Afterward, when the drugs started wearing off, Farrah started complaining of pain in her liver. They gave her some pain drops and nausea drops orally in water, which I knew was a mistake. I even questioned the doctor before he gave them to her, warning him, “She tends to get very nauseated after any procedure and can start vomiting violently.”
Did he pay any attention to me? Of course not; he’s German.
So, about thirty minutes later, when I was in the anteroom talking to Dr. Jacob on the phone, I heard this splashing noise, then another, and another. I rushed into the room to see Farrah projectile vomiting. “Oh God,” I said to Dr. Jacob. “She’s throwing up!” The last time it happened after this procedure was the time Ryan was with her, and she threw up for over eight hours nonstop. I told the doctor who had given her the drops that she must have the medication immediately to stop the vomiting, but it had to be given by IV, not orally. The oral meds would take too long to work.
Nothing they gave her had any effect at all. It would look like she was nodding off, and then suddenly she’d start throwing up all over again. She was almost totally knocked out from all the drugs they’d given her, but still nothing stopped the vomiting. Dr. Vogl kept coming in, checking on her, and scratching his head. It was the first time I’d ever seen him at a loss for what to do.
“You think you can still make the plane?” he asked. She kept mumbling, “Yes, I want to go,” in between bouts of heaving.
He shrugged and then turned to me: “Well, she seems to want to go.”
Okay, now I was pissed. Who was the doctor here?
“She just threw up again five seconds ago,” I said. “Do you really think she’s capable of making that decision?”
“Well, you’re her friend. You know her. Do you think she can go?”
I hate when people answer a question with a question. I said, “Look, I’m not a doctor, how can I know if she’s able to go?” This was getting ridiculous. There was no way she could travel—back me up on this, will you, Doc?
Finally, after it was apparent that nothing was going to stop her violent vomiting, even she realized there was no way we were getting on that plane. I called the pilots and explained what had happened and how sorry I was. They called Bren Simon, and she told them to spend the night and bring us back the next day. God bless her. A five-hour ride in a bouncing van would have been a nightmare. Unfortunately for us, the nightmare was just beginning.
This was a day clinic, where people don’t spend the night, but we had no choice—we weren’t going anywhere. So Dr. Vogl arranged for a small room with two beds and his private nurse to stay with us. When we got to the room, it was around 9 P.M., and Farrah continued to throw up. They kept giving her more and more medication, and I was getting more concerned by the moment. I kept calling the doctor, asking what was causing such a violent reaction, and he said it was the chemo.
“I had to give her a very aggressive dose in order to kill this terrorist,” he explained. He always referred to the cancer as a terrorist. “Some people do have this kind of reaction.” Thanks for telling us now. Just when the medication seemed to be taking effect and Farrah would doze off, the next moment she’d be reaching for the barf box (for lack of the technical term). She threw up about seventy-five times altogether (she told me the next day that she’d kept an accurate tally).
After a bit, I sneaked out into the hallway to eat the pizza and spaghetti Bolognese I’d had delivered before all this started. Who would have thought that I of the squeamish stomach could actually wolf down a pizza while my best friend was throwing up in the next room? But I was starving.
Then, in the middle of all this, Sean called, very upset about the outcome of his hearing. My nerves were raw. We argued and he hung up on me. I was upset and called Dana Cole, his attorney, to try to make some sense of what was happening. He said it wasn’t as bad as Sean thought it was, that very few cases got thrown out in the preliminary, and that the other side didn’t have a strong case at all and we did. I felt slightly better and somewhat relieved, but still, every time I thought about it I felt weak in the knees. After all, he is still my baby boy.
Luckily, I’d brought a pair of pajamas in my carry-on case and even found my eye mask from the flight over, so I brushed my teeth and crawled into the tiny bed next to Farrah’s. I turned out the lights hoping for the best, but no such luck. Every time I’d hear her reach for the throw-up pan, I shot up in bed, turned on the light, and went to get the nurse. The poor nurse didn’t speak English and just kept throwing her hands up to the sky and saying, “Mein Gott! Mein Gott!” Pleading for God to intervene didn’t seem to be working. She was kind of crazy and very melodramatic. Farrah looked at me between sieges of vomiting and said, “Oh God, they’ve sent me a loon!” From that moment on, we officially called her “the loon,” and couldn’t stop laughing when she walked into the room. We always managed to find the humor, even in the most harrowing situations. All my life I practically fainted at the sight of blood or even a hangnail. And here I am holding Farrah’s head as she throws up and wiping her face. This gives a whole new meaning to friendship for me.
There wasn’t much I could do for Farrah except call the loon and try to make sure she was warm enough and as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. Finally, around 4 A.M., she fell into a deep sleep. Thank God, I thought it would never happen. I went to sleep as well, after taking two Ativan. I’d told the nurse on duty not to let anyone wake us under any circumstances; we both needed to sleep. She said Dr. Vogl usually came in at five thirty.
“Is he crazy?” I snapped at her. “Tell him I said that if he wakes us up, he’s risking his life. You got that?”
I’m not sure she understood what I was threatening, but I must have looked like I meant it. She was intimidated enough to leave us sleeping until eight thirty, when the orderly came in to take Farrah for an MRI.
Farrah was a wreck, poor thing, but at least the vomiting had stopped. I was holding my breath, hoping that it didn’t start again. We went for the MRI, where a mean technician yelled at me and wouldn’t let me film her. Funny that Dr. Vogl, the god of all doctors, let me film everything, but this woman ordered me out. I was cranky enough already from lack of sleep and I was about to get into it with her but decided to let it slide. Pick your battles.
Dr. Vogl came into the room afterward and said that the tumor had been destroyed by this second embolization and that Farrah was now free of any active tumors.
“It’s worth all you went through last night to have such a good result, yes?” he said.
That was for sure, we both agreed, and hopefully she’ll never have to go through such a horrible experience again.
After that, everything went smoothly. We were picked up by the driver, went straight to the waiting plane, and were even able to take off two hours earlier than the time slot they had given us in the tower. We arrived in Munich and got into the waiting van, and Farrah slept for the hour’s trip back to the clinic, as usual. Her eyes close the minute she gets into anything that moves. (I wish I could be so lucky.)
For years I’ve been trying to get Farrah to go on a road trip to Texas with me, just the two of us going back home. Whenever I bring up the idea, she always answers, “Why would you want me? You know I would just get in the car and go right to sleep and you’d be driving the whole way by yourself.” I guess the only way to keep her awake would be to keep stopping for Mexican food. That would do the trick.
September 21, 2007
Farrah and I went outside and sat in the sun. Well, I sat in the shade, and she sat in the sun. At times in my life when I’ve felt terribly overwhelmed and anxious, I’ve envisioned having one of those old-fashioned southern nervous breakdowns that my mother was always having, and going to one of those sanitariums where people in the South used to go. Farrah and I used to joke about it; we would say what a nice rest it would be, to sit in our lawn chairs with blankets over our legs, staring blankly out over the green, rolling hills. I
t hit me while we were sitting outside today that this place fits that picture to a tee. I guess you have to be really careful what you wish for.
We’re quite a pair. People always think we’re sisters because we look alike—it must be the hair. “Yeah, she’s the older sister,” I’d always say whenever they’d ask (never mind that I’m a couple of years older).
“Yeah, Alana gets younger every year,” Farrah would tease back.
I’d try to convince her that she needed to lie about her age, but she’d always resist the urge.
“Why bother?” she’d say. “It always says, ‘Farrah Fawcett, comma, insert age here,’ when they write about me.”
I’d smile, but then I’d see her name in print and she’d always be right.
She always was a Texas girl.
In October 2007, Farrah and I went to Texas, after the second trip to Germany in September. We were there for her dad’s ninetieth birthday, which was where this picture was taken. We stayed with him and his second wife, Sophie, for three or four days. Farrah gave him this sweater, and he was so happy that she had come home.
After a few days with her dad, we headed for Nacogdoches, my hometown, to see my Uncle Gene. Farrah wasn’t feeling great, but she was determined to be a trouper; she didn’t want to let me down. She was probably the only friend I’ve ever had whom I could always enjoy Texas with, who understood what it meant to be home. We had the most fun on that road trip—just two Texas girls cruising around the back roads, miles and lifetimes away from Germany and everything from the last year. We kept joking that we were Thelma and Louise without the .38.
All along our drive, we’d stop in these little dive restaurants, and the college girl waitresses would say to Farrah, “Does anyone ever tell you you look like that actress from Charlie’s Angels?”
She’d smile and reply, “Yeah, sometimes…”
We stopped at Johnson’s Café in Corrigan, Texas. We had heard they cooked a hot lunch buffet with chicken-fried steak, turnip greens, and black-eyed peas, and our mouths were watering. We were in hog heaven. The owner, a man named Dooley, said that if we let him know when we were coming back through, he’d cook us up some chicken and dumplings (my personal favorite) and some pies. We kept to our word, and so did he—and he made us lemon and coconut meringue pies to take home with us.
We spent the night in this motel and we had little adjoining rooms. Farrah went into her room and there was this huge bug in the bed. So after trying to oust it unsuccessfully, with much screaming and giggling, she came into my room and slept there instead. We were crazy, silly, and loving every minute of being Texas girls once more.
A PLEASANT DISTRACTION
September 24, 2007
It was a beautiful day again, and we sat outside in the afternoon and read. Today kind of reminded me of those wonderful weekends when we were younger and we’d occasionally escape to Ryan’s beach house in Malibu. My kids would spend the weekend with their respective dads while Ryan would take care of Redmond at their house in town. Meanwhile, Farrah and I would run away for a couple of days of rest and recuperation from our busy schedules.
Just sitting in the sun and doing nothing was the most restful, healing medicine in the world. We’d bring a stack of fashion magazines and pore over them, comparing the things we found that we liked. We’d splurge and have the manicurist come down and do our nails and toes, or sometimes have a massage. If we felt like getting dressed and putting on makeup, which we usually didn’t, we’d occasionally go to dinner at the little Italian restaurant in the Malibu Country Mart or even to the mediocre Mexican restaurant on Zuma Beach. By the end of the weekend, we’d be ready to go home and resume our lives.
Today felt like that. It was a great time; two girlfriends hanging out together just like it used to be.
I’m so glad we didn’t leave today, even though we could have flown with the Simons on their plane. They would have gotten off in Indianapolis and sent us on to Los Angeles on the plane, which was incredibly generous of them, but Dr. Jacob felt Farrah wasn’t ready to travel yet. I agreed with her, but it was awfully tempting.
Tonight Dr. Jacob wanted to take us down to this Italian restaurant, Mimmo’s, which is supposed to be the best Italian food in the area and is practically across the street from the clinic. I got ready at the last minute and just threw on jeans with hardly any makeup, hoping to eat, get back to the clinic, and get into bed as soon as possible. It was a very charming, candle-lit restaurant, filled with attractive local people. It had the feel of a trattoria somewhere in the Italian countryside.
We were in the middle of our first course when the owner/ chef, Mimmo, came out to say hello to us. Hello, indeed. He was the cutest thing I’d seen in a long time, and certainly anywhere in Germany. Blond, blue-eyed, and gorgeous. He didn’t speak a word of English, but I managed to remember a little of my Italian, which duly impressed him. We were flirting with each other in Italian.
The minute he left the table, Farrah started doing these wicked impersonations of me, batting her eyelashes and mocking my lame Italian. We were laughing so hard. Mimmo kept coming back to the table and ended up ordering a round of after-dinner drinks and joining us.
Meanwhile, the restaurant had gotten quite warm and Farrah took off her sweater, leaving her thin T-shirt underneath.
“Are you trying to steal my man?” I teased. “Show-off!”
But Mimmo (probably because of my lame Italian) seemed quite taken with me. He was making plans to come to Los Angeles in November. He told us he was forty, which surprised me. I’d thought he was in his late twenties, so I was relieved not to be cradle-robbing. I was hoping he thought I was a lot younger than I am as well.
We finally said goodnight—Farrah practically had to pull me out of there because I was having so much fun, and she was having a great time making fun of me. Farrah liked Mimmo; she thought he was cute and sweet and he’d be good for me. Crazy. I came to Germany to help my friend fight cancer, and I might just have found a little romance.
September 25, 2007
Today was not such a good day. Farrah felt terrible, and so did I. I think it might have had something to do with the drinking last night. We were supposed to go back to Mimmo’s tonight with Dr. Jacob and Farrah’s good friends the Van Pattens, who had just arrived. But neither one of us felt like going. Farrah decided at the last minute that she really should go because she had told them she would. Farrah always tries to keep her commitments—even if she’s feeling under the weather. So we got ourselves together, and off we went.
I put in a little more effort than last night, since Mimmo would be there. He was thrilled to see us, and brought us all sorts of wonderful pastas to try. By the end of the evening he was affirming that he was definitely coming to Los Angeles to see me in “Noviembre.” I just kept laughing, batting my eyelashes, and saying “Va bene.” When we got outside, I said, “I wonder where he intends to stay?”
Dr. Jacob looked at me in amazement and said, “With you, Alana!” As if to say, “It’s pretty obvious, you nitwit.”
Yikes! What if he is serious? What will I do with a gorgeous Italian chef who doesn’t speak a word of English? And will he look as gorgeous when he arrives in L.A., probably in bad shoes and the wrong jeans? Guys sometimes just don’t seem as attractive out of their native environment. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
September 26, 2007
We’re on the plane on the way to Los Angeles. We just had a great meal with great service. Farrah is fast asleep and I was meditating when I had this great idea for a movie, inspired by Farrah talking about Enchanted April, which I’ve never seen but I think is about four older English women who go off to Italy to escape their mundane lives.
So here’s my idea: A few girls rent a house in Italy for a month and just hang out. I could see it as a movie, or even a reality show. If we did it as a movie, maybe Cher would want to direct it. I don’t know exactly what the plot would be, but it would involve fo
ur single California women. One of them would be the Farrah character, who is recovering from cancer. One would be my character, who is worried about her financial future and looking for an Italian billionaire (millionaires just don’t meet the criteria anymore). She, of course, falls in love with an Italian chef. Then there could be one woman who is recovering from a terrible state of depression, and another who has just found her husband in bed with another woman (or maybe even another man!). Anyway, there are lots of possibilities, but I’m not sure where I go from here. And do I need a younger woman (or two) in this plot? I don’t know how easy it would be to get any movie made with four women over fifty. That’s just reality in Hollywood.
Anyway, that’s my idea for now. I always have great ideas, but I’m never quite sure how to carry them out. I can’t make a decision, so I go around in circles and ultimately do nothing. I wish I could be more like Farrah in this respect; she’s a risk taker and doesn’t waste time once she puts her mind to something. She has a saying that she loves: “Life is sweetened by risk.” She even named her production company Sweetened By Risk.
November 11, 2007
I haven’t written for a while, even though I’ve been back from Germany for a month and a half. So much on my mind. The first thing I have to face is that Mimmo is definitely coming in a week, and I’m slightly panicked. It was all fun and laughs when we discussed it in Bad Wiessee. But truthfully, I never thought he would really come. He e-mailed me the minute I got home that he had booked his ticket. Suddenly reality hit: What the hell was I thinking? This man whom I hardly know is coming to stay at my house! What if he’s some pervert or an ax murderer?
My Journey with Farrah Page 5