We're Going to Need More Wine
Page 22
And then I learned.
“Of course,” Dr. Newman said, “there is no cure for metastatic breast cancer.”
Everything else was drowned out, and I heard her words as an echo. “There is no cure for metastatic breast cancer.” But wait. We’ve got the money. We are seeing the best doctors. We are doing all this work. What do you mean?
Then it all became very clear to me: Sook was gonna die, no matter what we did. There is no cure for metastatic breast cancer. This was three years into Sookie’s journey—a sister should have read up on “metastatic” at this point. I definitely shouldn’t have been sitting there in Ghana, on the other side of the world from my dear friend, finding out that she was going to die no matter how much I gamed the system.
It was like that moment in the living room with Ray. I was the last to understand the truth I didn’t want to accept. Clueless Nickie, thinking she knew what was best for everyone.
FOR RAY AND ME, LIFE BECAME ABOUT TRYING TO SPEND AS MUCH TIME AS possible with Sook. She was still going full speed ahead, lobbying in D.C. and still trying to get into clinical trials for treatment. She got a great boyfriend and a dog. She had hope, but she was very clear that it was more about buying time than finding a cure. The thing that she was excited about was that while she was getting a few more months from the latest clinical trial, what they were learning from her would help other women.
On one of her better days, I was in New York for some work event. We met down in SoHo at this restaurant, at a time when we knew it would be empty. We just wanted to be girlfriends.
We held hands, and literally as I was asking her what she wanted her legacy to be, what she wanted me to carry on, I felt someone standing next to our table.
“I never do this . . .” she said.
She was a tall woman, well dressed and looking like she knew better.
I turned. “I am so sorry,” I said. “This is not a good time.”
“This is just going to take a second,” she said.
Sook wouldn’t look at her. Finally, I turned to the woman and smiled. I chose to satiate this woman’s need, just to make her go away.
It was a minute, maybe a minute and a half with Sook that I wouldn’t get back. I returned to Sook and again asked her what she wanted her legacy to be. What message she wanted me to carry on.
“I want you to tell people that fear can kill you,” Sook said. “I was afraid, and it killed me.”
It was my last lunch with Sook.
RAY CALLED ME NEAR THE END OF THE SECOND WEEK OF JUNE 2010.
“Look, it’s coming,” he said. “If you want to be able to talk to Sook while she is able to respond, you should come now.”
I booked a flight to spend the weekend with her in New York. Then I got a call from one of the execs behind Jumping the Broom. They really liked me for one of the starring roles, but they had a concern about a false tabloid report that I had torn apart Dwyane’s marriage. One of the producers was megapastor T. D. Jakes, and if I didn’t go to a meeting on Friday, I wasn’t going to get the part. I made the decision to go. I delayed my flight to get in Saturday morning.
The meeting boiled down to “Will Christian women go to see a movie starring a supposed home-wrecker?” I so wanted people to like me, to choose me, that I was putting aside a very real situation that demanded my immediate presence.
These people knew the situation with Sookie. My friend was across the country dying, and they were still asking me if I was a good enough Christian to sell tickets. I could have had another day with her or even just a few more hours if I hadn’t had to convince people I am a good person. I didn’t even get the part, and to this day, I regret nothing more than taking that meeting and trying to explain gossip. Rumors that were easily proven false, but why let a little thing like the truth get in the way of a good lie? But I was so stuck in wanting people to like me that I went to the meeting before I got on the plane. Just to try to plead my case to producers and an executive that I was not this home-wrecker described by people who had absolutely no real information about the situation.
When I finally got to Sookie’s apartment, Ray met me outside. He tried to prepare me before I walked in.
“It’s bad, Nickie,” he said. “We’ve all been on shifts. She wants to die at home.”
When I walked in, you could smell death. Decay. I will never forget it. The nurses had transformed her apartment, once this cute little bachelorette pad, into a home hospice. Sook’s boyfriend was there, as was her whole family: her mom, her older brother Sam, and her two sisters. Her dad had driven up from New Jersey. And at the center was Sook, in a hospital bed they’d brought in.
“I’m sorry it smells really bad in here,” she said.
“It does, actually.”
“I wish some of our relationships gave off this smell,” she joked. “We’d have known they were over.”
“Catch a whiff,” I said, “and ‘Whoo, see ya.’”
What I loved most was when she said out of nowhere, “Will somebody go and get me some hair removal cream?” A side effect of one of her meds was hair growth, and she was getting a mustache. Her sisters were there painting her nails, trying to make her feel as pretty as possible. I was ready to have deep conversations about life and death, but she wanted nothing to do with that. So I gave up control and allowed Sook to lead me.
“I want to talk about the Kardashians,” she said. That was Sook, a girls’ girl to the end.
Ray joined us, and Sook and I entertained her sisters with stories of growing up in Pleasanton. We laughed about the guys we loved from After Dark, and I told the girls the tales of Little Screw and my Greek-Mexican beauty school dropout. Ray mimed how to jump-start the family Studebaker, and their mom pretended to be shocked at how often we’d done it.
At the end, we are our stories, some shared and some lived alone. I wanted nothing more than for Sook’s story to have a happy ending.
She made it to that Wednesday, five years into her diagnosis. I won’t turn her into Susan B. Anthony, but she definitely wanted people to prioritize themselves and their health and not to be afraid of going to the doctor. To always get a few opinions and try to live your best life. She didn’t want the conversation or our advocacy work to die with her. It couldn’t be that Ray and I became breast health advocates to save Sookie, but if we couldn’t help Sook, to hell with everyone else. She didn’t want that. To this day, I do what my schedule allows, and I am very active in supporting Planned Parenthood. They offer low- and no-cost breast health care, and for a lot of people, Planned Parenthood is the only time they see a doctor. And I always try to incorporate health and wellness anytime I’m speaking, because now it just comes up naturally.
Ray has the longest-running relationship of anyone that I know. He and his partner have a country home in Connecticut—the whole nine yards. As I was writing this I could always text Ray to make sure I had the details down correctly.
And so, you, my sweet, patient, understanding reader: Sookie made me promise to tell you not to act out of fear. I can only add that you can be scared to death, as I’ve been while sharing these stories with you, and do the thing you need to do anyway.
Take care of yourself.
acknowledgments
I want to thank the people of Dey Street Books and HarperCollins Publishers. Thanks especially to my editor, Carrie Thornton, for her help in bringing this book to the world.
Also to Sean Newcott, Ploy Siripant, Ben Steinberg, Kendra Newton, Heidi Richter, and Lynn Grady.
Thanks to Albert Lee for encouraging me to write a book. And to Kevin Carr O’Leary, for hearing my words and making them sing.
To my manager and enabler Jeff Morrone, the longest, most productive relationship I’ve ever had. Thank you for believing in me. I am grateful for your vision, and your tireless efforts to help make my dreams a reality.
I also want to thank Holly Shakoor and Stephanie Durning, Patti Felker, Brad Rose, David Guillod, and Todd Shuster for advocat
ing for me. They are the people you want in your corner.
Thank you to my uncle, James Francis Glass, for being the perfect godfather. One who encouraged shenanigans and wacky inappropriate hijinks. And doing it all unapologetically.
Thank you to the people who acknowledge turn signals and let people in. You are the real MVPs.
To my mom, thank you for your love and respect of words, books, and safe learning spaces. You created distant galaxies in a brain hardwired to stay grounded on Earth. Thank you.
Dad, thank you for showing me that real change is possible at any age, and that it’s never too late to evolve and live your best life.
To my sisters, thank you for loving me and supporting me. And always letting me be Deena Jones during Christmas sing-alongs.
To the boys, I know I’m gone a lot but I hope that during my absences I am making you proud. Thank you for always having my back and being my protectors.
To my poopy, D . . . Thank you for waking me up with that smile and positive vibes every morning and making me feel invincible and loved completely.
about the author
GABRIELLE UNION is an actress and activist. Currently she stars as the titular character in the critically acclaimed drama Being Mary Jane on BET. She is an outspoken activist for women’s reproductive health and victims of sexual assault. She lives in Miami, Florida.
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credits
COVER DESIGN BY PLOY SIRIPANT
COVER PHOTOGRAPH BY MICHAEL LAVINE PHOTOGRAPHY
copyright
The names and identifying characteristics of many of the individuals featured throughout this book have been changed to protect their privacy. In some cases, composite characters have been created or timelines have been compressed, in order to further preserve privacy and to maintain narrative flow. The goal in all cases was to protect people’s privacy without damaging the integrity of the story.
WE’RE GOING TO NEED MORE WINE. Copyright © 2017 by Gabrielle Union. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-269398-3 (Hardcover)
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-283559-8 (B&N BF Signed Edition)
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-283561-1 (BAM Signed Edition)
EPub Edition October 2017 ISBN 978-0-06-269400-3
Version 04232018
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