“We will remove your tumor, yes?” he said, beaming. “It will be hard, but I have done this before.”
The reassurance and confidence in his voice were very different from what we were hearing from other people. His attitude was so upbeat and positive that it matched Farrah’s own outlook perfectly. She believed she had found the best person for the job.
NEVER SURRENDER
June 6, 2008
Another day of shocking news. Farrah’s biopsy came back and she does have another malignant tumor in the primary area. The doctor said it’s deeper than the other one, and the surgery will probably take a little longer than the one a year ago. I think we both sort of knew it, but hoped it wasn’t true. It was a real blow to her.
I put my arms around her and we both cried.
“I just don’t want to give up hope,” she said through her tears.
There wasn’t much I could say. She’d been through so much, and now she was facing yet another surgery on Monday. So I just held her close. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “But you can’t give up hope. You’ve come too far.”
Then the phone rang. It was her dad. She started crying when she told him, and I felt my own tears welling up again. Her dad, her pillar of strength, was listening to his only surviving daughter tell him the bad news.
Why, I wondered, was this happening to Farrah? Is there a lesson in all of this? I think there’s always a cause underneath any disease. Many spiritual teachers believe that all illness has a correlating mental equivalent. Louise Hay puts it succinctly: “when we create peace and harmony and balance in our minds, we will find it in our lives.” That makes so much sense…it’s just not easy to do.
I went back to my room, where I opened an e-mail from George. He said he was still shocked by my news about the cervical cancer, but it was good they got it so early. I e-mailed him back that I felt like I’d never really had it because by the time I knew I had it, it was gone. Cancer for a day. I said I figured the worst that could happen was I could die. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about being old and broke!
June 8, 2008
Neither Farrah nor I feel great today. Last night she started the thalidomide pills that are supposed to inhibit the cancer cells from growing. It’s the same thalidomide that caused all the birth defects in the sixties, and they’re now using it on certain fast-growing tumors. She had a couple of other shots today as well, and I woke up, after not sleeping well again, with my throat still sore. Also, I started bleeding from the surgery site, which made me nervous. What a pair we are.
“I liked it better when you were well and taking care of me,” she joked.
“You better get well, because the tables may turn soon,” I retorted. Bite my tongue.
My astrologer doesn’t like the date for Farrah’s surgery tomorrow. Mercury is still in retrograde and she says it’s possible she will have to repeat the surgery. She’d like her to wait until next Wednesday, but Farrah wants to go ahead with it. She just wants it out. I know if it were me, I’d wait the two days, but it’s her decision. And we know how stubborn she can be. My theory is, the more things you have on your side—even the stars—the better.
The weather is so chilly and gloomy today. It’s rained nearly every day since we’ve been here. I felt pretty good when we arrived, but now it’s getting really depressing. Even the weather is pessimistic. I feel like if we could just look out on those hills and see a ray of sunshine, it would be enough to lift our spirits. But no such luck. Maybe tomorrow.
I was supposed to have dinner with Mimmo tonight, but he called to say he was going to watch the Formula One race on television instead. I was waiting for him to invite me over, but he didn’t. Actually, it’s a relief, because I feel sick, but it’s a perfect example of his self-centeredness. I have to say, it’s starting to annoy me.
June 9, 2008
The taxi brought us to the hospital in the little town of Bad Tölz at nine thirty in the morning. At ten forty-five we were still waiting for them to come get her for the surgery. The hospitals in Germany, at least the ones we’ve seen, are much nicer and more comfortable than any hospital in Los Angeles. Everything looks new and clean. The language barrier is the only problem, but even so, the nurses and doctors all try very hard to accommodate us. They’ve given Farrah a sedative to relax her and she’s fallen asleep.
We talked on the way over. She told me she’d asked Dr. Jacob what the prognosis is now that the tumors’ resistance to the anticancer drugs has gone up to 80 percent. She also asked if anybody had ever survived this particular cancer. Dr. Jacob said no. I know that inside, Farrah has to be sad and frightened by this statement—knowing that, without a miracle, there would be no happy ending. But neither one of us voiced it. She’s still determined not to give up—and so am I.
Shortly after Farrah’s surgery, I went down to the recovery room to see her, and I found her surprisingly alert. She was still a little stoned from the medication and had me in stitches. The Germans in the cubicle next to us were talking so loudly that they could have been in a beer garden or at a soccer match. I think that’s the only way they know how to talk. Farrah kept yelling at them to shut up and kept trying to get up and go back to her room, despite the fact that she was hooked up to monitors. I was afraid she was going to pull them out of the wall!
I walked into the little village to get some strudel, the only German dessert we like. Even though she’d just had a major operation, Farrah was ready to eat and asked me to bring some back for her. For the first day since we’ve been here, the sun was out, and everything was radiantly green and vivid. Beautiful flowers were blooming everywhere and the smell of freshly cut grass was in the air. After all the terrible weather, I felt hopeful and happy to be out in the fresh air, walking around the little town.
June 10, 2008
Where do I start? Everything seems to be coming at us so fast and furious that I can barely keep my head above water. Dr. Kiehling, who had performed the surgery, came into the hospital room around 4 P.M. on Monday afternoon, and from the look on his face I knew it wasn’t good news. His expression was so sad and so compassionate that I thought he was going to tell Farrah she was going to die tomorrow. She braced herself. Then he began to speak.
“The tumor is larger than I expected and in a very precarious position. I need to do another surgery in the next couple of days.”
Farrah started crying, and he put his arms around her and held her close. Before long, she was laughing and joking with him. She’s truly incredible. I don’t know how she is maintaining such a strong spirit and attitude. Most people would have crumbled. But she rallies. She picks herself up, dusts herself off, and goes on fighting.
I’ve been joking about my own brush with cancer, my “cancer for a day.” Let’s hope it’s only a brush. I still have to do the PET scan to make sure it hasn’t spread to the lymph or anywhere else. Part of me feels sure it hasn’t, but after all this, God only knows. Deep down I’m scared. I don’t really believe it’s anywhere else, but then, I didn’t believe this would happen to Farrah, either.
Dr. Jacob came in and said that even with this new setback she feels very hopeful because there are some new antibodies, available only recently, that have tested very strongly against Farrah’s kind of cancer. This is the most impressive thing about Germany. They’re using these cutting-edge treatments years before the States. It seems like the FDA and all the rules and regulations keep us far behind them. What I’ve seen here is eye-opening.
Dr. Jacob said she feels very positive about Farrah’s chances now. She was very honest. She said, “Farrah, I will never give you false hope, but I will never give up on you, either.” This made Farrah smile. We had planned on staying at the hospital that night, but Farrah said she was feeling fine and wanted to go back to the clinic, so Dr. Jacob drove us.
Back at the clinic, we sat up talking until one thirty in the morning. It felt just like the old days, when we used to sit on the phone for hours, talking away
about anything and everything. Farrah read me an entry from her journal that she’d just finished. She’d never shared her writing with me before. It was very touching, so honest and from her heart. She said, almost apologetically, “My writing’s not nearly as good as yours.”
“Are you crazy?” I said. “You don’t have any idea how beautiful this is. It’s so descriptive and so poetic. This has to be the narrative running through the documentary. It’s so powerful.” She was talking about life and how fragile and fleeting it can be. She’d been hit by so many blows, one after the other. One phrase particularly stayed with me: “They can keep cutting out parts of me, but they can’t cut out my spirit. Sometimes I feel like a blond nothingness.”
Later, as I lay in my bed, I couldn’t sleep, thinking about the past few days…the past year. How did we get here, my friend? You are in this life-threatening battle with cancer, and I’m going through it with you. Then I had this cancer scare myself. I feel like my entire concept of what it means to be there for someone is changing. Supporting Farrah through this has been an exercise in constant motion, never having enough time or space to find my feet before the ground disappears beneath them again. It’s been a nonstop game of catch-up with my emotions. I constantly have the sensation that we’re hurtling through space, faster than the speed of light, and I don’t have time to digest or process anything. This has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. I feel like I just have to hold on and try not to go under while the raging current sweeps us along.
June 11, 2008
Okay, God, enough is enough! I am so sick that I’m barely able to swallow. Dr. Jacob did a swab of my throat and she thinks I have strep but has to wait for the results to know what antibiotics work on this particular strain. Fortunately, she was able to move Farrah’s surgery to Thursday. There was no way I could have made it today to help take care of her, besides the fact that she doesn’t need to be around my germs.
What if I can’t go with Farrah tomorrow for her surgery? She’ll have to be in the hospital three days this time. It’s a serious operation. I don’t have time to be sick.
Later
Finally, some good news! Dr. Jacob came into my room with the lab reports: there’s no cancer in my blood, and the tumor markers are normal. She said that means the cancer was localized and the doctor got it all. Thank you, God! I still have to do the PET scan to make 100 percent sure it’s not in my lymph or anywhere else, but she doesn’t think it will be. She started me right away on an IV of antibiotics to knock out my throat infection. I feel better already, just knowing that everything looks much more positive.
I asked her about Farrah’s operation tomorrow. Would it be terribly painful? She said that it would not, and that she will only be in the hospital two days. Please, God, let this turn around.
June 12, 2008
Farrah’s surgery day. We got to the hospital early, around 9 A.M., and of course waited and waited. Apparently the doctor was running late with other surgeries. Finally, they came to prepare her. She looked frail and nervous, clutching her rosary, as they wheeled her into the operating room. I went with her as far as they would let me, before saying good-bye. She looked like a small, frightened child.
I’m sitting in the Schlössel (which means castle), a Bavarian restaurant down the road from the hospital, having some lunch and waiting for Farrah to come out of surgery. Please, God, let Dr. Kiehling come into the room with good news—that it went well, that they got the rest of the tumor, that it was easier than expected.
This restaurant is really depressing. It’s the road show version of what one would imagine a German castle to be. Besides me, there’s only one old German couple in here. What they’re eating looks really good—sauerkraut and some kind of big dumplings. I’d probably have gas for two days. I couldn’t read a word of the menu, so the woman tried to explain it in the few words of English she could speak. I really wanted sausages and sauerkraut, but I settled for fish. I’m not even hungry, just trying to pass the time. They just brought the fish. It’s the size of a small whale.
I’m sitting here eating, feeling tears well up in my eyes. It’s such a dreary, depressing day. Will the sun ever come back to Bavaria for more than a day? Will it ever come back into Farrah’s life and mine? Funny, as I’m writing this the sun is just trying to break through the clouds, maybe for the third time in two weeks. Everything looks brighter—the trees, the grass, the sky. Perhaps it’s a sign from God that it’s all going to turn around. I know I need to be positive—to be strong for both of us. But I just feel so damned sad. I guess anyone would.
Farrah came back to the hospital room around three. I expected her to be much worse than she was. She didn’t even seem to be in terrible pain but obviously was still being given a lot of drugs. Within a couple of hours, she was hungry. I went out to buy strudel, but the little pastry shop was closed on Thursdays. So I went back to the Schlössel and got some second-rate strudel there. We scarfed it down with tea and spent the rest of the evening trying to find something edible for dinner. They seem to be big on bread and cheese here in the hospital.
As always, I was blown away by Farrah’s recuperative powers. Although she was a little slurry from the pain medication, we were filming, laughing, and joking about the food and the mean nurse, who of course didn’t speak one word of English. Which is a good thing, considering the names we were calling her. It looked like Farrah was going to drop-kick the nurse when she tried to touch her. Though she’s been so upbeat, I know there are days when she must doubt her faith and get angry with God for letting this happen to her. She always tries to see the greater good in her going through this, but there are moments, like this one, when her faith is pushed to the limits. If it were me, I’d probably be ripping people’s heads off.
June 14, 2008
Another gray day. I slept in the hospital with Farrah, and we actually managed to sleep from midnight till 10 A.M., an unheard-of feat in a hospital, where they usually come cheerily in around 5 A.M. and wake you up. I put a sign on the door last night saying “Do Not Disturb” in every language I could think of. I guess “Verboten” did it, because not a soul bothered us.
Farrah woke up in a lot of pain, so I don’t know if we’ll go “home” today. Scary that I’m starting to think of the clinic as home. I think I’ll go crazy if we don’t get out of this hospital soon.
This week has passed so fast I’ve hardly thought about Mimmo. I feel he really cares about me, but I’m pretty sure he puts himself, along with his fitness, his tanning, his pedicures, and his biking, before me. When I told him about my cancer, he didn’t seem to have much of a reaction, which surprised me. After all, it’s cancer, not a hangnail. We never talked about it again, and it left me feeling let down and disappointed. And he hasn’t been begging to come and sit by my bedside this past week when I’ve been so sick. Maybe all men are like this—certainly a lot of the ones I’ve known are, especially when it comes to “female problems.” As long as you’re up, fun, looking great, and sexy, they’re right there. But when you’re down, I’m not sure a lot of them really know how to show up for you. That’s where your girlfriends come in. They’ll hold your hand when you’re crying and your head when you’re throwing up.
When I think about it, my friendship with Farrah has outlasted any of my relationships with men. I have never survived thirty years with one guy—and frankly, I’m not sure I could. And even more incredible is that during those thirty years, we’ve only fought twice—both times over her being late for a flight.
June 15, 2008
Tonight, Farrah and I watched a documentary called The Heart of Healing. It’s about cancer and different diseases and what a huge role the subconscious mind plays in healing. According to the documentary, our emotions have a great impact on our immune system, and when we get angry or upset or scared, our adrenaline goes right down to the lymph, where our killer cells hang out. God, my killer cells must all be wearing helmets! Farrah was fascinated with
the message of the documentary. This whole experience with cancer has made her realize how much stress has impacted her health. I’ve seen her make a conscious effort to keep stress at a minimum in her life. I don’t know if there is one golden rule on how to do this—we all have to find our own way. For me, a lot of it has to do with putting everything in its proper perspective. Sometimes it’s as simple as taking a deep breath and asking myself, “How important is this to me? Is it worth getting myself upset over? How much does it matter?” Sometimes you just have to “let go and let God.”
June 17, 2008
I was in Farrah’s room with her and Dr. Jacob today, having a competition about cancer. We’ve both developed a bizarre and morbid sense of humor during all of this.
“Well, you only had cancer for a day,” Farrah said.
“So?” I replied. “That still makes me a cancer survivor, right?” I looked at Dr. Jacob for confirmation.
“We don’t know yet,” the doctor said, and laughed that hearty laugh of hers.
“Oh, great. Thanks a lot,” I said. We were all laughing at the time, but afterward, when Dr. Jacob and I were in my room alone, I brought up the subject again.
“I thought it was gone. They got it all, right?” I asked.
“Alana, there is never a guarantee it won’t come back. You have to be checked very carefully from now on. You should also have an ultrasound of your kidneys and liver every six months. You have all these latent viruses, and your immune function is lowered. Your killer cell count is half of what it should be. You have to take care.”
My Journey with Farrah Page 10