A Tale of Two Omars

by Omar Sharif

  “Just hoist me up,” I demanded.

  He propped open the window, lifted me off the floor, and pushed. When my hands hit the ground, I attempted to pull myself through the small frame. It took about sixty seconds to realize that the information I had heard was probably about mice and not about men. I had part of the information correct, because my head went through, but I got stuck at my hips.

  “Just come back in,” Chris laughed.

  “No! Push harder,” I instructed. He tried, unsuccessfully, so I insisted more sternly, “Tuck the fat in. Just tuck it in! We can get there if you just—tuck—it—in!”

  After all his pushing and my wiggling, I was lodged so tightly in place that I wasn’t going in or out of that window. I could only imagine what the view was from the inside—just an ass and two dangling legs coming through the top of a wall. The numbness and tingling in my legs and toes cautioned that I was losing circulation.

  “You have to go get help,” I said, sounding pitiful. I wasn’t going anywhere, it had started to rain, and I was lying in dirt that was quickly turning into thick, black mud.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Where are you going?”

  “I’ll get Matt. He’ll help. He’s a good guy.”

  “Can we trust him?”

  “We have to if you want to get out of there.”

  Chris jogged upstairs and quickly returned with his housemate, Matt. I was mortified by the incident and the optics. When I told Matt that the sensation in my legs was nearly gone, he grabbed and lifted them.

  “Why didn’t you go out the front door?” Matt asked.

  “Because the window was closer. Now, would you please just help get me out of here?” I begged.

  Within seconds, I heard more chatter coming from the room and knew the rest of the housemates were behind me, taking in the view. Eventually, one of them called the fire department.

  When the firemen came, they worked quickly to unscrew the frame from the window and break it off my body. When one of the firemen finally pulled me to a standing position, my legs were barely functioning, and the street was full of onlookers. I stood eye to eye with the same fireman from the crab lice incident just a couple weeks prior. He shook his head and chuckled in disbelief.

  “Junior, right?” he said, recalling my name. “I see you’re going to be keeping us busy for the next four years.”

  From that point on, there was no hiding. Three weeks in and that story spread across campus. The decision had been made for me; I was out—if not from the closet, then from the window. Not only was I gay—I was a hot mess. I regularly found myself in the most absurd situations, and somehow it only endeared me to others—because it was honest. Even the guys on the football team couldn’t help but laugh about it, only this time it wasn’t in a condescending way. This time, people were laughing with me—not at me.

  That night, I learned about acceptance—those football jocks became my closest friends and remain so to this day. Brad was a Canadian all-star wide receiver, the son of a conservative senator, and had no reason to become my best friend, but he did, and without judgment. From that day on, I became an honorary member of the team. Where they went, I went, whether it was to practices and games, out for pizza, or to the bars. I’d walk up to the bar, lay out my dad’s credit card, and order a hundred and fifty vodka sodas, six nights a week. We weren’t at every party—we were every party. I quickly befriended the hockey, rugby, and lacrosse players, too. Because everyone followed the football players’ lead, just by association, students treated me with respect. There was a hierarchy of popularity, and because I was at the top, it was uncool to call me gay or make jokes about me. Because of friends like Brad, Cliff, Graham, Dixon, Thaine, and Mo and others, I finally felt like I fit in—without secrets.

  I’d always been a Montreal Canadiens fan, and that year, Montreal faced Boston in the first round of the NHL playoffs. Just before the second game of the series was about to start, I saw a guy wearing a Bruins hat in the cafeteria while I proudly donned my Canadiens jersey. As the Bruin approached me in the crowd, I stuck out my chest, locked my shoulders and walked into him, like a body check, knocking over whatever was on his tray. The Canadiens made a miraculous recovery that series, falling three games to one, only to come back to win it all in seven. I’d found the Boston boy’s number in the school directory, and after each game of the comeback, I left him an overbearing message, mimicking the voice of Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting: “How do you like them apples?” The Bruin’s name was Raphael, or Raph, and he grew up outside of Boston. For some reason or other, Raph did like them apples. We became best friends, and Raph eventually began rooting for the Canadiens, too. In return, I went to all his lacrosse games to cheer him on.

  Many of the guys on the Queen’s athletic teams told me that they had never met an openly gay person, but they quickly became my protectors and never let anyone say a negative word about me. If someone tried, they were quick to defend me. We’d travel annually on spring break to Mexico and the Caribbean together. For as much as I taught them about diversity and inclusion, they taught me more about self-respect and how to embrace my authentic self.

  A few months later, Grandfather Omar invited me to the film premiere of his latest movie, Hidalgo. It was my first time going to Los Angeles, and the Academy Awards were taking place that same weekend. The night I arrived, we went to a pre-party at the Hollywood Hills mansion of New Line Cinema’s co-chairman Bob Shaye, where Grandfather introduced me to several of his old friends and peers, including Sean Connery. During casual conversations and spontaneous introductions, I met Cathy. She was exceedingly kind and showed interest in the details of my visit—apparently aware that I was Omar Sharif’s grandson. After Steven Tyler solicited my assistance to help him find his daughter, Liv, Cathy escorted me around the party and introduced me to everyone else, A-list celebrities and actors I’d seen on television or in the movies, if I hadn’t already met them at one of Grandfather’s dinners.

  Since Grandfather had given me tickets to all the major parties, including the Vanity Fair party at Morton’s The Steakhouse the next night, I invited Cathy and her friend Jess Cagle, whom I was secretly crushing over, to come with me. Everyone who was anyone was there, including Paris Hilton, Charlize Theron, Donald and Melania Trump, and more. Again, Cathy escorted me around the party, introducing me to everyone, and everyone knew her. What I didn’t realize was that she wrote for the Liz Smith column of the New York Post. Cathy neatly orchestrated the chance for me to take Paris Hilton to Grandfather’s premiere the next night as my date, but she was ultimately unable to attend. When I returned to Queen’s University, there were articles written that I had dated Paris Hilton, and although it wasn’t true, it cemented my reputation at the university for the three years to come. I had become the person I wanted to be while driving to Queen’s on that first day—I placed it on my vision board, and it all came true. Inside of myself, I had always been that fun-loving person, but I hadn’t felt that I could act naturally until then. I went from the bullied teen to a D-list celebrity debutante within six months, and it only got better. The following three years at university were the best of my life. My time at Queen’s was instrumental at helping me become comfortable with myself. I no longer wore the scar, hid who I was, or felt the need to create a persona. I stayed out as my authentic self, and I was accepted.

  Just before graduating from Queen’s in 2006, the students put on the annual Vogue Charity Fashion Show with proceeds going to local causes. The show creatively combined dance and runway elements, and it was sure to be exciting. Erin was one of the girls organizing the event. Because she knew I was a good dancer, she asked me to be in two of the dance sequences and to model underwear for the runway show. I took it as motivation to get in even better shape, so I agreed. A couple weeks before the show, Erin gave me the black boxer briefs I was going to wear.

  Jokingly, I told Erin, “I think I should get giant angel win
gs and walk down the runway like in a Victoria’s Secret show.”

  She teasingly replied, “Yeah, go for it.” And so I did.

  Two hours away in Ottawa, I found spectacular angel wings for rent in a costume store, and I decided to really make a statement before graduating. The night of the fashion show, I did two walks down the runway. The first was with a girl, Dana, wearing bridal lace, while I wore the fitted black boxer-briefs and a bowtie. Afterward, without forewarning Erin, I ran backstage and quickly changed into the giant angel wings and a G-string bikini and covered myself in glitter. I was incredibly nervous but intent on pushing the boundaries of this conservative university before I left. People accepted me, and I was comfortable with who I was, but I’d never been so brazen before. When it was time to take the stage, I walked to the end of the runway in what appeared to be bikini briefs and turned as if I were the queen of Queen’s. The house went eerily silent as I revealed the thong and my bare, glittered cheeks—quiet enough to hear a pin drop—but I sighed with relief when an outburst of raucous laughter and applause followed. As I strutted backstage, the night I crawled through that window like a timid caterpillar in the mud came to mind, and here, just three years later, I had metamorphosed into a fabulous social butterfly.

  4

  Doctor Zhivago Jr.

  After graduation, I returned to Egypt, keeping to my usual summer schedule. From there, I flew to Normandy to spend time with Grandfather, where I started to see gradual but consistent changes in him.

  It wasn’t like Grandfather to speak ill of people, but one evening, Dad and I were having dinner with him in the Hotel Barrière Le Royal restaurant when he became noticeably agitated. The light and comedic conversation about his friend changed course, and Grandfather began talking rudely about my mother, whom he hadn’t seen in over ten years. His cold and bitter insults didn’t make any sense, and neither of us understood how or why my mother had become the topic of Grandfather’s agitation. There was no gray area about how deeply I loved Grandfather, but equally there was never going to be one with Mom. He was out of line, and I wasn’t going to sit there and allow him to disrespect her. His discourse was entirely unwarranted, and I became upset—I don’t recall ever using that tone with my grandfather before. My father abruptly put an end to the conversation in defense of Mom by instructing me to get up from the table and informing Grandfather we were leaving for Paris in the morning. Grandfather didn’t appear to think he’d done anything wrong; in fact, he looked puzzled that we weren’t amused. The oddest part was that it sounded as though he were talking about an entirely different person, not Mom. I appreciated and respected Dad for defending my mother, especially given that their divorce had been far from amicable, but I’d never seen Grandfather behave in that manner. That alone was concerning.

  Later that evening, Dad and I were at the piano bar in the lobby; Grandfather had come to his senses and apologized. I didn’t know if Dad had spoken to him about it or if he just felt bad about the things he’d said, but we ended up staying in Deauville with Grandfather for two more weeks. By the time I left France, Dad and I had become closer, but I had good reason to be worried about Grandfather. We all did.

  It was the end of the first week of September, and I had three weeks before I was to begin a master’s program at the London School of Economics. I wanted to spend that time with Mom and my family in Canada before heading across the pond for an extended period. Everything at home was the same as when I’d left. Like I had with my grandfather Omar, I’d observe Mom going through her morning routine and rituals. She began with opening each of the California shutters throughout the condominium, excluding my room. Then she’d brew her coffee, pour it into a white china cup, and load it with a ton of powdered Coffee-mate—which has convinced me that Mom doesn’t even like coffee. She’d settle at the kitchen counter and hop on the phone, talking with one sibling after another, then Bubbie, and then her friends, all while picking at her pores with a pair of tweezers in a magnified mirror. When Mom unleashed her humor, she’d recount the funniest stories to each person as if telling them for the very first time. Her infectious laughter would surge beneath my door and reverberate in my bedroom. Sometimes I couldn’t help but laugh at her comedy routines. If it was her day to go to the health club, she’d meet her friends and work out. Mom was lean, muscular, and in great shape, which is why we weren’t prepared for the news that came on the last day of my first week home.

  Mom woke up that morning and quietly headed out to her scheduled doctor’s appointment. A few hours later, she called to inform me that she’d be at the clinic for a while longer than expected, and I sensed something was wrong. My mother normally communicated with color and energy, but this time her tone was glacial. She said, “They found something. They’re going to do an ultrasound and biopsy.”

  I replied, “Okay, I don’t understand,” but she didn’t tell me anything else.

  “I’m coming,” I said.

  She quickly stated, “I need to call Anne,” and then hung up.

  Apparently, when Mom was at the health club with her friend Marlena, she’d told her that she felt something in her left breast. Marlena had urged her to go to the doctor, but Mom explained that she’d been a few months prior and had had a mammogram. Her friend cautioned that they might have missed something. I was grateful Mom responded to Marlena’s warning by scheduling another appointment.

  It wasn’t long before Anne picked me up and drove me to the clinic where Mom was. By the time we arrived, Mom was wearing a powder-blue hospital gown and lying in bed. They had already completed the ultrasound and the technician was explaining the process for the biopsy. They were going to use a thin, hollow needle to remove tissue samples from the mass. The grueling part would be waiting two weeks for a final pathology report.

  When the report finally came in after what seemed like two months, the doctor advised Mom to schedule an appointment with a surgeon and oncologist immediately because the ultrasound had shown something in her lymph nodes, too. He told us that, unfortunately, the lump wasn’t benign and that Mom had stage two breast cancer, or worse.

  Hearing the word cancer wasn’t something to accept without difficulty. Just by looking at my mother, I knew she had barely begun to process the totality of it. Her eyes couldn’t hide anything—she was scared. When she finally spoke, she asked, “I won’t need chemo, will I? I won’t lose my hair?” she asked, touching the side of her head.

  “I’m not the oncologist, but the fact that it’s showing up in your lymph nodes means that it has already spread.” Mom was silent as he continued, “We see a mass on your thyroid, too, and we don’t know if it’s connected, but that’s something we need to look into.”

  After a local anesthetic was administered, I headed outside to get some fresh air, leaving Mom with Anne. I didn’t want Mom to see that I was worried, because it would upset her further. I had to be strong and methodical and focus on what needed to get done. With each step, I was processing everything and thinking out the logistics of canceling school and what needed to happen next. I walked to the end of the street and pulled my phone from my back pocket. Typically, when there was an urgent situation or crisis, I’d call Mom, but this time, I needed to call Dad.

  I told Dad what the doctor had said while welling up with tears, and the first thing he asked was, “Did anyone say the word metastatic?”

  I told him, “The doctor said it spread to the lymph nodes, but they don’t know anything beyond that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Then I heard a slight sigh of relief.

  I explained to Dad that I wasn’t going to London for my master’s. I was determined to stay in Montreal to take care of Mom.

  He agreed. “Stay in Montreal. We’ll figure it out. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  I hung up and tilted my head up toward the sky to regroup before going back inside.

  Dad was supportive, exactly what I needed at that mom
ent; he always knew what to say, and he was sincere. Staying home for the surgery, her chemo treatments, and anything else Mom needed was something I wanted to do. Mom had done everything she could for me over the years, and I couldn’t abandon her now. That wasn’t an option.

  I went back to the clinic and waited to hear what the next steps would be. When the doctor entered the room, Anne reached into her brown tote and pulled out a pen along with a dark green notebook. Anne began writing down everything the doctor said. She was a schoolteacher and knew her sister well. This wasn’t my mother’s first health scare, and Anne realized that Mom would have anxiety dealing with everything alone. At that point, none of us understood the treatment process, side effects, and risk factors, or knew about the palliative or supportive care she’d need. If we took notes, asked the right questions, and did research to familiarize ourselves with what it meant to have this disease, we could understand what it would take to survive it. This notebook became Mom’s “Diary of Cancer.”

  Mom was understandably reticent on the ride home. When we arrived, she went straight to her computer and began researching anything she could find about breast cancer. Her face was drained of whatever joy had been there before her diagnosis and the sadness became profound—morbid. Whatever she read only increased her fear. While she was doing that, I sat down, composed an email to the university in London, and told them I would be deferring my enrollment for a year, but I didn’t know if it would be possible to return at all. I received their reply later that afternoon affirming they would hold my spot. It was signed, “Best of luck.” It felt impersonal, but they didn’t know me. Not many people did.

  Breast cancer had already caused loss and devastation in our family. Zadie’s twin brother had a daughter, Sara, who like Mom had discovered a lump in her breast. She’d had surgery, but after having radiation, Sara made the decision to forgo chemo and took a holistic route instead. The results were unsuccessful—the cancer ate her alive. It was a cautionary tale for everyone in our family. Medical professionals also found that the BRCA2 gene runs in our family, a gene which predisposes women to breast or ovarian cancer and men to prostate and other types of cancer. To determine if we’d inherited the mutation, each of us had required testing. We had to consider the impact of this history on top of what Mom was dealing with, and it created more concern for everyone.