Cancer Schmancer

by Fran Drescher

  What had changed? What was different? Something was missing.

  And then it hit me. No Chester.

  Throughout the years I’d struggled to conquer my fears, find myself, and become independent, not one single day was experienced without Short Stuff. Without a man, yes, but never without Chester. He was a constant presence in my life for almost nineteen years, and I don’t think I fully felt the emptiness his passing had created until John was gone, too. Oy. I needed this like a hole in the head.

  Or maybe it was exactly what I needed, because after I bellowed like a baby, kicking and screaming my way through every room in the house, I’d suddenly had enough. I became sick of myself. Whatta crybaby, whatta loser, what an infant! Shut the fuck up and cut it the hell out! I said to myself. I always snap to it when I give myself a stiff talking-to. For God’s sake, there I was with a wonderful man, a beautiful home, my health back, and both my parents still alive, as well as my grandmother, who’s still smoking half a pack a day down in Florida! Even the dog had lived for nearly two decades, so what was I whining about? Who was this drama queen? I could no longer recognize myself.

  And what must I have seemed like to John? This downtrodden woman with one problem after another. First the cancer, then the dog, when do we get to be happy again? When do we get to enjoy life? That was it; I was not going to indulge this any longer. I needed to clear my head, stop being the patient, and get my mojo back.

  So I did what any self-respecting out-of-work sitcom star would do. I cashed in some frequent flier mileage and all by myself left for Paris. I was both scared and exhilarated to board the 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 205

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  plane, but something told me this was what I needed to break out of my rut, so I took a deep breath and dived in.

  I don’t know what it is about that place, but it always makes me feel good when I’m there. I have a great time, even though I don’t speak a word of French. Well, actually, I do speak “menu.” I can order in a restaurant like a pro. Can you say pommes frites?

  Self-preservation, baby, I gotta eat, don’t I?

  Now, I’ve been to Paris both rich and poor, but it really makes no difference, because for me the heart and soul of the city is experienced in the simple things. They have vendors on street corners making fresh crêpes, which they spread chocolate on, fold up, and hand you all hot and melty for just a few francs. Trust me, it’s heaven on earth. The smell alone is worth the whole trip. And I love walking my feet off. Gimme a map and a box of Band-Aids and I’m all set!

  Chester and I went to Paris together years ago. It was a dream come true for both of us. Some women cherish memories of great love affairs they had in the City of Lights. Me? I cherish memories of being there with Chester Drescher. What’s the matter? Believe me, when we strolled together down Boulevard Saint-Germain it was plenty romantic! There we’d be, dining together at Brasserie Lipp, gorging ourselves on soufflés and table scraps. Ah, those were the days.

  As it turned out, many of my friends would be in Paris the same time as I. My photographer friend from New York, Roxanne, was covering the couture fashion shows, and she invited me to go to all the ones she was working. I’d never done anything like that before. It sounded so glamorous and exciting.

  The first show (unveiling the work of an Italian designer who shall remain nameless) took place at a large warehouse complex on the outskirts of town. Hundreds of ladies were arriving at the same time, wearing big fur coats and heavy perfume. I guess this is 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 206

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  the place, I thought as I began to merge with the crowd, trying to act like I belonged. Clinging to the invitation Roxanne arranged for me, I showed it to an usher, who then led me to a seat. The chairs were so petite and the winter coats were so bulky, everyone crushed together shoulder to shoulder. I pulled my arms out of my sleeves, elbowing the people on either side of me.

  “Excusez-moi,” I said in my best French accent, straight out of Flushing. All I got in return from the gentleman on my left was a raised eyebrow and that look that said, You must be an ugly American. I didn’t care, I was at my first Parisian fashion show, all by myself and feeling très chic!

  The catwalk was decorated to look like a beautiful park. Fresh flowers, trees, and ponds created a feeling of springtime. I had no idea how extravagant fashion shows are. Or how tall and skinny runway models are. I kinda wished I’d skipped the croissant at breakfast, ya know what I mean?

  Meanwhile I couldn’t believe how ugly a collection this was.

  See-through everything with combat boots and sticks in the hair.

  Oy vey, there wasn’t a thing to buy! Yet as each model entered the stage, the audience broke into a round of applause, coupled with plenty of “oohs” and “ahhs.”

  “Do you like this?” I nonchalantly asked the lady on my right, pointing to a model wearing a blouse so sheer you could tell she had implants. I mean, nobody that thin has boobs that big.

  “Hhmmff,” was all she snorted back. And yet that one little grunt transcended any language barriers. I heard her loud and clear. Don’t talk to me, don’t even look at me! it meant, as I meekly began to applaud with everyone else. If you can’t beat ’em, join

  ’em, I always say.

  In contrast to that disaster, the couture collection by Yves Saint Laurent was classic, elegant, and gorgeous. The YSL show 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 207

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  took place in a small, gilded ballroom of a swanky hotel on the Right Bank.

  It was so crowded by the time I arrived, there was hardly a seat to be had. The Frenchman at the door indicated that the doors were closed and no more entry was allowed. This can’t be happening. I’d had my hair blown out at a salon for this event and there was no way I was going to stand for being turned away. This being my second fashion show, I had a little more chutzpah than for my first. Emphatically, I shook my head and said, “No, no, no,” as I charged my way in.

  No is no in any language, and the next thing I knew I was not only in, but squeezing my chubby ass onto the end of an already crowded bench. I was so happy to have experienced that event. It was so sophisticated and magnificent. All the models looked like Audrey Hepburn as they floated down the runway like something from out of a movie.

  Afterward, I met my friend Roxanne at a press party that took place in another room at the same hotel. When I was introduced to one of Saint Laurent’s protégés, he looked at the wool pin-striped suit I was wearing and smiled from ear to ear. Clutching my hand, he said, “Chérie, I believe you are wearing one of my designs. It is Saint Laurent, no?”

  Well, without thinking or taking a beat, I answered, “This? No, it’s a Ralph Lauren.” In an instant the man’s face turned to stone, he dropped my hand and walked away. Wouldn’t ya know, when the local news wanted me to answer a few questions, the first one asked was, “Is that suit a Saint Laurent?”

  “Yes, yes it is,” I replied without hesitation. I’m no fool. . . .

  By the time I went to my third show I was already an old hand at this. The Dior men’s collection was shown in a building in the Jardin des Plantes, which is a beautiful tree-lined park with a small 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 208

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  zoo in it. For this event, Roxanne got me a special V.I.P. pass and I casually waltzed my way to the front of the line, flashed my pass, and entered. Worried that any minute someone was going to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Au revoir, Madame, you don’t belong here,” I tried to act like I was some hotshot magazine editor and no one bothered me.

  As I sat down taking in the crowd, I noticed the photographers going nuts over some celebrity, but I couldn’t make out who it was. Then with the parting of the waves, I got a clear view of her.

  I literally rose out of my seat and gazed at, guess who?
Catherine Deneuve! I couldn’t believe I was finally getting to see her in person. What a gorgeous woman. She wore a stunning black-and-camel suit with dark sunglasses. I bet she speaks a lot of languages, and not just menu, either. She was there with her daughter, who was the image of Marcello Mastroianni. They were laughing and chatting with Karl Lagerfeld, the Chanel designer, with his thick white ponytail and dark glasses. He was waving his famous fan, opening and closing it for emphasis while the pa-parazzi had a field day.

  Watching Catherine and her daughter made me think of my mom. I always miss her when I see mothers and daughters doing nice things together. Mom and I are very close and can always talk about anything. I hope I have a daughter someday so she can grow up feeling she has a mom who’s her best friend, too.

  This was a men’s show, but the models looked like skinny seventeen-year-old waifs. I mean, I like young guys, but this was ridiculous! I don’t know how they expected to sell any clothes. It was dramatic, though, when thirty of them marched out all at once dressed in tuxedos.

  I met Roxanne backstage where everyone was changing, smoking, kissing, and hugging. One very flamboyant guy ran over to Roxanne with a cigarette in one hand and champagne in the other.

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  He leaned over and kissed her on each cheek, Euro-style, and then ran off to someone else. Roxanne turned to me all flushed with excitement and said, “He’s a prince and always comes to the couture shows.”

  “Meanwhile, he had a cold sore,” I said flatly.

  “Oh my God, he did? I didn’t even notice,” she said, rubbing her mouth.

  “Vive la France,” I responded, handing her a Wet One from my purse. I was feeling so much better. Paris is one city I have no qualms about visiting on my own, and at this particular time, with the shows in town, everyone was in a real party mode. Festive and gay.

  One night my Parisian friends Jean-Pierre—a good-looking independent filmmaker—and his girlfriend, Julie, took me to a really swanky penthouse party. I can’t believe I’ve actually got Parisian friends, let alone invitations to penthouse parties. The apartment was beautiful, with high ceilings and crown mold-ings. The room was filled with fashionable Parisians, drinking, smoking, and chatting in French. I can’t believe how many people still smoke.

  I immediately eyeballed the buffet. White-gloved servers stood behind large silver chafing dishes. Ooh-la-la. I was hungry and couldn’t wait to dig in. JP and Julie disappeared into the crowd, leaving me to fend for myself. Well, there was a big pile of French bread and a huge bowl of olives calling me over, so I nodded and smiled my way through the crush, drooling at what must be in those chafing dishes.

  Curiously, no guests were at the buffet—no one but me, that is.

  I picked up an olive, popped it in my mouth, grabbed some bread with my left hand, and lifted up the heavy silver dome with my right.

  But there was nothing inside. Empty. Bubkes! The server removed the dome from my hand and said something to me in French that 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 210

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  sounded friendly and warm. I didn’t want to act like I don’t speak the language, so I laughed, nodded, and walked away with a dopey grin pasted on my face. I guess the food wasn’t ready yet. But no hors d’oeuvres? My stomach was growling as I champed on my delicious hunk of bread and moved through the crowd in search of JP.

  When I finally spotted him, I walked over to say hello. Some of the folks he was talking to spoke English, which was a relief.

  They all seemed excited to meet me, or rather to meet La Nounou, which is French for “the nanny.” The show was airing on the M6

  network at the time. It’s so weird. There I was, unable to say a word in French that didn’t fall into the breakfast, lunch, or dinner category, yet they all knew who I was. They asked the same questions people ask everywhere: “Who does your clothes?” “Is that your real voice?” And, “When will you and your boss get together?” I felt happy and included.

  The days seemed to fly by. The weather was crisp and clear.

  Every day I’d walk for miles. It felt so good not to experience the pain anymore.

  I was thrilled the day my British friend Simon and his fiancée Anat arrived. I’ve known Simon for at least fifteen years. And for as long as I’d known him, he’d been single. I mean, Simon was a confirmed bachelor if ever there was one, but then someone introduced him to Anat, and that all changed. As painful as blind dates can be at times, once in a while it does work out. It did for Simon anyway. The first time I met Anat, I liked her right away.

  Thank goodness. It’s always such a pain when someone I’ve been friends with for years gets involved with someone I just can’t stand. Such wasn’t the case here, and I really enjoyed spending time with them.

  One afternoon, a brisk, sunny day, the three of us walked and talked our way through the Tuileries Gardens. I was missing Chester, and probably boring everyone as I went on and on remi-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 211

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  niscing about the trip to Paris I’d taken with him, when the most magical thing happened. Off to the right a small cloud began to drop a column of rain. As the cloud moved, the colorful arc of a rainbow remained. It was a sight to behold. I stood there for several minutes drinking up its beauty as people rushed by, coming and going. I was still reflecting on the rarity of what I was seeing when out of the blue a little kid ran his tricycle right into my shin.

  “Oww!” I screamed as the kid backed off my foot and pedaled away. But I didn’t care; something amazing had just taken place.

  I’m sure Chester’s spirit was connecting with me.

  “They say if you speak of the dead and a rainbow appears, it’s a sign from your loved one,” I said happily to Simon and Anat as I limped away. I felt that my life with Chester finally had closure.

  This was a good trip for the Franny.

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  Reunions

  Fe b r u a r y 2 0 0 1

  after Peter learned of my cancer, we began to correspond through e-mail. It was easier to write letters, and over time the friendship we’d had since high school began to reemerge. It was in late winter, when Peter came to L.A. on business, that we saw each other for the first time in a very long while. He’d e-mailed me and said he’d like to see me if it’s what I wanted, too.

  Well honestly, it’s exactly what I wanted. In some ways having had cancer wasn’t as tough as the total absence of our relationship, our friendship. I thought about how I should look, what I should wear, and what he’d think. I thought about how he’d look, what he’d wear, and what I’d think.

  He drove up in a beautiful rented sports car. I felt anxious about it. I wanted it to go well. I opened my front door, pulled him in, and hugged him, and he hugged me back. We embraced for a long time.

  There were no words, only sighs. Then he complimented me on how young and healthy I looked. To me, he looked like a movie star, not just some ordinary guy. Dressed cool, good physique, more mature and seasoned, I thought.

  I showed him around the house, a house I’d decorated all by myself (okay, with the help of two decorators and three assistants).

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  He seemed to like everything. He talked about the movie he’d cowritten and was going to direct, what it was about, and the friends he’d approached to be in it. Danny had generously agreed, as had Twiggy. Rosie was reading the script for the role of the mother. I was so elated to hear how far the project had gone and impressed that he’d made it all happen. He’d become strong for himself without me, and it was lovely to see.

  I shut off the volume on my answering machine so we wouldn’t be interrupted by p
hone calls. The first time it rang I didn’t think anything of it. Then it rang again and again, at which point I wondered out loud if it was important. What can I say? A ringing phone equals potential emergency in my family. Peter encouraged me to answer it, and then the most amazing thing happened.

  “Angel?” It was Rosie on the other end of the line. “Angel, is Peter there? I was talking to your folks and asked them if they knew where I could find him, and they said he was with you!”

  “He’s right here,” I exclaimed.

  “Well, put him on, I wanna tell him how much I loved his screenplay and that I’m going to do it!” she added with all the bravura of Pavarotti on stage. It was a miracle. What good news for him to receive, and in my home! What a brilliant, shining moment to share together after so much ugliness. They say coinci-dence is really God acting anonymously. . . .

  “Oh, that’s great! Hold on,” I said to her, then extended the phone to him, bursting with enthusiasm. “It’s Rosie, she loved your screenplay.”

  His whole face lit up as he took the receiver and did what he as a producer-director does best. He promised Rosie she’d look great, be great, and, above all, be protected by him on all fronts always. I heard him say she could pick whom she wanted to play her husband, which I thought to myself was another smart move.

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  There was something in the way he paced back and forth in my open living room and kitchen that felt so strangely familiar, so completely the same, as if no time had passed.

  When he hung up he gave me a hug, lifting me off the ground and twirling me around. I said something I’m sure I’d said a million times in the past when we’d received good news in our careers: “Let’s call Elaine.” Suddenly it was him, me, and Elaine again, just like the old days, striving for that break and sometimes catching one. We called my parents and Rosie’s agent, too.

  Good news always got us hungry, and the next thing you know we were in Peter’s sports car taking a long drive up the California coast to a wonderful little Italian restaurant for a late lunch. As the time passed, we shifted into a new gear as effort-lessly and seamlessly as a fine-tuned Ferrari. The place was empty as we shared our food and some laughs about the old days. It felt good, a magical moment suspended in time.