Cancer Schmancer

by Fran Drescher

  The next time we saw each other, it was on Peter’s turf, during a business trip I took to New York. It was good to see him in his own environment. I thought he looked great, even better than when I’d seen him in L.A. Not as coiffed as in all our years together, but more rough around the edges, rugged and grungy. It was refreshing to see him being more relaxed in his appearance. I recognized so many things he’d kept that we’d bought together, now part of his beautiful downtown loft. There were the floor lamps that I’d bought for our bedroom so very long ago. He hadn’t even liked them when I first brought them home, and there they were, looking beautiful and filled with history and memories.

  And it was the first time I met his new puppy, Lumpy. When we were married, he’d never wanted a dog, and so Chester was always more mine than his. I was glad to see he’d gotten one for himself, because now more than ever, I thought how important it 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 216

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  was that he experience the unconditional love you can get only from a dog. She was friendly and sweet and high energy—in many ways she reminded me of Chester.

  He opened a bottle of my favorite wine and we both toasted to good health as we sat down in his living room. There stood the pi-ano we’d bought used more than twenty years ago during our first year of marriage. We had nothing to our names then, but I couldn’t bear the thought of setting up a home without the instrument that enabled him to play such beautiful music. I asked him to play something and sing for me. I hadn’t heard Peter sing and play in years, but it was one of my great joys in our relationship.

  His voice sounded as strong and powerful as ever, but the song was a sad love song and I began to weep. “Not that one,” I interrupted, and he attempted something a bit more lively, but his heart just wasn’t in it. We tried a new restaurant called 71 Clinton that neither of us had ever been to before. I thought it would be healthy to create new memories together in new places. We enjoyed it very much, overordered from the menu as always, and found much to laugh about.

  As we walked through the streets of the city I marveled at the confidence in his gait and actually questioned him on his obvious lack of fear. “This is where I live,” he said confidently. This was a different Peter from the one I’d known in the past. I guess, with the passing of time and circumstance, we’d both matured.

  He rode with me in the cab back to my hotel and we hugged for a long time before going our separate ways. It was a lovely evening—lovely and bittersweet.

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  Pet Love

  M a y 2 0 0 1

  to be able to let go of it all, strip down to nothing, and still feel whole remains my challenge in life. It had never been something I was good at doing, but letting go came easier with the loss of Chester. Whatever wasn’t working was given its walking papers. Gone went the lousy aquarium maintenance man.

  Good-bye, ’78 Buick. Arrivederci to my agents. The year 2000 was my turning point.

  After I’d lit countless candles for Chester, something clicked in my head and I realized that the only way I was going to stop looking back was to start looking forward. I began to refocus my attention from the half-empty glass to its half-full counterpart. Why should I live in my big house without my uterus and without a dog, too? Who needs all that deprivation at once, I thought, and began looking for a puppy. My therapist always used to remind me that “being alone” and “loneliness” needn’t go hand in hand.

  I worried that I’d never bond with a new puppy the way I had with Chester, but I definitely needed a new distraction, no matter what. I couldn’t decide what breed I wanted, but I kinda thought a female would be nice this time around. Years of Chester’s lifting his leg on my curtains convinced me of that! I surfed the Internet 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 218

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  for breeders and visited many pet stores on the west side of L.A.

  All the puppies were adorable, but none sparked the connection I felt when I first laid eyes on Chester. I must say, though, that as a way of putting the mourning period completely behind me, my search was very effective. More than anything, it was an exciting diversion.

  I bought a dog book with four hundred different breeds, and slowly began to narrow my choices. At first I thought of getting a big dog, but when I thought of how much exercise a big dog needs—not to mention the size of its pees and shits—I changed my mind. I was thinking a white or tan dog would look nice in my house, but on the other hand, I usually wear black, and who needs white fur all over black clothes?

  So I decided I wanted a female that didn’t shed. Small was better—it’d be more like having a baby. And now that I had a clue what I wanted, it was easier entering a pet shop.

  Cousin Erica, who’s a costumer and spends a lot of time shopping in malls, said that Pet Love in the Beverly Center offered a big selection of really cute dogs. I remembered Danny and Donna got their first Akita there, and Elaine and Allan found both their Lhasa apsos there, too. They loved their dogs and they all lived long and healthy lives.

  Before I became famous, Judi, Peter, and I had spent more time in that mall than I care to remember. Between the multiplex cinemas, the food court, the shops, and the pet store we could easily spend half a day in that place. But for the last several years it had been difficult moving about freely without getting stopped for autographs, so big shopping malls were off-limits. As John and I charged through the arcade of shops on the plaza level heading for Pet Love, I took it all in. So much activity, so much to look at, and so many new stores!

  When we entered Pet Love it was overwhelming: the size of 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 219

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  the shop and the selection of dogs. The place was filled with cus-tomers. I would have sworn it was Christmastime, given the size of the crowds and the store’s busy feel. Our salesperson was very patient and understanding. This isn’t an easy decision to make for anyone, and I’m a person who has trouble deciding what to order in a restaurant, so you can only imagine. They put us in a private little stall, complete with toys and paper towels, and brought in each puppy we were considering.

  I read somewhere that it’s a good idea when seriously considering a puppy to observe how it interacts with its peers. That way, you can gauge how playful, timid, or aggressive it may be. One little pup immediately began humping another and I said, “Take him away.” If that’s starting at this age, forget about it. Not for me.

  John liked a white male Pom that was really cute and very playful.

  Too playful, if you asked me. This was a Chester Drescher waiting to happen, and in this go-round I didn’t want hyper.

  I noticed an ultrafeminine, quiet, brown little Pom sitting by herself and asked to see her. I’d never seen a chocolate Pom—she was the first they’d ever had at the pet store. She was very quiet and serene. Not particularly interactive, but not timid, either. She was a perfect little lady and I was drawn to her. She didn’t seem puppylike, but regal and elegant. John kept having them bring in one puppy after another, but, oh, that precious little brown one.

  Then suddenly the words left my mouth: “She’s the one,” and the salesgirl immediately shifted into accessory mode. Did I just say what I thought I said? I began to shut down as tiny rhinestoned collars and leopard-print leashes were waved in my face. Seconds after leaving the pen, the brown puppy peed and shit on the pet shop floor as the gal whisked her off for fluffing, and I began to think of the new white carpet I’d installed in my bedroom after Chester died.

  I suddenly felt so weak in the knees, I had to sit down. What 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 220

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  was I doing? Who was this strange, aloof little brown dog and what kind of a friend would she be to me? Then I began to think about what an enormous commitment this was. These dogs
live to at least fifteen. My God, I’ll be pushing sixty. Oy, I began to have a panic attack, but forged ahead anyway.

  On the car ride home I cradled the tiny brown creature with huge sad eyes and a spindly little pencil neck. My maternal instincts began to kick in as I felt a powerful need to make her feel safe. I had a baby. Poor little thing, taken from her real mama, shipped to Pet Love only two days earlier, and now uprooted once again. Everyone was a stranger, everything was so unfamiliar to my sweet little girl.

  “Esther!” I blurted out.

  “Esther?” John questioned.

  “Yes, after my great-grandmother. It’s a wonderful ancient name,” I added.

  Esther was the distraction I needed. Not a replacement, but an addition. Esther is all about today and tomorrow—not about yes-terday—and that’s what makes her so vital for my emotional recovery. She’s her own little being, though, nothing like the little ham that Chester was. He loved the camera and all the show-biz action. I’d always bring him along to photo shoots and sure enough, before the day was done, that little guy was smiling for the camera and joining me on a magazine cover. I mean, that dog had his own Web site and fan club! Would Esther love my world as much? Could I maintain the same fun “celebrity and her doggie” persona, or were those days gone forever?

  When I got an offer to do a commercial, my first “real” job since the cancer, it seemed simple enough and I decided to accept. I thought it would be a good reentry to the biz.

  In the commercial I’m a celebrity at a photo shoot talking about my new handheld digital organizer, and I thought it might 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 221

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  be fun to include Esther in the spot. So I brought my girl and pow-wowed with the producers, the agency people, and the director, Larry, whom I’d worked with before.

  I had an idea that it would be great eye candy if I kept changing throughout the thirty-second spot. I’m known for my fashion sense and I thought it supported the celebrity photo shoot concept. So Shawn-Holly, who’d costumed The Nanny for years, spread out our selections. Old habits die hard, I guess. All those years producing The Nanny had trained me to think on my feet, and this time was no different. They bought my concept hook, line, and sinker. I’d change three times and include little Esther in the commercial. I remember asking the prop man to glue the teacup to the saucer because each time it was handed over on camera, it rattled. Always a stickler for details, I also requested a lipstick print be made on the edge of the cup for realism. Of course, I wanted someone else to make the lip print since there was no way I was going to screw up the beautiful lip job my makeup man Gregory had done.

  It all went like clockwork. Esther, looking adorable, appeared at the top of the spot before I passed her off to an actor playing my assistant. I felt like a real backstage mother pushing her into the limelight to follow in the paw prints of her older, dead brother. But hey, this was my life and she better get used to it. Faye, who also did my hair on The Nanny, combed me and Esther out beautifully as Elaine watched the monitors along with the agency executives.

  That same day I shot a public service announcement for the Gynecologic Cancer Foundation, sans Esther, which also went very well. I rewrote the copy (of course) to express in greater detail how urgent it is to take the necessary tests to diagnose cancer at its early stages. I gave the Web site for women’s cancer: www.wcn.org. It was poetic shooting the two jobs back to back, because each represented a huge factor in my life: my career and my cancer.

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  And so it went. My life was taking on a new shape, piece by piece, little by little. I had my health back, I was beginning to work again, and the dog, especially the dog, made a world of difference. It broke my heart the day I had to get Esther fixed. Bob Barker always ends The Price Is Right by telling his audience to

  “get your pets spayed or neutered,” and I figured he must know best. So we brought Esther to get the very same surgery I had. I hated to put her through it, even though we were told it was better for her long-term overall health.

  Would the change throw off her hormones? Would she go into a surgical menopause? The vet said no on all fronts. But do they really know? I wondered. In the end I guess you gotta trust someone, so we had it done. The vet said after about a week she’d be completely her old self, but it really took several weeks.

  Sound familiar?

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  One Year Later

  J u n e 2 0 0 1

  it had been explained to me by my surgeon that when you’ve been diagnosed and treated for cancer, you can’t consider yourself cured or out of the woods until you’ve had five years of nonrecurrence. So with each month that passed and each good report, my chances of recurrence diminished as the odds began to stack more and more in my favor.

  It was daunting, knowing I’d have to be tested by the surgeon every three months for the first two years and then every six months for three years after that. I couldn’t believe I’d have to continue returning to that hospital for the next five years!

  But I’d been told over and over again that consistency of follow-up is the most essential factor in long-term recovery. Doctor #9

  couldn’t stress enough the importance: “Women who find themselves too busy to do their follow-up are basically giving up, since they’ve left the race when it’s only been half run.”

  John, bless his heart, had come with me to every post-op checkup. I felt strong and healthy, but as each three-month cycle came to an end I worried the surgeon might say something I didn’t want to hear. Each hospital visit was a vivid reminder of the 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 224

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  horror of it all. But the one-year checkup had greater significance.

  At the one-year point, they do a CT (pronounced “cat”) scan and see exactly what’s going on inside. This is the time when they look for new growths.

  John and I entered the hospital just as we had so many times in the past year. Immediately, I began to feel clammy and weak.

  Am I still cancer-free? John stayed with me in the examining room, too. My surgeon performed the physical exam. I’d thought I’d be taking the scan that same day, but no mention was made of it until me and my big mouth brought it up. Then Doctor #9 remembered it was my one-year anniversary. Of course, that a whole year had passed since my cancer surgery couldn’t have had the same resonance for her as for me.

  I didn’t even know what a CT scan was, exactly, so she explained that the letters stood for “computerized tomography”

  and that the machine would take a series of X rays showing thin slices of my body from front to back, starting at my thigh and going up my neck.

  “Why do they have to go all the way up to the neck?” I asked.

  “Because sometimes recurrence can show up in the lungs,”

  she answered. Well, if that didn’t make me nauseous.

  The next morning, I made an appointment with the nurse but was very apprehensive. I worried about having to take more X rays.

  I mean, maybe the effects of all those X rays would somehow ac-cumulate and ignite any cancer cells that might be lying dormant.

  What if I’d never even brought up the scan? Was this absolutely necessary?

  When I spoke to my friend Melinda, she told me she’d never had to have a CT scan and had just celebrated her second year of postsurgery nonrecurrence. So of course, I called Doctor #9’s nurse and questioned her about all this. I’m sure doctors and nurses hate when patients know each other and compare notes, 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 225

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  but who cares? I wanted to know why I needed a CT scan and Melinda didn’t.

  “Everyone’s different,” I was told. “You don’t have to take it this week if you
don’t want to, but you will have to take it,” the nurse reasoned. No point in postponing, I figured, and grudgingly kept the appointment.

  I’ve heard there’s a lot of controversy about these CT scans.

  Healthy people plunk down a lot of cash just to take a look-see around. Everyone’s heard the story of the guy who felt perfectly fine and took a CT scan that detected a spot on his liver: an early detection that saved his life. But Elaine’s doctor told her there can be dozens of cysts and nodes and lumps throughout our bodies, most of which are totally benign. “Why look for trouble?” was his philosophy.

  Rachel had a CT done on her lungs. She’s a mother of two, and after years of smoking she thought she’d sleep better knowing her lungs were clean. It was a relief to learn they were. Who knows whether it’s a good preventive measure or just “looking for trouble”? I was about to find out for myself.

  The next day when John and I arrived, a technician asked me to drink something that helps enhance the CT images. I got to mix it with the beverage of my choice and chose iced tea, downing two large glasses full. Next, I was led to an area where I changed into a hospital gown. Sue, a nurse who doesn’t normally work in this area, had been called down to help out. After several unsuccessful attempts, she finally managed to put an I.V. into the vein in my hand.

  Even though John thought I was overreacting, it hurt like hell.

  Then the nurse disappeared and a big, Nordic-looking, very pretty technician led me over to the CT scan machine. John was able to sit behind glass in a separate room and watch. The technician hooked up my I.V. to a dye, which hurt going into my veins.

  When she reduced the pressure the pain receded.