My surgeon knew I was angry at my gynecologist, yet she let Doctor #8 come right in with her. Why hadn’t she told the gynecologist to wait outside while she inquired if I wanted company? I suppose I should have expected it: Doctors align with doctors, and the surgeon wasn’t about to get in the middle of it.
There was the gynecologist, acting like she was the heroine of my story, glowing with pride. Had she forgotten the other details along the way? Well, I hadn’t been in therapy for as long as I had to remain passive. No sir. I’d spent too many nights agonizing over my fate not to open a mouth!
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There she sat. There they both sat, and I was going to get some satisfaction. I was sick of wondering why. I had cancer, and I’d had half my guts removed, and I simply didn’t give a damn who’d feel uncomfortable by my confrontation.
So I just came right out and said it. “Ya know, I have to ask you, why didn’t you give me the D&C right away?” With that, the smile on the gynecologist’s face disappeared.
“Well, I wanted to go the less invasive route first. It was only for a month,” she responded, seemingly surprised I was even barking up this tree.
“Less invasive? It’s a two-minute test.” I was becoming incensed. A two-minute test that could have diagnosed my cancer two years ago, if any of my doctors had thought to give me one.
Meanwhile, it wasn’t a month I was on the pill, it was a week. What made her think I, in my right mind, would ever have stayed on those pills for a whole month when they were making me bleed 24/7?
And that was when I really put up my dukes. “I mean, you weren’t the first doctor I’d gone to. You knew how long I’d had these symptoms. And Doctor #9 said that everyone is taught in medical school, when there’s bleeding between periods, you biopsy.” What did I care if I was pitting one against the other. That is what she said. Who was I protecting?
“Fran, don’t forget, it was Doctor #8 who did diagnose you,”
the surgeon cut in.
“I understand that, and I’m grateful for it,” I acknowledged, because who’s kidding who, I was glad that someone had finally figured out what the hell was wrong with me.
That’s when Doctor #8 surprised me with her response:
“Fran, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve given this a great deal of thought. In the future, when patients have symptoms such as yours, I’ll be more apt to perform a D&C to rule out uterine cancer before prescribing hormone replacement.”
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That’s all I needed to hear. “Well, I appreciate your saying that. It does make me feel better.” And that was that. They left through the unlocked door of my hospital room. Probably couldn’t wait to get out of there fast enough. I felt vindicated, though. The question of why that had consumed me was satisfied and could finally be put to rest. More or less . . .
The next day, unbeknownst to me, a beautiful vase filled with two dozen roses arrived addressed to Fran Drescher. They were from one of the executive producers on The Nanny. It was lovely, generous, and thoughtful of the sender, but to John it signaled that the cat was out of the bag! News of my cancer must have hit the airwaves.
John didn’t allow the flowers to be brought into the room. Instead, he kept them at the nurses’ station until he could figure out what was happening. Obviously, there’d been a breach in security, and the last thing he wanted was my getting upset. When a nurse from the floor said there was a call at the desk, he nonchalantly left to answer it. Allan, Elaine’s husband, had just taken a call for Elaine, who already was on her way to the hospital. It was from a newspaper asking questions about my cancer. John took down the information and waited anxiously for Elaine’s arrival.
Even though all this was happening around me, I had no clue, and John was determined to keep it that way. When Elaine arrived with not one, but two fishbowls of white flowers, John pushed her back into the hallway before I even knew what was going on.
Slightly annoyed, picking freesias off her chest, Elaine listened to John explain the situation’s urgency. Tearfully, he said, “You’re going to have to be the one to tell her. I don’t have the heart.”
Elaine immediately shifted into full-throttle mode. There wasn’t a moment to lose, and with New York’s being three hours ahead, she had to jump on this pronto or who knew how the headlines might read? So she contacted Cari, the publicist I’d worked with 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 135
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throughout the years on The Nanny, and asked her to return the reporter’s call and do a press release. Meanwhile, I was inside my room trying to down some turkey tetrazzini that I’d ordered from the menu, without even a hint of suspicion. Got any butter?
It was on the day I was scheduled to be released, five days after my surgery, that they told me. Elaine arrived as John and I were finishing breakfast at the little dining table in my room. By this point I was trying to shift into somewhat normal behavior, like eating at a table and walking unassisted to the bathroom.
John braced himself for how I’d react when Elaine told me. He knew that was why she was there. He was counting on my usual reaction. I’d get very upset but then, in almost a childlike way, having had my release, quickly feel better.
Now, Elaine has never been one to pussyfoot around. “A good surgeon makes his amputation with one clean cut. A bad one hacks away with multiple cuts and leaves a lot of scars in the process.” That’s what she always said, and they’re words she lives by, too. So without any mollycoddling she simply told me, “Fran, a New York paper picked up on your cancer and wrote an article about it.”
As anticipated, I immediately burst into tears, dropping my face into my hands. This meant I couldn’t sweep this illness under the rug, quietly recover, put everything back to normal and deny my cancer, even to myself. Essentially, I’d been “outed.” The illness was official now. I was a cancer victim and the world knew it.
Elaine pulled a fax copy from her purse. “I brought it so you can read it and see it wasn’t bad. They kept it simple.” The headline read MISS FINE IS FINE. She was right, it wasn’t bad or sensational.
But still, I felt exposed. And, as John had anticipated, I let out all the pent-up emotions and fears and then was done with it.
It was Sunday, in the late morning, when I returned home.
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in the other. My parents anxiously awaited our arrival. When we walked in the house it was so white and clean and filled with fresh flowers. I was so happy to see the smiling, loving faces of my parents and feel the kisses and licks from my beloved Chester.
John and I walked out onto the deck of my house that overlooks the sea. If ever I had a religious experience, this was it; all the celestial beings in heaven seemed to gather around to welcome us home. Words couldn’t even begin to do justice to the miracle of it all. The breezes were blustery but warm, the clouds were puffy and white, moving across a sky as blue as a Maxfield Parrish painting, and the ocean itself seemed to dance in soft white peaks as it sailed across the horizon.
The aliveness of it all; the love of my parents and Elaine and Chester; the deep, deep feelings of love and devotion from John—
all combined to give me the feeling that somehow, despite everything, my life was going to be okay.
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First Week Home
J u n e 2 5 – J u l y 2 , 2 0 0 0
people always wonder whether they should call someone who’s ill or recovering or grieving. I, too, would hesitate at times, concerned I might be bothersome. Human beings are often awkward and uncomfortable around others’ pain. Bu
t I can now say for sure that it’s nice to be on the receiving end of people’s thoughtfulness. I didn’t always feel up to taking a call from a well-wisher, but I always got the message and appreciated the show of concern.
When someone you know is in a bad way, make that call, pay a visit, send some flowers. I was thrilled when friends and relatives sent bouquets, balloons, teddy bears, sweets, pajamas, bath products, and books, mostly self-help books. I had all the time in the world to read, but I just felt too lousy to concentrate. Not until I felt better did I even crack the first one.
So the books stacked up on a shelf as I watched endless hours of the Food Network. Who needed some know-it-all self-help author giving pep talks on how to be positive? To take my mind off things, I needed overweight people in orange kitchens playing with food. Molto Mario, Emeril, and Two Fat Ladies became my roly-poly bedside companions. It was the perfect distraction. Not 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 138
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heady, thirty minutes, and all about food. It just put me into such a relaxed place; the equivalent of sucking my thumb and twirling my hair as a kid.
I also spent time surfing the net, browsing rental properties in Tuscany. This pastime transported me to beautiful worlds far from my recovery bed. I’d dream of the day when I’d be able to rent a place in Italia and stay for a month or two. Each time I found a place I loved, I’d print the listing and stack it with the others on my wish list.
My right arm Kathryn would send me haiku e-mails and profound words from great philosophers. She’d share her own brave struggles with illness and surgery, quoting Hindu and Buddhist passages. She tirelessly helped keep my life running smoothly when I was too weak to pick up a pencil, let alone answer a call.
She kept things afloat. She was a lifesaver.
My folks, who were sleeping in the guest house, arrived every day to cook breakfast and didn’t leave until after the last dinner dish was cleared. Dad would sit on the deck and read his novels while Mom waited on me hand and foot. John, who literally moved in the day I learned I had cancer, never left my side. I wanted to resume writing the MTV pilot that had been derailed by my illness.
Camelia, my friend and coworker who’s very robust in her hearty affection, had a take-charge attitude. “I’m here for you, girl,” she’d always say. She organized all the thank-yous for the gifts I’d received from well-wishers, so I never stressed out over any of it. She talked about the loss of her first husband, told me of a girlfriend who’d survived cancer, and shared stories about her two lovely daughters.
Then there were the visitors. Some of my girlfriends stopped by one afternoon. Each brought a little gift and stayed for a few hours. The girls wanted to hear the whole story: What were my symptoms, who were the doctors, when did it all begin? With re-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 139
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spect to the procedures I’d undergone, everyone agreed that never getting your period or going through menopause was the definite upside.
They all wanted to see my incision, which I freely showed them. But upon exposing myself, I felt like a freak. Different from the rest. The unlucky one. What were they thinking? Probably they were glad it wasn’t them. Of all the girls in this group, I think I was the last person anyone expected to get cancer. They all had experienced gynecological problems ranging from precancerous cells (determined by Pap tests) to cysts (found by ultrasound) to endometriosis (scar tissue that grows abnormally). Not me, though. We all sat on my sickbed chewing the fat like everything was normal. How ironic that I was always the one who’d never showed weakness in this area.
My girlfriends all played significant roles in my recovery.
Shortly before my diagnosis, I’d had an urge to see my old friend Michelle, whom I hadn’t seen in years. This was one of those instincts that, in retrospect, made me think I was being nudged by the angels, because Michelle was the only one, in the end, who wasn’t working and completely available to me during those early weeks after my surgery.
She reminds me of my mom in her warm, loving, and nurtur-ing ways. I remember when she, my mom, and I took one of our first walks together. I had to move very slowly, and I couldn’t go far, but we noticed a house for sale that was open for viewing. We went inside and had some fun exploring. The house wasn’t far down the road, but far enough for me. Afterward, we turned around and slowly walked back to the car. I couldn’t wait to go home and lie down.
I can remember vividly when Donna called from New York to say that Danny was coming to town. We were very excited to see him. He was in L.A. for the filming of Pearl Harbor. It was only my 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 140
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first week home after the surgery, and by his reaction when he first laid eyes on me, I think he was expecting me to look like I was at death’s door. He seemed so relieved and happy.
I didn’t want to look like someone with cancer, so I spent a lot of time vacillating about what I was going to wear. I just didn’t want to feel insecure about how others perceived me. I gotta admit, that day Danny stopped by I did manage to pull it together in a soft jersey miniskirt and sleeveless tee. He just couldn’t get over me and I beamed with pride.
I was inspired to prepare a good lunch for him since he’s always such a generous host himself. As I was putting together the main course (shrimp marinara over pasta, with salad), my mother took the spaghetti pot out of my hands and scolded me for over-doing it. I insisted I felt fine, but it was really the painkillers talking. If drugs like that weren’t available, I’m sure I would have been totally bedridden and miserable. When Danny was there we ate and drank like old times, but when he left I needed to lie down.
Whenever I had visitors I’d crack open a bottle of wine and put out a spread. I don’t know, perhaps it made me feel more like a hostess than a cancer patient. What none of the doctors had mentioned to me was that it’s not really a good idea to drink alcohol when recovering from surgery, because it slows the healing process.
As it was, I’d adopted an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude, feeling I was owed some self-indulgence after everything I’d been through.
The ultimate example of this was the first time I got a craving for KFC fried chicken fingers and sent Ramon out to get me a bucket pronto. “Hurry, Ramon. Put the mop down and get to that Colonel now,” I said with a crazed look in my eye.
“But I heard those chickens have no beaks,” he said.
“I don’t care, Ramon, go!” I insisted, grabbing the mop from his hand. From that point forward I scarfed down one bucket af-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 141
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ter another for months, until one day it became all about the Taco Bell Chalupa. Ten pounds later, I’m still paying.
I think in that first week home, I was still in a state of shock over what had happened. Distracted by all the well-wishers and numbed by the painkillers, I didn’t allow reality to set in. By the second week, however, as things settled down, that all changed.
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Fourth of July, 2000
it had been a little over a week since my release from the hospital and I wasn’t happy. The only times I seemed happy were when I was trying to be the superwoman I’m not. I acted like everything was okay, seeking praise for how well I looked or how fast I recovered. I call it “doin’ the seal act,” because that’s what it often feels like. I’ve always needed to appear strong and together.
In my entire life I can barely remember a moment when I allowed myself to really break down and cry in front of others. I’d always heard people say, “If you keep everything bottled up, you’re gonna give yourself a cancer.” Maybe there’s some truth in that.
“Fran never cried,” my mom always said when describing my
childhood. I don’t really think that’s healthy, but growing up in my house it seemed praiseworthy to me. Even after I’d been raped at gunpoint, Elaine sat with me on Donna’s porch and felt the need to say, “It’s okay to cry.” But all I could do was hold back the tears, unable to speak in full sentences for fear the pain would come pouring out like water from a broken dam. Couldn’t let that happen. Uh-uh. No sir, not me.
I hated the way my body looked after the surgery. I thought it would never return to its previous state. So swollen and bruised, it didn’t even look like my shape. I worried I’d be stuck forever with this matronly, misshapen, ugly, bruised body. I didn’t want John to see what I looked like. But I saw—as I stared in my completely mirrored bathroom, lit by a skylight, no less. My flesh was 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 144
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shades of green and purple in spots. Every ripple, every bulge, everything looked worse in those mirrors under the cold, harsh shaft of light from above.
And the incision! Oh my God. I’m ruined, I thought. Such a cruel-looking red horizontal gash across my pubic line. They’d shaved my hair for the surgery so the scar was shockingly noticeable. And then there was the estrogen patch. To add insult to in-jury, I had to look at this plastic patch stuck to my hip. Stuck there for the rest of my life. Stuck to my body like I was stuck in my situation.
Finally, I just gave up on myself. There was nothing I could do but put on some clothes and walk away from the mirrors. I slid back into bed where John lay reading. It was hard to find a position that was comfortable. My insides felt gelatinous, and every move I made seemed to discombobulate already traumatized organs—ones that hadn’t yet rerooted themselves in my newly hollowed-out abdomen.
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