Cancer Schmancer

by Fran Drescher

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  The first thing she said was, “Why did they put the I.V. in your hand?” As if I knew why.

  “What’s the matter? Is that bad?” I questioned nervously.

  “Well, they usually do the top of the hand with old people, but I don’t know why she’d do this to you.” Not exactly confidence-building words to hear as you’re placed in a huge contraption and pumped full of a strange dye. “Who did this?”

  she wondered.

  “Sue, it was Sue!” I accused. “Does it make any difference?” I continued, wanting in that moment to stab Sue.

  “It’s just that your arms need to be out of the way, and with the I.V. in your hand it’s harder to lift your arms over your head,”

  the Nordic nurse replied.

  “Stupid Sue,” I muttered as the technician disappeared behind the glass. And the scan began! Aside from a slight nervous-ness caused by having a large instrument looming over you, the scan itself is nothing with nothing. Even less so if you’re fortunate enough not to get Sue.

  By the time it was over and I began to get dressed, I noticed that the hand that had been repeatedly jabbed by Sue was already swollen and turning black and blue. So I marched myself back into the technician’s area, where the Nordic nurse was already kibitzing with one of the doctors. As I approached, flailing my purple, swollen hand, I shouted, “Sue, Sue!”

  “Oh, we don’t like to use that word around here,” the doctor replied, getting nervous. But the pretty Nordic nurse explained that Sue was the gal who’d inserted the I.V., and together she and the doctor assured me that although my hand would stay quite ugly for several days, eventually the bruising would fade.

  “Why me, Lord?” I whimpered, heading for the nearest antiques store to appease my aggravation.

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  Well, that was on Thursday, and it wasn’t until Tuesday that Wanda, my surgeon’s nurse, called with the test results.

  “I have good news and not-so-good news,” she said, “but we don’t really think it’s anything bad and we’re not worried, or Doctor #9 would have called you herself.”

  Had she just said what I thought she said? I looked over at John, who knew something was up, and meekly replied, “Is something wrong, did something show up on the CT scan?”

  “Your abdomen is completely clean,” Wanda assured, “and that’s very important, because that’s the first and most likely area spread would occur.”

  I gulped. “So what’s the not-so-good part?” I asked, as my voice weakened and John ran to pick up an extension.

  “They found a spot on your lung,” she said, forthright and direct as always (they must take a class for that). She then quickly added, “But nothing about the spot looks suspicious in any way.

  Many people have small growths on their lungs from birth, and they’re not threatening at all. It’s smooth like a river rock that has been there for many years, and doesn’t look anything like cancer, which is jagged with tentacles. Still, considering your recent history, Doctor #9 thinks we should do a PET scan just to be sure.”

  She assured me that if I hadn’t been a recovering cancer patient, they’d never have pursued this further.

  I understood the words she was saying, but my heart sank as my fears rose. “Wait a minute, what did the CT scan do, and what the hell is a PET scan for?” I asked. And why do they all sound like do-mesticated animals?

  Wanda was ready with all the answers: “The CT scan detects a growth; a PET scan determines whether or not it’s malignant. The-oretically, any malignancies you have will grab at sugar, so they inject you with a radioactive sugar fluid that appears as highlights in 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 228

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  the PET scan pictures.” Uh-huh. It was all so futuristic I couldn’t even believe what I was hearing.

  “Well, why didn’t this spot show up on those stupid chest X rays I took before my surgery?” I questioned.

  “Because it’s hidden behind a bone,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “It wouldn’t have been visible with a simple chest X ray. An appointment for a PET scan should be set as soon as possible. Call Doctor #9’s scheduling nurse in the morning to confirm,” Wanda instructed.

  I hung up the phone so sad and upset. I wasn’t prepared to feel this way again. But in a repeat performance, I immediately began dialing my parents, sister, and friends.

  The next morning when I called the gal in my surgeon’s office, she said she was waiting to hear from the people over at Nuclear Medicine and hoping to work something out over the next few weeks.

  “Few weeks!” I exclaimed. Here I was, thinking I’d be going in that afternoon or the next day at the very latest. I mean, how do they expect you to get on with your life when you know you’ve got a phantom spot on your lung? “Gimme the number, let me talk to them,” I said, offering to lend a helping hand.

  When I called, I got a guy named Tom on the phone who said the department was really backed up with appointments. But when I told him I’d had uterine cancer and that my CT scan showed a spot on my lung, my voice began quivering out of control. He asked how late I could come in that same day and I said, “Whenever you say, Tom.”

  Then he asked if I’d eaten, and I said no. I knew not to eat or drink anything until I found out when my test was going to be and what restrictions it might require. He said he’d see what he could do and call me right back.

  Within minutes he phoned back and said they’d make me the last appointment of the day. I blessed him and thanked him pro-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 229

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  fusely. He suggested I eat some pure protein—chicken or fish—

  right away, then nothing but water until after the test.

  As I hung up, relieved but anxious about what lay ahead, Ramon asked, “Fran, have you ever jumped out of a plane with a parachute?”

  Tearfully I said, “No, Ramon, I never went skydiving. I’m not a thrill seeker in that way.” And then I really began to bawl. He quickly realized this wasn’t the time to talk about daredevil sports.

  “What’s the matter, something wrong?” he asked gently.

  I could barely get the words out as I said, “My test didn’t come back so good. The doctors need me to take more. I have to go today.”

  Ramon put down his mop and said to me, as if he really knew,

  “Fran, there is nothing wrong with you. I can tell in your eyes, you are healthy!” Then he picked up the mop and walked away. Softly, I said, “Thank you, Ramon.”

  Both Elaine and Rachel said they wanted to be with me for the PET scan. Wednesday at four-thirty was the time; Nuclear Medicine was the place. John would arrive a bit later after a meeting he had. Camelia would pick me up and drive me to the hospital. Kathy would stay with Esther.

  I must say, I was blessed to find myself surrounded by all these very wise and loving women. Each had known what it was to live life, as well as to feel pain and heartache. With them I can speak freely about hormones, cancer, and growing older. Without inhibition or embarrassment I can talk about my estrogen patch, gray hair, or wrinkles. They helped ease me into my new reality as painlessly and shamelessly as possible, pointing out the bumps in the road so I might fall fewer times and trip less.

  More and more I believe in a master plan and the subtle maneuvers from the angels above.

  When Camelia came to pick me up for the PET scan, I kept pro-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 230

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  crastinating. I didn’t want to go back to the hospital. I was afraid to take that test, afraid of what it might tell me. So while she sat with her car keys in hand, waiting, I felt the sudden need to prepare Kathryn a big bowl of s
paghetti. I didn’t want to believe this was anything more than a false alarm, but a tiny voice inside me feared the worst. I remember thinking, Is this how it’s going to be for me? In-termittent blocks of remission followed by one cancer after another?

  When we finally arrived at the hospital, the two of us navigated our way through the corridors to the dreaded door marked NUCLEAR MEDICINE. I was so grateful to Tom for squeezing me in that I’d brought him a box of chocolates. When Elaine and Rachel arrived, the whole atmosphere of the waiting room lifted. In two minutes we’d taken over and rearranged the whole lobby. Everyone was thirsty and I immediately began doling out cups from the water cooler. Always the hostess with the mostess.

  Rachel helped me fill out the forms. It’s so weird checking off the YES box for cancer, hysterectomy, appendectomy, and thyroidi-tis. I looked at her and said, “Can you believe this is me?” One of the questions they asked was whether I might be pregnant. My answer was no. By the time we got down to COMMENTS, all I could write was “Tom is nice.”

  It was Tom who took me to get the injection of the radioactive sugar solution. Rachel came along for support and also to use the bathroom. The framed posters, paintings, and photographs that lined the walls were the only memorable landmarks in a maze of otherwise nondescript hallways and doors. Both she and I made a pit stop at what Tom described as the “cleaner” bathroom, and then continued on to the room where I’d get my injection.

  Tom said that I’d have to wait at least another thirty minutes to allow the stuff to spread throughout my body. I jokingly said I was going to start a rock band and call it “Radioactive Girl.”

  He also explained that a PET scan is particularly effective at 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 231

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  photographing the lungs, since they normally won’t take in the sugar at all. So Rachel and I returned to the waiting room, where Elaine sat knitting and chatting with Camelia.

  Finally, at around 6 P.M., they led me in for the PET scan. The room itself was on the small side, and they felt only one person should sit with me in there. The rest of the brood sat just outside the curtain in the hallway, well within earshot.

  Elaine sat with me initially and gabbed about her grand-children while continuing to knit. She was a comforting presence as I hung on every word about little Ruby, the latest addition to the family. When John finally arrived, he took over for Elaine and filled me in on his meeting.

  Through the curtain that divided us from Elaine, Rachel, and Camelia we collectively discussed where we should eat when this was done. After an hour of taking the photos, I got dressed and we all walked over to Ubon, a Japanese noodle house. I kept my cell phone on as I waited for the call from my surgeon, who promised to give me an initial evaluation of the PET scan from the head doctor of Nuclear Medicine.

  There we all were, drinking sake and digging our chopsticks into noodles and sushi, when the phone rang. We all froze. I flipped open the receiver as everyone looked on. Doctor #9 was so great about calling as quickly as she did. It was eight o’clock at night, and she was still making calls on my behalf. I wondered how many hours out of each day she actually devoted to her private life, but was grateful for her commitment to her patients.

  The first thing she said was, “There’s no sign of cancer anywhere,” and I instantly gave everyone at the table the thumbs-up.

  In the morning she said she’d have a team of pulmonary (lung) specialists also look at the film, but that I should relax and enjoy my dinner.

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  putting my thumb up so as not to prolong their agony. The first thing Elaine said was, “Call your folks and we’ll hear whatever you tell them!”

  My mom had been extremely anxious all day over this whole thing. Each time we spoke she’d answer the phone before the first ring finished, and this time was no different. It was 11 P.M. in Florida. “Yeah, hello,” she answered, sounding a bit frantic—and rightfully so.

  “It’s definitely not cancer, there’s no sign of cancer anywhere!”

  I said, rushing to get all the words out.

  “Our prayers have been answered, that’s all we wish for, that you should be well,” my mom exclaimed. She sent her love to everyone, told us to enjoy our dinner, and added, “Now we can go to sleep.” I was all aglow, both figuratively and literally. I raised my sake cup to my hero and heroines, and thanked them for their unending love and support.

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  Alone, but Not Lonely

  O c t o b e r 2 0 0 1

  baseball play-offs were in full swing and John, along with some buddies of his, drove to San Francisco for the big Yankees versus Oakland A’s games. I, on the other hand, had been trying to finish this book all week, but had been distracted by re-modeling questions and plans for my November New York trip, so I was really looking forward to being left alone to catch up on the writing. It’s the rare occasion when the house is empty and quiet.

  By Friday afternoon everyone was gone for the weekend. No hammering and banging coming from the upstairs, no housekeepers, no assistants, no nothing. Just me and Esther and the gentle sounds of ocean waves. I love the way the house looks when it’s all clean. White flowers in vases everywhere, shiny waxed floors, fresh towels, and crisp linens on the bed. There’s a serenity to my home.

  It’s a truly special place and I cherish those peaceful moments when I can enjoy it on my own.

  I knew that I needed an ending to the book. But how do you end a story about having cancer when you still have four more years of checkups to go? Every time I’d write something it became a chapter, but not the last chapter. I’d been racking my brain over this for weeks, knowing full well my deadline was fast approach-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 234

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  ing, but had no luck coming up with anything. This was to be the weekend, like it or not.

  When I awoke on Saturday morning, I opened my bedroom door to gaze upon one of my favorite views in the house. As the sun sifted through the sheer curtains of my dining room, it cast a soft light on the table and the hydrangeas in my Lalique vase that has female nudes around it. The angel statues that stand atop my side-board were also beautifully lit and especially ethereal looking.

  Esther awakened and greeted the rest of the house with me. I decided to not get dressed at all that day, but rather to walk freely about my home nude. Together, we went out on my deck and took in the stillness of the early-morning hour. The fog was thick and the ocean hardly visible. While Esther sniffed around, making her first discoveries of the day, I stretched toward the sky and inhaled the salt air. I decided not to answer the phones, but focus solely on writing the last chapter.

  I reentered the house and went into my bath area. I love this room so much. I’d hung a magnificent chandelier from the center of the skylight. There’s an aquarium in this room that adds so much greenery and quiet beauty. I find the fish tranquil as they gracefully swim through the leaves. I changed my estrogen patch. I’m on a Saturday/Wednesday schedule. I don’t take the daily pill because I can’t get it in the amount that makes me feel the best (even-tempered), so I wear a patch and then cut a second patch into quarters, which gives me the perfect amount, and change it twice a week.

  Melinda takes the pill version of the hormone replacement patch, but she feels good on one of the standard doses. I don’t.

  They advise you to switch the spot where you place the patch each time you change it. I removed it from my left hip and put the new patch and a quarter on my right. I’ve found that eye-makeup remover gets off any residue adhesive from the old side, so I swabbed the area with a moistened cotton pad.

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  I was trying to get back into shape, anticipating the upcoming trip to New York where I’d be honored with the Gilda Award at the Gilda’s Club Seventh Annual Comedy Gala fund-raiser. It seemed fitting I accept the honor since I’d spent so much time thinking about Gilda Radner during my search for a diagnosis. The award committee had chosen me the celebrity cancer survivor of the year. Hard to fathom, but nevertheless true.

  As I walked past my mirrored closet doors I took in the shape of my body and I liked what I saw. My butt looked firm, my tummy looked flat, the exercise and dieting seemed to be paying off. I saw the little patch and a quarter pasted to my hip, but it didn’t bother me anymore. I remembered how in the beginning I’d cried to John about how much I hated it. It seemed like a brand to me, a reminder I had cancer. I didn’t want it on me, nor did I want the scar where they’d made the incision. Now the scar’s hardly noticeable, and the patch seems more like a medal for bravery.

  It’s great being home alone. I never thought the day would come when I’d say that and mean it, but I do. I looked down at Esther and said to her, “Everyone loves you, but I get to keep you all of the time!” She’s just the dearest, sweetest thing, and I adore her. Getting another dog was definitely the right thing to do.

  John called to let me know he arrived safely. I told him I planned to walk around the house naked all day. I love to be nude; it makes me feel so free. He said, “Take Esther’s collar off so she can be naked, too. She always likes it when the collar is off and she gets her neck scratched.” He’s a thoughtful “Poppy” and it fills my heart to witness how caring and tender he is with her. So I took off her collar and she did seem to be freer and lighter.

  I no longer feel anxiety or any kind of weight on my shoulders.

  It comes as a great relief that I’ve arrived at this place in my life. I walked through fire to confront my fears, and thank God, it wasn’t 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 236

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  in vain. I now know who I am. I’m comfortable by myself. And that makes all the difference.