“Oh well, I guess I have nothing to lose,” I said, acquiescing.
I’d spent four months feeling lousy, and I was desperate. He promised he’d make me feel much better in six to eight weeks if I were to come for treatment every week and follow his nutri-tional guides.
He looked at my tongue and felt my pulse. That was the exam: the tongue, the wrist, and done. Normally, I would have considered this exam a joke, but instead I found myself totally mesmerized.
The next thing I knew I was in a private room on a padded table that had clean white paper pulled across it. The tranquil sounds of wind chimes and delicate instruments filled my ears.
A black-and-white photo of a bowl of noodles in a rustic Asian café hung on the wall.
He began to stick the acupuncture needles into me quickly, pre-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 180
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cisely, and, most important, painlessly. Now, I’d never been into acupuncture. The one time I’d tried it in the past, it hurt. Duh, the dude is sticking needles into me—what did I expect? That said, this doctor was part of a Chinese family who’d been practicing for generations and he made the experience most pleasant. He inserted a few needles in each calf, in my abdomen, my chest, my head, and my hands. “Don’t move,” he instructed, as he turned on a heat lamp and let its warmth penetrate my stomach. Oh, did I ever enjoy that. Then he placed a long string through my fingers and said if I had any problems to pull the string and someone would come right in to help. The light in the room was subdued and the music serene. Now, I don’t know if I needed any of that stuff to make the needles work, but it sure helped to make me relax.
After that, I continued going week in and week out. Doctor
#11 was always interested in what was going on in my life: Was I happy? Was my relationship good? Was my sex life satisfying?
I’d really never had a doctor take such a personal interest in me before. Even though a part of me wondered if he was taking notes for the tabloids, I preferred to think this was the way good doctors should be and leave it at that.
I listened to Doctor #11’s words as if they were gospel. By the end I was sold hook, line, and sinker. An absolute skeptic in the beginning, I wound up falling in love. I was buying the CDs that always wafted over the sound system, the herbs, and, per the doctor’s instructions, I tried to take brisk walks every day. Soon enough, I began to feel better. Good ol’ Doctor #11 always asked how John was, and held me in his arms when I wept about the cancer. He was the closest thing to Marcus Welby I’d ever experienced, and I do believe he helped me. Plus, he was a medical doctor, so my insurance picked up the tab. Acupuncture had turned out to be a good thing now that I’d found the right physician, and in combination with 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 181
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walking, diet, and herbs it became the formula that put my recovery on the right path.
You never know when a pearl will drop in your lap, so stay open and you, too, may get a note through a friend from someone you don’t even know—one that will make all the difference. . . .
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Melinda
N o v e m b e r 2 0 0 0
idon’t exactly know when it hit me, but it was definitely a few months into my recovery that I realized I’d be living the rest of my life as a woman who’ll never be pregnant. It was difficult to accept, even for me, who hadn’t had a lifelong burning desire to be pregnant. I can only imagine how those women who’ve always wanted to have a baby, but now can’t, must feel.
It wasn’t fair. I hated that this was foisted on me. Especially since through therapy I was finally understanding my indifference to having a baby and actually becoming more receptive to the idea. Needless to say, the timing of it all was highly ironic. All the years I could have had a baby I was frightened of the idea and didn’t. If I’d ever tried, I would have become aware of my luteal phase defect, because I would have miscarried due to low progesterone levels. I’d have figured it out then, and I never would have gotten the cancer.
But psychologically, I wasn’t near ready, and probably never would have been if I hadn’t gotten such good therapy when my marriage was coming apart. So I’d figured out why I didn’t want to have a baby, and now that I did, I couldn’t. C’est la vie! I decided to be fatalistic about it all. I don’t need to get pregnant or become 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 184
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a mother to have a rich, full life. For that matter, if I want to have a baby, I don’t have to carry it to be its mother. John said we didn’t need to have a biological baby to have a family. He’s an extremely generous man and I love him for having said that. But for a while there, I gotta admit, it was difficult to grasp the permanence of it all, and I found myself slipping into a depression.
I never expected to find what I needed where and when I did.
It was at a baby shower, which I really didn’t want to go to in the worst way. I mean, I didn’t like going to baby showers when I had a uterus. But that was where I met Melinda. The shower was for Juliette, one of the gals who’d recommended my acupuncturist, and it was on November 4. For most people that’s a date of little significance, but November 4 happened to be the anniversary of my wedding to Peter. So this shower was a real zetz for me—on my way to Juliette’s, divorce and a hysterectomy were all I could think about. If it weren’t for Camelia’s having been invited, too, I’m sure I wouldn’t have gone.
But I felt it was time to resurface, and Juliette, whom I’ve known since her producing days years ago at MTV, knows everyone in Hollywood. So I agreed to go. I wanted to look good, strong, and healthy for all to see. After careful deliberation, I finally settled on some really cool lizard-print pants and cowboy boots with a cashmere sweater.
Juliette, a warm and vivacious Englishwoman, was beaming with joy as she welcomed us at the door with a huge belly, smiling from ear to ear. She looked beautiful. I was trying my best to forget the divorce and hysterectomy, mingling and getting acquainted, when Juliette called over a woman and said, “Fran, I want you to meet Melinda. She had the same surgeon as you and the same surgery, too.” Could the party get any worse?
Melinda and I looked at each other and exchanged uncomfortable hellos. Add salt to the wound, why don’t you? There we were, 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 185
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Melinda and I, the hysterectomy girls, who hadda visit our oncologist every three months to check for cancer recurrence, standing among a sea of pregos, women with children, and healthy career gals. We shook hands and drifted off in different directions.
The food at the shower was light and ladylike with tea, scones, and finger sandwiches—very English. And the company was good.
But then the dreaded opening of the gifts began. Even under normal circumstances, I always found this part of a baby shower notori-ously boring by the fifth present. Now, with what I was going through, this gift-opening ritual was sheer and absolute torture.
I graciously “oohed” and “ahhed” as Juliette displayed each adorable little baby outfit. A play suit, a jumper, T-shirts, booties—
on and on it went. As the pile of wrapped gifts dwindled down to the last few, I decided I wanted to talk to this gal, Melinda, ask her what she thought about our surgeon, Doctor #9.
I saw her standing in the doorway to the kitchen, keeping a safe distance from everything. It seemed like this ritual was hard for her, too. So I got up and walked into the kitchen to talk to her.
“I just wanted to ask you, did our surgeon remove your appendix . . . and forget to tell you?”
“You, too?” she responded.
It was like meeting a kindred spirit. Of course, her situation was completely different. She’d gone in to have outpatient surgery f
or an ovarian cyst, and it wasn’t until she was out cold on the table that they realized her condition was much more serious. She had ovarian cancer. The doctors ran to Joe, her husband, in the waiting room to have him sign papers for what turned out to be life-altering inpatient surgery.
Anyway, we both said we hated the idea of going to some cancer support group to talk about our “feelings.” Ugh. The thought of it made us both squirm. I’m sure it’s very helpful for 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 186
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most people, but I think Melinda and I were still in denial mode and just wanted to blend back into normal life as if nothing had happened.
Like magnets, we connected in that kitchen at Juliette’s baby shower and immediately became our own support group of two.
Melinda is a bright, intelligent woman with a happy, gummy smile. She’s an artist whose husband, Joe, is a television producer.
I know in this life there are angels that guide us. Just like in that Wim Wenders movie Wings of Desire, Melinda and I were destined to meet. What we both needed, we found in each other. And how’s this for bizarre: We had the same surgery, the same surgeon, and we were both born on the same day, September 30. Is that weird or what?
We exchanged e-mail addresses and began writing at once. It was like finding a life raft in a sea where everybody knows how to swim but you. What a relief and what a gift she became. After weeks of writing we decided to take a walk together on the beach.
But what if we proved better pen pals than actual mates? We might blow the wonderful support we were getting through our e-mails if we suddenly decided we didn’t like each other. Well, life is all about taking risks, so we forged ahead with it.
When she arrived at my house, I hugged her at the door for a long time. Although I hadn’t actually seen her since that brief encounter at the shower, our e-mails were extremely personal, so I felt a strange and deep connection. I liked her. I did not, however, remember the wonderful, hearty laugh she had. All I said was, “Welcome,” and she threw back her head and let out a huge guffaw, which was music to my ears. I was glad we’d taken this next step.
Once, when Melinda and I were on a walk, we spotted two women on the same road pushing babies in those three-wheeled jogging strollers about three hundred yards ahead. Two women with babies and two hollowed-out women with no babies.
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I don’t know why, but I wanted to pass them to get ahead. I didn’t like trailing behind them. There was too much symbolism lurking there—the distance from us to them, and the fact that they had kids and we didn’t. All I could think of was beating them, passing them, putting them behind me.
So I started to jog, pulling Melinda along with me. She didn’t feel the same urgency, but humored me just the same. Huffing and puffing, we forged ahead as the two unsuspecting mothers with children fast-walked, gabbing along their merry way. It sounds crazy, but it meant everything to me to win that race—a race no one was running but me. F.Y.I.—I did get ahead of them, and as I did, I raised my arms like a victorious marathon runner.
When Melinda reached her two-year anniversary of good health, it was me and John whom she and Joe wanted to celebrate with. Over delicious Italian food, we raised our glasses and toasted to Melinda’s good health, my good health, and the men in our lives who’d stood by us and lived through it with us. Our heroes. Joe appreciated this and began to open up about how scared he was when he stood alone signing that paper for Melinda’s hysterectomy in the hospital waiting room. Our hearts went out to him and how he must have felt. That night our support group of two became four.
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Chester Drescher
D e c e m b e r 2 0 0 0
after my surgery I was never the same, and my beloved Chester Drescher was never the same, either. When I returned from the hospital he just couldn’t accept the change in me. He was so old already. At eighteen years he was finally running out of steam.
The one thing I was careful not to do was bend down to lift things. The surgeon had told me to avoid this, and I did. But try explaining that to your dog who’s so used to being picked up and carried everywhere. Poor old guy, what a deep bond we shared. I always said, “When this little guy goes, he’s going to leave a hole in my life the size of the Grand Canyon.”
Having an old dog is like being in the company of any geriatric. They get all the same afflictions. The hearing goes, the eye-sight goes, arthritis sets in, and it’s all downhill from there. How sad it is that a turtle can live to 150, or a parrot can live as long as a human, but man’s best friend can only live for a decade or two.
With some things there’s little justice.
My great-grandmother in her last years used to say, “It’s no good to get old.” I think that’s where Chester was at, too.
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with me, in movies, on talk shows. He even had a recurring role on The Nanny. He was always right in the thick of it. Always with that photogenic smile, right by my side. He was a one-woman dog and I loved him for that.
At first I’d seen my recovery as a good thing because it forced me to be home a lot with Chester. We were always in bed together.
But toward the end my condition robbed me of the energy I needed to keep him completely comfortable. He was becoming in-continent and had bouts where his kidneys were acting sluggish and he just wouldn’t feel well. But then he’d have his good days, like when I shot the cover of Rosie magazine.
Rosie O’Donnell and I have been friends for many years. We met shooting the movie Car 54, Where Are You? I don’t know why, but some of my best friends come out of my worst movies. When she learned about my cancer, she called my parents immediately.
She was on hiatus and I guess really out of the loop, because it was about two months after my surgery when she surfaced. I’m sure she still holds a lot of pain from the loss of her mother, who died from breast cancer, and hearing about my struggles made her very upset.
When she called me, I told her the whole story from the beginning. It was nice to speak with such openness and friendship.
It had been too long, and that phone call from her was another positive thing to come out of the cancer.
Rosie and I began e-mailing each other after that first conversation, sharing the lives we were each living now. And it wasn’t long before she asked me to tell my cancer story in the premiere issue of Rosie magazine. Up to this point I hadn’t wanted to do any press on the subject, but Rosie was different; she was a friend. I trusted her to handle my story with sensitivity. As it turned out the most daunting aspect of it all was shooting the cover, even though she offered to fly to L.A. and make it as easy on me as possible.
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Thanks to Rosie, the magazine accommodated all my needs.
We shot the cover in my home, and didn’t do the interview until the next day. Tommy Hilfiger supplied my clothes, and my friend Gregory did the makeup. Nothing fancy; Rosie wanted everything very real and natural.
Knowing well in advance that I was going before cameras for the first time since my operation, I tried to watch what I ate and exercise a bit more. But it wasn’t easy finding a type of exercise that didn’t leave me feeling like hell the next day. I know about
“no pain, no gain,” but this was ridiculous. There were times I couldn’t stand up straight. I tried yoga, walking, swimming, and—foolishly—even hiking. But everything I tried left me with an inflamed abdomen. Finally I said, “Forget it! I’d rather have a fat ass and feel good.” How liberating. All my life I’d felt guilty if I di
dn’t exercise, but now I couldn’t. Hooray! For the time being I’d allow myself to let it all hang out. Whoo-hoo!
In the weeks that preceded the shoot, Chester was not doing well. Often I’d think of my grandmother Yetta, caring for her mother, Esther, who lived with my grandparents for many, many years. In Esther’s youth she was a great help to Yetta, cooking, cleaning, and, most important, helping to raise the children (my mother and her sister, Denise). But when she got very old, the tables turned and the daughter became the mother.
I was beginning to feel like a martyr. The love I’d felt for Chester and he for me throughout the years is what drove me to get up throughout the night, tending to his needs, spoon-feeding him and cleaning his bedding. I swore I’d never put Chester to sleep, that in the end I’d hold him and comfort him until it was all over. That was the beautiful fantasy I had for Chester. But life always gets in the way of fantasies, and a whole different scenario unfolded.
In the meantime, the day of the Rosie shoot, miraculously, 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 192
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Chester was in rare form. It was as if he was stimulated and excited by the crew and all the activity. He loved being on a set, and that day was a happy one for him. After almost nineteen years of being a real ham in front of the camera, this was to be his last photo shoot. He lived for only one week longer, during which he went into a rapid decline.
John and I came home Christmas night and found Chester unable to get up, covered in his own feces. Now, this was an extremely dignified and very proud dog. So to see him in this helpless and humiliating condition was clear evidence that he’d reached his limit.
My heart ached for the misery he must’ve felt in that very old body of his. I bathed him in warm water in my bathroom sink, but moments after, he began yelping in pain. It was so scary and frightening.
Because it was Christmas, no one was at our regular vet, so I ran to my medicine chest, ground up some medication, and stuck it in ice cream for him to lick up. Within minutes, his tiny body relaxed and went to sleep. I, on the other hand, got no sleep, jumping out of bed every ten minutes with each movement or moan he made. My best hope was to keep him sedated, hydrated, and nourished until we figured out what to do.
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