I felt relieved and sad at the same time. It needed to end; it needed closure. I still have some resentment toward him, and I have to work on forgiving him and letting it go. Our romance served its purpose for a period of time, but it had nowhere to go and I suppose we both knew it. Perhaps if I’d been in love with him, things could have been different. I would have made more of an effort to be with him. I guess his practicality got the best of him. She was there and I wasn’t. Better to love the one you’re with than be with the one you love. Anyway, it’s over, I’m alone, but there’s so much going on in my life, it’s the last thing I can think about. Sometimes I feel lonely, and it would be nice to have someone to share my life with, but if it’s meant to be, then it will be. Meanwhile, I have a lot to deal with, and so does Farrah.
June 9, 2009
Ryan called from the hospital last night so excited. He was with Farrah and they’d just finished watching the Lakers game. She was a little stronger and much more lucid. He said they had a wonderful time together, and he asked her to marry him! She said yes!
I screamed with joy. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? The two of them belong together. Marianne Williamson said she could marry them since she’s a minister. I started thinking about finding her a beautiful white nightgown and that Mela better start working on a wig. Maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic, but I can’t help thinking that this would give her a boost and get her to rally, to rise once again like the phoenix, as she’s done so many times before. And Ryan has really changed since he’s worked with Howard. He’s so gentle and loving with her. That’s what she needs. Maybe she always has. Just to be loved and nourished and cared for by the man she’s loved for so many years.
June 10, 2009
I just lay down to meditate. I wasn’t feeling well at all. I’d been going through some of the entries in my diary of when Farrah and I were at the clinic and suddenly got incredibly sad. I realized that we’d never be back there again. Even if by some miracle Farrah should get better, Dr. Jacob is moving her clinic to a completely different area, outside of Stuttgart. It’ll be in one of the least attractive parts of Germany, if Stuttgart is any indication. So I’ll never see Bad Wiessee again, or Tegernsee, or any of the beautiful countryside of Bavaria. If Mimmo and I had continued our romance, perhaps I would have gone to visit him there, but that’s finito, and I can’t imagine that I would have any reason to return. As difficult as many of the trips were, and as ill as Farrah often was, we had some good times. The walks along the lake, the wonderful dinners at Mimmo’s, our snowball fight in the mountains, Farrah’s birthday party, watching movies and drinking hot chocolate in her room, piled on the bed together. Just waking up in the mornings and opening the curtains, seeing the beautiful snow-capped mountains and the sparkling lake, or the bright green of the grass in the springtime and the flowers blooming everywhere.
But most of all, I miss the closeness I shared with Farrah. We bonded in a way I’ve never experienced before. I’ve kept so much bottled up inside me for so long, but as I lay there trying to meditate, the tears finally came. I miss the way things were. At times, when I’m trying to remember something we did or how something transpired, I’ll want to call Farrah and ask her because I know she would remember. But then I realize that she’s not in a condition to have that conversation. She wouldn’t be able to remember, and that makes me incredibly sad. I can’t call my friend anymore when I need advice or an opinion or a laugh. The other day in the hospital, she looked at me and asked, “Where am I?” I know it’s all the medication, and when they are able to decrease it, she’s much more herself. But I understand what Ryan means when he says, “I want her back.” So do I.
June 11, 2009
I picked up Mexican food again and went to the hospital. I got there a little late because of bumper-to-bumper traffic, and Ryan had already left. Again I had enough food for an army and it was only Farrah, me, and Jennifer, the nurse. Farrah was having trouble breathing because of the fluid in her lungs. They’re going to put her out and drain them tomorrow, but for tonight she’s pretty much out of it on the pain medication. She couldn’t really get her words out, and I didn’t want her to struggle trying to talk to me. I could see by her eyes that she wanted to communicate, but she couldn’t. I kissed her gently on the forehead and told her to sleep and I left. Honestly, I couldn’t have stayed any longer. I’ve been refusing to give up on that possible miracle, but tonight the chances seemed very remote. I felt sad, discouraged, and even a little hopeless. Where is my dogged determination that she can get well?
I was speaking to a friend today and he said, “Sometimes you have to give them permission to go. Maybe they want to, but they’re trying to hang on because they know their loved ones want them to. They have to know it’s okay to let go.” That took me by surprise. I’d never thought about it that way. I just assumed that we all had to keep cheerleading and encouraging her and telling her she’s going to make it. Then I happened to speak to another friend, who told me a similar story about her father: He was in a coma and close to dying but still holding on. Someone told her she had to give him permission to go if that was what he wanted. When she did that, he rallied the next day and became very lucid and focused. He opened his eyes and smiled a warm, clear smile for the first time in two weeks. Twenty-four hours later he died, very peacefully.
Are we keeping her selfishly? Ryan said yesterday he would keep her like this forever, just to have her. I feel the same, but is it fair to her? What does she want? I don’t think she’s given up. She’s a fighter and she’s still so strong, it’s as if none of these setbacks is enough to take her. I’ve never looked at this whole side of it. Maybe she’s just tired. I know I am. A deep-to-the-bone emotional and spiritual exhaustion. It’s hard to see my friend lying there unable to move, struggling for breath, unable to eat, and seemingly wasting away. It’s heartbreaking. I wonder what she thinks, what she wants…
June 14, 2009
I went to the hospital this evening. Ryan and I had arranged to go at the same time; I think we probably need each other for strength right now. When I walked in he was leaning over and whispering tenderly to her. When he saw me, he said, “Darling, look who’s here.”
I stroked her head gently and said softly, “Hi, honey…” She stared at me with her large luminous eyes, but didn’t speak…The look in her eyes was almost haunted. She was frail and gaunt, her tiny arms lying outside the covers but not moving. Often she takes my hand, but it was clear she didn’t have the strength tonight. Ryan sat on the window seat next to Jennifer, the nurse, and they talked about the Lakers game. We had just won the championship. The television was still on, and we could see people celebrating. Jennifer said she and Farrah had watched the game and when the Lakers beat the Orlando Magic to take the title, Farrah managed to lift her fist in a gesture of victory. It’s evident she understands what’s going on but is so weak that she can barely speak. She rubbed her lips together in that gesture she always makes when they’re dry. I asked, “Honey, do you want some of your lip cream?”
“No, thank you,” she answered in a whisper, slowly forming the words. I didn’t want to tax her by continuing to talk. I went into the bathroom and braced myself against the sink. I stared into the mirror, tears forming in my eyes. I needed to escape, to pull myself together. I didn’t know what to say or how to act. After a few moments, I flushed the toilet and came back out. Ryan was leaning over her again, talking softly. I sat with Jennifer and asked mundane, meaningless questions. “Did she eat today?” “Did Dr. Piro say when she can come home?” I’d spoken to him this morning and he’d said hopefully midweek, so I already knew the answer, but I felt compelled to make some kind of small talk.
Farrah’s eyes were starting to close, so Ryan kissed her tenderly and said, “Go to sleep now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He made a heart gesture and mouthed, “I love you,” to her. I could feel the tears starting to form again.
I kissed her forehead and whispered, “Goodnight, I’
ll see you tomorrow. I love you,” but her eyes were already closed. Ryan and I walked out to the parking lot together. I gestured to the bench by the attendant’s booth.
“Do you want to sit for a minute?” I asked. I needed to talk about Farrah, to stay there close to her for a while longer. We sat on the bench, discussing possible scenarios. I’m the one who’s usually the cheerleader, but after seeing her tonight, I felt sort of resigned.
“She’ll never leave here,” Ryan whispered sadly.
“But maybe she’ll rally?” I said. “She has before, you know…” I said it without much conviction this time. We sat there, sometimes talking, sometimes in silence. I told him the story about going shopping for her Mercedes after one of the bad-news scans, and how, when the man asked her if she wanted a two- or three-year lease, she’d made a kind of joke about it. We talked and even laughed some about our girl. “Our girl,” he always calls her.
I came home and petted my dogs for a long time. They haven’t gotten much attention from me lately. I didn’t turn on the television, for a change, but put on some soft classical music, lit the candle in my bathroom, and got into a hot bath. I lay there for a long time, thinking about my friend…my beautiful friend. How could this have happened to her? I thought back over all the events of these past two years as I soaked in the soothing water. Where has the time gone? Two years ago today, she, Ryan, and I were at the clinic, her first trip there. It seems a lifetime ago. Lolita came in and lay down beside the tub, something she never does. She could feel my sadness. It felt like I had an ocean of tears inside me, but they were locked up too tightly to escape.
What will happen now? I don’t feel optimistic about the coming days, but she’s rallied before, my friend. As I said to Ryan tonight, “Farrah never likes to do the expected. She likes to be unpredictable. Maybe she’ll surprise us…” I hope so. I’m going to sleep now, or at least I’ll try to, but I’ll leave my phone on as always.
June 15, 2009
I got a phone call from Ryan today to tell me Farrah was being moved to the ICU because her blood pressure was so low. He was completely choked up. It didn’t sound good at all. I said I would get ready and come to the hospital right away but he said he’d call me from there once she’d been moved. I called Dr. Piro, who said to wait a couple of hours so they could get her settled in. The ICU has all these rules about visiting, so I had to wait until eight thirty to go. She was lying there looking small and frail, yet her face, as skeletal as it is now, still looked beautiful.
I sat by her bed and stroked her arm as she looked at me. An almost otherworldly stare. I needed to tell her some things before it was too late. “Honey,” I said, “I never really tell you how much you mean to me, but I love you so much. Like a sister.”
She looked up at me and said softly, “More than a sister…”
My eyes welled up with tears as I continued. “If I’ve ever said or done anything that hurt you in any way, I want you to know I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry we had that fight in the car on the way to the airport.” I was openly crying now. I could tell by her eyes that she understood every word.
Then, I added, “And I want to thank you for being my friend and for all you’ve done for me. For letting me be a part of the documentary. It’s touched so many people, Farrah. You can’t imagine what a wonderful thing you’ve done…” She softly said, “Ohhh, honey,” and with tremendous effort raised her frail little arms to hold me. We held each other for a long time, and afterward I looked at her and said, “You’re tired, aren’t you? This has been a long few years.” She looked up at me and nodded. “Yes.” I knew I had to ask her: “Do you still want to keep fighting?” She said softly, “Yes.”
“Good,” I said, “because if you do, we’re fighting with you, but if you get too tired, that’s okay, too.” She looked at me and nodded. I kissed her forehead and we were silent for a while. I felt like I’d said what I needed to say. She knew we were behind her, whatever she chose to do.
Mela came into the room soon after with some fan letters she’d picked up at the apartment and two of Farrah’s rosaries. “Can I join the party?” she asked. I think Farrah was happy to have her girls gathered around her. I talked about some of our Germany trips and the cocktail we always drank on Lufthansa. Farrah clearly said, “Why can’t we have one?” We laughed about how Farrah always falls asleep the minute she gets into a car or anything that moves. We said, as soon as she was better, we’d take that Texas road trip and Mela would help me drive. I told Farrah that a very important magazine was doing a cover on her and she said, “They are?” I nodded, and continued, “And there’s talk that you might win an Emmy for the documentary.”
“Really?” She seemed surprised. Farrah was always surprised when she got accolades for her work. Then she said, barely coherent now, “I don’t like them…”
“Who don’t you like?” I asked.
Very faintly, she tried to get the words out: “That magazine.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “You were upset with them because you thought they said something about you a long time ago?” Farrah raised her hand and made a “F—you” sign. Mela and I both laughed. That was Farrah, defiant to the end.
June 20, 2009
I woke up this morning thinking about Farrah. There doesn’t seem to be much time that I’m not thinking about her. I’ll go up to see her today. I haven’t been to the hospital for the past two days because I’ve been sick and didn’t want to give her anything. Everyone here seems to be sick. Ryan is sicker than I’ve ever seen him. He’s had a terrible flu the last few days. Farrah and I used to laugh about how strong he is. She’d say, “If Ryan gets a cold, it lasts about a minute.” Even when he was diagnosed with leukemia, they came out with a drug a few weeks later that put it right into remission. He’s still in remission after eight years. I sometimes forget he has cancer, too. I don’t like to think about it. Ryan is indestructible. Isn’t he? He has to be. I couldn’t even face the thought of him getting sick.
Before I went to sleep last night I called Dr. Jacob in Germany. Maybe I’m grasping for one last straw, but I feel like I can’t give up yet. I told her how Farrah is doing, and she said, “It doesn’t sound good, Alana.”
“Can’t anything be done? I feel like she’s just lying there dying. Isn’t there something you can do?” She could hear the frustration and desperation in my voice.
“She should have this new antibody that they’ve just approved in Germany, but she can’t have it while she’s in the hospital. She would have to come home first.”
“Can it help at this late stage?” I asked.
“They’ve just had a conference on it in Florida, and it has been quite successful in arresting very late stages of cancer. It’s just been approved here in Germany but it still isn’t approved in the States,” she explained.
“This is crazy,” I said, exasperated. “If there’s something that might possibly help her, let’s give it to her. She’s just going to lie there and die and they’ll just keep her drugged and comfortable until she goes. I’ll give her the damn shots myself if I have to. How do we get it?”
“We will have to wait until she gets home. Nothing can be done while she’s in the hospital, Alana.” I could tell she was also frustrated.
Right. Of course. Better she should just have lots of pain medication and go peacefully. What if she doesn’t want to go? Especially if there’s something else left to try. A very slim chance, maybe, but still a chance. I almost wish we’d stayed in Germany. At least I feel they’re more proactive there. And what if I did give her this new drug myself and what if she died? Would I be arrested for murder? How does that work? Okay, I realize I can’t do something like this on my own, but it makes me crazy. There’s something that might help her and we can’t get it to her. Dr. Piro says she’s in such a weakened state that giving her something new might push her over the edge. Her body seems to be failing, and something that causes a reaction, even though it would have a good result i
f she could tolerate it, might kill her. Would I want to take that chance? Would I want that responsibility on my shoulders? Mela and I talked about it last night. If there’s a chance it could help pull her out of this, she feels we should do it, no matter what. She thinks it’s worth it, and I think I do, too. What is there to lose? She can’t and won’t go on much longer like this. I wish she were able to make this decision herself. I know what she would do, though. I already know.
June 22, 2009
This will be my last entry. The doctor said that it’s only a matter of time, and I can’t bring myself to write anymore. It seems this journey is almost over. I’m no longer numb. Crying is much easier lately; in fact, I’m surprised I have any tears left in me.
I went to the hospital tonight to see “our girl.” As I pulled the chair close to her bed, Farrah opened her eyes and smiled slightly. “How are you, honey?” I asked as I held her hand and stroked it. She just stared into my eyes. I could see she wanted to say something, but she couldn’t get the words out. I continued to hold her hand, and I stroked her soft, wispy hair with my other hand.
“Your hair is getting longer,” I said. “It’s this long now.” I held up my finger and thumb about two inches apart. She tried to lift her hand to her head, but she couldn’t quite make it.
“Do you want me to read the Lord’s Prayer?” I asked. I showed her the Christian Science book that I often bring. “Yes,” she answered softly. I read to her for a while, first the prayer, then Psalm 23 and several other passages. I put the book away and took her hand again. I could tell she was thinking about something. She tried to form a word with her lips but couldn’t manage it. I said, “I wish I could read your mind.” Her eyes looked momentarily frightened, and I wanted to ask, “Are you afraid?” but I wasn’t sure if I should. I didn’t know quite what to say; what was appropriate. Do you talk to a person about dying? Do you tell them not to be afraid, that it will be all right? Or do you just pretend everything is fine? I don’t know…I don’t know. I wish someone would tell me.
My Journey with Farrah Page 19