hours while the world slept, my mind raced with the most horrible possibilities. It seemed as if daylight would never come. Finally, I went to bed to capture a few hours of needed sleep, but I was too restless, and after staring at the ceiling I went back downstairs with dread in my heart.
As I paced, it felt like my legs were so heavy, I could hardly move. My heart sunk low.
The next day, I cancelled my tour, one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t. But I was concerned about everyone else now that their jobs had been cancelled.
I had to stop. Regroup. Work on changing my mindset.
This challenge was put in front of me for a reason, and I would rise to it. I set out to find out as much as I could about breast cancer and my options.
Nancy told me, ‘You are going to set the tone. You have to decide that you’re going to be okay – and truly believe it.’
I can’t stress it enough. Your mind is a powerful tool and only one person is in control of it: you.
You must believe in the power of you.
Four big words: I will be fine. This wasn’t said with a wavering voice or with tears. I WILL be fine. I said it in the strongest possible way, firmly, and with a sureness and conviction that I felt down to my toes.
I had to be fine.
I went ahead with the surgery, hoping and praying that chemo could be avoided.
I wanted to remove the cancer and get on with it.
Yes, I was frightened, but I vowed that after my surgery I would open my eyes and take the first step on my road to recovery. My cancer would be something of the past and my body would begin to repair itself.
After surgery I was wheeled back to my room, where I would open my eyes to find my oncologist, Dr Van Scoy-Mosher, sitting on the edge of my hospital bed. ‘We got it, Olivia,’ he said. The breath I had been unconsciously holding was released. ‘But I think we’ll do a six-month course of chemo just to make sure.’
Just what I was scared of the most. I would have rather used natural therapies. Pat had another perspective.
‘Why wouldn’t you do chemo?’ she said. ‘Just to be sure. Do it as a safety thing.’ And she reminded me what was foremost on my mind when she said, ‘Liv, you have a little child who needs her mother. You need to do everything to get that last cancer cell out of your body.’
‘Do it,’ I said to my doctor.
It didn’t help that this happened during what I lovingly call my ‘Britney Days’. Most people face a cancer diagnosis with close friends and family. I was a well-known singer and actress whose every move was followed by the press and the public. Being a celebrity is a trade-off. As good as the perks are (my friends lovingly call me ‘Passport Face’ because I can usually get us anywhere we want to go), you still have the downside. Including having to go through the most intimate and devastating experiences in front of the entire world.
Someone saw me when I went for my first scan. My publicist hated to call me with this news, but one of the papers threatened to run a story saying that I was dying of cancer. This is how they do it. They take a rumour, threaten you with creating a whole drama around it, and then force you to say what’s really going on.
I hadn’t even told my family yet because they were dealing with the loss of my father. But I made a quick decision to come out, right then, and talk about it before anyone could put fake words in my mouth. I just wanted to be honest about what was happening, so if my family did read about it then it would at least be the truth and they wouldn’t have to believe something even more horrible.
In 1992 breast cancer was not something that people openly discussed like they do now. People whispered the ‘c-word’ and turned away from you as if it were some kind of contagious disease.
I phoned Rona, Mum and my brother to tell them what was happening. And then I gave my publicist the go-ahead and we announced to the world that I had cancer:
Olivia Newton-John, Australian pop singer and sweetheart, has been diagnosed with breast cancer.
‘I draw strength from the millions of women who have faced this challenge successfully,’ she said Monday.
‘This has been detected early because I’ve had regular examinations, so I encourage other women to do the same. I am making this information public myself to save “enquiring minds” 95 cents.’
Newton-John, 43, shot to fame teaming with John Travolta for the 1978 film Grease. She has to postpone her Back to Basics Tour, set to start Aug. 6, but she said in her statement, ‘Doctors expect a full recovery.’
We decided not to tell Chloe anything about my diagnosis for now. She was six and had lost her best friend Colette to cancer. How could a little girl cope with that loss and then her grandfather and now her mum’s illness? Chloe only associated cancer with death, and I couldn’t do that to my little girl. Not telling her was a decision I later questioned. But back then, I felt that Chloe had enough on her plate, although we did take her to therapy to talk through her losses.
She did spot the strangers who sometimes came to our house to give me medical advice. These people would turn up at our gates yelling, ‘Don’t do chemo. Don’t do radiation. Use meditation!’ I was amazed at the outpouring and it was all very well-meaning. But I had to trust my doctors to heal me, while creating my own wellness program to go along with what they prescribed.
‘Who are those people at the gate, Mummy?’ Chloe would ask me. ‘Oh, just photographers, darling,’ I said.
So I could spare her the worry, I’d set up play dates on the chemo days and she would go and stay with friends. Her dad would take her out the next day or two when Mum wasn’t feeling well.
When I showed up for my first chemotherapy session, I was terrified. I actually believed that when they stuck the needle in, I would keel over and die. Fear is a terrible thing. But I survived and even went to a movie right afterwards. Nancy’s idea, and a good one. Stick to normal things.
As I sipped my anti-nausea drink in the theatre that day, I had no idea what I saw on the big screen.
I had seen the horrors of chemo with Colette, and it was her mother who had a frank talk with me about how to deal emotionally with my cancer. I didn’t want pity or to be treated like an invalid. ‘It’s all up to you, Liv,’ Nancy said. ‘You’re going to set the standard for how everyone treats you. If you’re positive, everyone else will be positive too.’
Every three weeks, I had another round of chemo, and through it all laughter was the way I maintained my sanity and balance. I dug deep into my sense of humour even when they were putting the really big needles into my tired veins.
And I used mental imaging to deal with how I felt afterwards. This is what really helped me: I would visualise the chemicals as liquid gold going into my body, healing me, drip by drip. I’d see myself as strong, especially during my weakest moments.
I’ve survived so many things
From broken hearts to shattered dreams
In every wall, I’ve found an open door.
I’d miss a step, I’d learn to dance
Come back again with half a chance
Stronger than before.
A spark in hope in sorrow’s place
>
Will shine with such amazing grace
Stronger than before.
I’d be lying if I said I was always positive. I had my moments of tears, fears and negativity. Sometimes I gave in to that raw feeling of adrenaline-induced terror. I thought of Linda McCartney, who’d died in 1988 of cancer, shocking the world because she seemed healthy and then she was gone. It really brought home how fortunate I was that my strain of cancer wasn’t more aggressive. My cancer was oestrogen-positive in situ, so it was contained within my breast ducts. This was good news and I was very aware of how lucky I was because I had lost several friends to breast cancer.
The bottom line is, you have to reach for the good in any situation. I always tried to make the positive voice overrule the negative. The light would push out the dark.
Six months of chemo turned into nine because my blood counts were too low and we had to stop for periods of time. I was doing three different drugs in one push called Cyclophosphamide Methotrexate and Fluorouracil (CMF). I’d go to my oncologist’s office and have it administered by his nurse. The second time Nancy went with me and then we went to another movie. Laughter (and Goldie Hawn) turned out to be the best medicine of all that day.
After each session, I had a weak, shivery feeling like the flu. There were bad headaches, my eyes stung, and I had a terrible burning in my throat as if I’d smoked a ton of cigarettes.
The good news was I didn’t lose my hair, maybe because of the ice cap I wore when receiving treatment – it looked like a tea cosy with ice inside, and it was designed to reduce hair loss during chemotherapy. Very cute – and quite helpful!
Don't Stop Believin' Page 15