Farrah’s scans still haven’t reached Dr. Vogl. It’s ridiculous that she should have to wait until Monday to know what’s going on. I know she’s anxious and scared. She was starting to feel well and exercise a little. We have been going to Pilates together and she was starting to get stronger. In fact, it annoys me no end that she’s way stronger than me on the machines. Her attitude is “Look at me! Even with cancer I can kick your butt!”
April 30, 2008
So much is happening—too fast. It feels like life is spinning by so quickly I can’t catch my breath. Farrah’s results came back from Germany, and she does have two or three new tumors in her liver. The primary one, the original site, shows some activity and needs to be biopsied.
We have to go back to Germany within the next two weeks. Of course, I’ll go with her. Having said that, I feel a little depressed about leaving my home and my dogs again so soon. I can’t seem to get caught up. And I’ll be missing my birthday. Am I avoiding reality by continuing to go to Germany? My heart tells me I have to be with my friend, no matter what, and just trust that God will take care of me.
Mimmo left Monday night. I was sad to see him go but relieved in a way. On the one hand, he’s taking my mind off how things are with Farrah; on the other, I feel like I can’t get anything done when he’s here. I’m just confused as to how I feel about him. Very confused. He’s very hardheaded and states his opinion as though it’s absolute fact—silly things like which car is better than another—and yet I find myself disputing it. I guess I’m pretty stubborn, too. I do the same thing with George. He and Mimmo are similar in that respect. It must be the Leo in them. But why do I feel the need to challenge them and to be right? Why can’t I just enjoy Mimmo for the fun of it, like Farrah suggests? Again, it’s a way of deflecting closeness, pushing him away like I did with that little boy who brought me flowers when I was three. I shoved him down and he hit his head on the pavement. Poor little guy. He’s probably still on some therapist’s couch somewhere.
I just spoke to Marianne. How serendipitous that she would call at this instant. She said what I’m doing with Farrah is a holy thing, that being a friend and going with her is the highest form of love. And that I have a great guy there who loves me. God will take care of the rest. Be in the moment. She said the future is in your head and so is the past. It’s about being in the present moment and placing the future in the hands of God.
May 2, 2008
Good news, finally! Sean’s case was dismissed. I’ve never felt so relieved. Over the last couple of days, I’ve been sick with this virus from hell, so maybe now I won’t feel as stressed and I’ll get healthy. Tonight I went to a dinner at Lili and Dick Zanuck’s house for Dr. Jacob, who was in L.A. to see Farrah and some other patients. I’ve introduced her to all these people who now just love her: Lili, Cher, Farrah, Carole Bayer Sager, and a few of my other friends and acquaintances as well. Dr. Jacob is so busy with patients, I’m lucky if I can get her attention these days. She thinks a lot of my problems are in my mind. God knows maybe they are, but they sure seem real enough to me!
The dinner was really lovely, although four members of the Germany group didn’t show up because they got lost. George and Barbara were there. I still have some mixed feelings about that. It’s nothing against Barbara; I really like her. It’s just that I have some strange sense of abandonment now that George is actually in a relationship with someone. I always wondered how I would feel if it ever happened, but somehow I didn’t think it would. I think, in some weird way, our connection has kept me from being fully open to being with another man. I’ve always felt such loyalty toward George. I guess it’s like a brother or a father, but it’s even more than that. I’ve always felt like we’re soul mates, and I feel a little thrown by the whole thing with Barbara happening out of the blue
Complicating all this was the fact that Mimmo is still in the picture. I’m still confused about that, too. I want to be open to being with him, but although I’m ashamed to admit it, I feel like I want more. More what? More stability, more security, more of a feeling of safety? Is that so terrible of me or just totally honest? Am I being superficial or just clear about the kind of life I want to live at this point? Marianne says I can have the “more” on my own; I can create my own security. But how in the world could that happen? I guess anything is possible. Miracles can happen, right?
May 18, 2008
My birthday. Because it turned out that we’re not leaving for Germany until later in the month, I was able to enjoy having my birthday in L.A. I stayed home all day, ostensibly to relax and enjoy myself. Ha! Instead I felt horribly anxious (I always do on my birthday). I worried about everyone having a good time at my party. Farrah wasn’t able to come. Ryan drove in from the beach to pick her up, but she was sick from having three consecutive days of scans. She called me while she was trying to get ready, but I could hear how weak she was.
“Don’t try to come, honey. I’ll miss you terribly, but I don’t want you to feel pressured to show up somewhere.”
The party was lovely and everyone had a great time. I decided to have my favorite lychee martini and eat everything I wanted, including the chocolate marble birthday cake, and hang the consequences. Carole and Bob Daly had organized everything beautifully in the upstairs room at Mr Chow, my favorite restaurant. Twenty of my friends were there, including Jaclyn Smith, Nicollette Sheridan, Raquel Welch, Tina, George, and my son Sean.
I feel so grateful to have such wonderfully generous friends, especially Carole and Bob. I got some really beautiful presents, including a Chanel bag from George and a beautiful Balenciaga pearl necklace from Carole and Bob, but certainly the most unusual present was from Tina Sinatra: an orphaned baby elephant in Africa. She made me his sponsor. Has she lost her mind? I have three kids that cause me enough stress—I sure don’t need a baby elephant. I mean, of all the things I could use! I asked her if I could make a purse out of it when it’s bigger (it was a joke, I swear). After she showed me his picture, I fell in love: his name is Shimba, and he still drinks milk from a bottle. I’ve decided I want to go visit him in Africa one day.
When I was driving home, I was smiling to myself, recalling all the laughs we had this evening. Then I remembered there was something blatantly missing: Farrah. She would have loved the food and the company and laughed at my crack about the elephant purse. It was a wonderful celebration…but it feels a little strange, a little hollow, without my sweet friend.
May 20, 2008
Farrah called this morning and I barely recognized her voice, it was so weak. She’d been up since six o’clock throwing up and in terrible pain. I called Dr. Piro to see if he could go to her house, but he wanted her to come to his clinic so he could do tests. Ryan bundled her up and took her there, and I hurriedly got ready to go meet them.
When I arrived, she was still throwing up nonstop. The medications they were giving her for the pain and nausea weren’t working yet. This was like a replay of the time in the Frankfurt clinic that she got so sick after the liver chemo perfusion and threw up seventy-five times.
God, it’s so hard to see her go through this agony. I almost have to detach from my body and go somewhere else in my mind, it’s so painful. That’s what I’ve always done. When my son Ash was in the emergency room with his fractured skull, I was there, but none of it seemed real. It’s the same with Farrah. I walk through it all, but often I feel like I’ve disassociated myself from the reality of it.
By around five o’clock, when the vomiting still hadn’t stopped, Farrah was still adamantly refusing to go to the hospital. She hates hospitals, plain and simple. It’s why we’re always rushing to get home from Germany: she can’t bear to spend one more minute in the hospital or clinic if she doesn’t have to. Something had to be done, though. Neither Dr. Piro or I was getting anywhere, and she needed medical attention. Finally, I called Ryan and said, “You have to convince Farrah that she has to go into the hospital. We’re having no luck.” I knew he’d get
her to change her mind. He has a way with her; she trusts him and respects his opinions. So she stopped protesting and listened to him, and we were finally able to take her next door to St. John’s in a wheelchair, wrapped up in a blanket. Finally, the vomiting stopped. But we’re obviously not leaving for Germany tomorrow.
Nothing like a change of scenery.
After our fourth trip to Germany, when they declared Farrah tumor free, we went to Mexico with our friend Bren Simon. It was March 2008, and this was our spring break. We flew down on Bren’s G5 and stayed at this incredibly beautiful house in Punta Mita. Farrah and I would lie in the sun, and there was a huge staff that would wait on us hand and foot. We ate every five minutes: they’d bring us watermelon juice, guacamole and chips, quesadillas, and margaritas at night.
There was this ATV, and I was determined to learn how to drive the thing. So I took one spin around by myself, then I pulled up alongside Farrah.
“Hop on!” I yelled.
She gave me a look like I was completely insane (which I probably was), crossed herself, and got on. At first it was kind of jerky, and I was going no faster than two miles an hour. Then I got the hang of it and we flew through the sand, laughing all the way. We went driving back and forth, up and down the beach. We drove past a wedding, and a guy came out and yelled at us for making too much noise. We sped away laughing.
We were there for a week, and it was a slice of heaven—the last time I remember Farrah really feeling good for a prolonged period of time. We talked so many times about going back there, but we never made it.
CANCER FOR A DAY
May 21, 2008
I woke up with horrible anxiety this morning. An elephant-sitting-on-my-chest kind of anxiety. I’m worried about Farrah, the looming trip to Germany, and, of course, as always, my future.
Farrah called from the hospital. She’d slept through the night, the MRI was okay, and the doctor said she could go home and rest there. She said they were giving her Dilaudid for the pain. I resisted the impulse to ask if I could have some. I’ve never had it, but according to drug addicts, it’s like heroin. Sounds mighty attractive right now. Maybe I can become a drug addict since I can’t tolerate enough liquor to become an alcoholic.
On top of everything else, I had a Pap smear done two weeks ago and it came back irregular. I freaked out and spoke to the gynecologist, who said this sometimes happens but the subsequent test they run would probably come back normal. I asked what happened if it didn’t, and she said they do something called a colposcopy, which magnifies the cells of the cervix to see if there are any irregularities. If there are, then they have to do a biopsy to see if it’s cancer. She said not to worry, because there was only a 5 percent chance it would be positive. I’d feel better if it was, like, 1 percent.
Of course, I’m already thinking it’s cancer. I don’t even know if it’s positive yet. But after all I’ve seen Farrah going through, cancer terrifies me. And I’ve also seen how it operates: it can come out of nowhere, when you least expect it, when you’re totally not prepared. It doesn’t play fair.
I called my old gynecologist, and she said my last Pap smear in December was fine and that other things can affect a Pap smear. She said I shouldn’t be concerned, so I decided—for now—to put it out of my mind. I don’t need one more thing to worry about.
May 25, 2008
Farrah and I were supposed to leave for Germany tomorrow, but I was at her house last night and she seemed too weak to travel. This morning I changed everything to Wednesday. It’s a big relief to her and to me. I can’t think straight. I still haven’t packed. I have piles of clothes on my bed and it’s too confusing to figure out what to take. I look like I’m going on a tour of Europe instead of to a medical clinic in Germany.
May 28, 2008
Finally, Farrah and I got off to Frankfurt. Well, barely. I arrived at her house at 2:00 for a 4:25 P.M. departure. We were supposed to be at the airport by 2:45 at the latest. It looked like a bomb had struck: suitcases still open and half packed, clothes everywhere. She was wandering around, putting a few things here and a few things there.
I was determined not to get angry or stressed. Just detach and let it go. If we miss the plane, we’ll get another one, I suppose—we’ll just have a lot of pissed-off doctors on the other end. Not to mention the travel agent, who’s changed this reservation about ten times now. It’s Farrah’s surgery, and if she misses it, it’s her problem. Those rationalizations all sounded good, and I actually meant them until about 2:45 when we still weren’t anywhere near leaving. Also, it was a Wednesday, and my astrologer had said, “Under no circumstances can you fly on Thursday.”
By 3:00, I had started to panic a little, but I was determined not to show it. The last time we went, the exact same thing happened. I didn’t speak to Farrah all the way to the airport I was so pissed. I decided to go downstairs and wait in the car, where I could do some deep breathing.
I don’t know why it’s always like this. No matter how many days in advance she has to pack, Farrah still ends up late, with everything all over the place. Everyone is in a panic but her. It’s as if she has no concept of time. She finally arrived downstairs, perfectly cool. I don’t know how. No one else was. I’d spoken to the airport greeter three times, and he kept telling me that if we got there later than 3:15 our luggage might not make it on the plane. Okay, that’s a deal blower for me. If my luggage doesn’t go, neither do I!
Long story short, we made it in the nick of time, with Benny, her houseman, driving like he was in the Indy 500. Farrah was calm and chatty.
“Well, once I’m in the car,” she said, “it’s out of my control. And besides, they always wait.”
“Well, missy, one day they won’t!” I retorted snippily, while quietly praying that, as much as I’d like to teach her a lesson, it wouldn’t be today.
The Lufthansa people were waiting for us, of course, and we breezed through, except for the annoying paparazzi, who followed us all the way to the gate. I was filming them filming her. It was quite a commotion. I was surprised the airport police didn’t arrest the whole lot of them.
The flight was really pleasant. We ate mounds of caviar on the plane, which more than made up for the leathery chicken and mediocre dessert. Farrah fell asleep, as she always does in anything that moves, and slept the entire trip. I took an Ativan and slept for four hours, which for me is a record.
May 29, 2008
We arrived in Frankfurt this morning, dropped our bags off at the Villa Kennedy, and went straight to see Dr. Vogl. He did an MRI and then talked with us.
“There are four new tumors,” he said with a blank expression. “I will do the perfusion in the morning.”
We went back to the hotel, had relaxing “anti–jet lag” massages, and then got ready to go downstairs and meet Dr. Vogl and his wife in the bar for a drink. I went downstairs first, since Farrah was, not surprisingly, running late. I have to cut her some slack on the lateness, she’s been going through such a difficult time. Dr. Vogl was alone, and he and I had a chance to talk. I asked him how he felt it was going.
“You’re her best friend, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. I could sense something was coming.
“I’m concerned by what I saw on the scan. She has more than four new tumors, but I don’t want her to know. She will lose hope.”
I was shocked. He hadn’t been completely truthful with her. “So what will you do?” I asked.
“Continue the perfusions, but more often,” he said. “I’m concerned there’s a seedbed somewhere else and they’re coming from there.”
“Has the original site been checked lately?” I asked.
“I’m going to do that tomorrow,” he answered.
“So what does this mean? If you had to estimate, how long do you think she has?” I held my breath as I waited for his answer.
He thought. “Maybe three years…maybe five.”
“But can’t Dr. Jacob come up with something
that will kill the seed ones, the ones in her blood?” I asked.
“It’s possible,” he answered. “This is what she must try to do.”
I was afraid of the answer but had to ask: “Do people ever get completely cured of this?”
He pursed his lips and shook his head. Shook his head no. Again, he cautioned, “You must not tell her. She has a strong will. That’s very important.”
So what do I do now? Suddenly I have this knowledge and I don’t dare share it with anyone. Is that the right thing to do? I sure wouldn’t want Farrah to know and give up hope. But do I have the right to keep this to myself? I feel like I’m harboring a horrible secret. I wish Dr. Vogl hadn’t told me.
May 30, 2008
Farrah’s liver perfusion went well today. Now she’s in the recovery room and in quite a lot of pain. We wanted to spend the night at the hotel, but Dr. Jacob insisted she come back to the clinic so she can treat her. It’s now 7 P.M. and I’ve come back to the hotel to get our luggage. Farrah is still in the makeshift recovery room in the hospital, which is really a supply room. The real recovery rooms are filled with other people. Maybe this is just the way they do it in Germany, but the people here are treated like cattle. They wheel them on the stretchers into a large hallway and just leave them lined up to wait for surgery. It’s ridiculous to leave someone like Farrah lying on a stretcher in plain view of anyone who might have a camera. They’re certainly not set up for VIP treatment.
I had a chance to speak to Dr. Vogl again. He said it went very well and he feels much more positive than he did yesterday. I brightened. “So tell me again, how long do you feel she may have?” I asked.
My Journey with Farrah Page 8