Foxy

by Pam Grier

  When I got the call that he had died, I collapsed onstage during rehearsal. I had seen him and spoken with him a few days earlier, and he’d been very quiet. The boy thought we were all supporting his stepfather in denying his mother pain meds, and I was worried about him. When word came that he had taken his life, I was saddened, not shocked, and worried about what it would do to Krista.

  The crew gathered around to help me, and although we were only two weeks away from the opening of this play with a two-character cast, the director and producer allowed me to leave for a week to attend my nephew’s funeral in Colorado. They were fearful that the expensive, sold-out production with its cast of two would close if I couldn’t recover fast enough, but they gave me the time anyway. I flew to Colorado in the midst of the loss of a nephew, the impending loss of my sister, and the fear of losing my job as a cast member of one of the greatest contemporary plays of our time.

  When I arrived at the funeral service, I joined Gina, Rod, and Mom. Krista had to be carried into the crowded room, she was so frail and brokenhearted. From her seat in the front row, she called me over and handed me a piece of paper on which she had handwritten a letter. She was so weak from her grief and wasted from the cancer eating her bones, she could barely speak. “Pammy,” she whispered, “you need to read this out loud for me. It’s a prayer for my boy.”

  I looked at the congregation gathered in my mom’s church, including family, friends, the mayor of Denver, and a load of my deceased nephew’s classmates and teammates. Then I looked at Krista’s thin hands, their veins visible, thin as a skeleton’s. She had been such a strong, powerful being—my best friend and sister on whom I could lean whenever I needed help. Now she had lost eighty pounds, she was nothing but skin and bones, and she had a final request for me, a simple one, so it seemed. She wanted me to grant her last wish and read aloud her final letter to her son. I was ready to do anything for her—until I scanned what she wanted me to read.

  My legs buckled as I realized that this note contained a valid account of what her husband and the church had done to her, her son, and her family. She had also included an angry message to her ex-husband and a snipe at whoever else followed the cruel church rules that would leave a mother screaming out in pain in the night. I fell to my knees as I continued to read silently. She had left no one out of her letter of revenge, as she criticized the church, her husband, and anyone else who had denied her the right to ease her pain and that of her son.

  Our eyes met—hers were stony and determined—and I began to cry. I rested my head on Krista’s hand, which was on the partition between pews. “Please don’t ask me to read this,” I pleaded with her. “It’s going to anger and hurt so many people.”

  She continued to stare at me, her gaze direct and penetrating. “Pammy,” she said, “you have to fight for me. Please. I can’t do it for myself anymore. Just read it.”

  I was trembling and sobbing when my mom came over to ask what was wrong with me. Hundreds of eyes were on me as I prayed to God to let me pass out. How does a person cause herself to faint? I wondered. Everyone in the church knew something was going on when I pulled myself up onto shaky legs. My body was trembling, I could barely breathe, and I knew the extreme and long-lasting pain this note would cause a lot of people. I could picture the fights that would break out over the honest and raw words that Krista wanted everyone to hear.

  I cleared my throat and started to read the first part of the letter. But I quickly stopped reading. I remembered a Chinese proverb about revenge that said in essence, “When someone dies, you dig one grave. When you seek revenge, you dig two.”

  The words in her letter were so vindictive and full of rage and revenge, I knew they would start religious and family wars. True, they were Krista’s words, not mine, but I was the messenger who would suffer the rage and criticism long after Krista was gone. I couldn’t open so many wounds and deal with the aftermath. When I handed the letter back to Krista, the air went out of her body as she slumped down in her seat in disappointment, bewilderment, and rejection. I refused to be the one to read the letter and stir the pot—a decision I regret to this day.

  As I began to walk away from Krista, I looked back at her face with an expression that asked her for forgiveness. I will never forget how she looked back at me, betrayed and distraught, as her one chance for redemption had been taken from her. Our relationship suffered greatly after that, and although we spoke from time to time, she really didn’t care to connect with me at an intimate level anymore. I explained myself, and she said she understood, but in her heart of hearts, she never forgave me for backing down from her last fight.

  Needless to say, Krista never made it to San Diego to see my play. When she died months later, I was devastated that I had let my beloved sister go to her grave knowing that I didn’t stand up for her and grant her last request. It haunts me to this day as one of the things in life that I would do over, if only I were given the chance—even though all hell would have broken loose in that church if I had granted Krista’s request.

  I suffered two close deaths during that play. First it was Krista’s son, and then it was Krista herself. And still, as the first black Frankie that was ever cast, I felt a responsibility to be great in my role. It’s an act of courage to get onstage when you’re torn apart inside. Actors have to work when they’re grieving from a loss or sick from the flu. Whether we lose a child, a mate, or get a divorce, we have to show up each day, putting our personal feelings to the side and remembering songs, lines, and stage directions—even when our hearts are breaking. No curling up in a ball for several days and crying our eyes out. We have to strengthen our hearts and souls enough to get out there and do the work, no matter how we feel.

  There were moments during rehearsals when I lost control and I wept. My fellow actors and the director picked me up, helped me brush myself off, and got me back into the swing, red puffy eyes and all. I did the best I could with the help of a little wine that loosened me up and relaxed my nervous system. And still, the stress was indescribable, with no relief for a long time. I expect that the work saved my life, as I was required to take breaks from the constant grief and loss that were plaguing me. I was gratified to finish out the run, even performing one night when I had a 104-degree fever. The show must go on, and so it did.

  To this day, I carry the weight of my sister’s death and that of her son on my shoulders. This constant haunting does not diminish with time, like people told me it would. But it does make me respect life and love so much more than before.

  ACT THREE

  Finding the Balance 1990–The Present

  CHAPTER 29

  The C Word

  I had just finished shooting Above the Law, starring Steven Seagal and directed by Andrew Davis, an old friend, when I met Philip in New York at a charity function. It was 1987, and we were attracted to each other immediately. When I look back now, I realize that the signs revealed the truth about him. But in the infatuation stage of any relationship, the truth has an insidious way of hiding behind gratification, sex, projections, sex, denial, sex, romance, sex, euphoria, sex, picnics on the beach, and more sex.

  Tall and friendly, a successful architect with his own New York firm, Philip had reddish brown skin and keen, golden hazel eyes. A magnificent specimen of a self-made man, with little to no college education, he managed about one hundred fifty employees. A genius who could sketch and draw skillfully, Philip had great taste in home furnishings, and I loved visiting his apartment in the city and his second home in the Hamptons. I appreciated the calming influence he had on me in general, since I had a tendency to get overly excited about life.

  I remember one night, however, when we switched roles. Philip’s firm had taken on a massive job, fitting out several floors of a Dutch bank with chairs, tables, desks, and a load of state-of-the-art office equipment. Philip was responsible for designing the lamps, the cubicles, the carpeting, and the window coverings, which he thought were all well handled—until
a disturbing phone call came late in the evening from the bank’s president.

  Philip’s beautiful skin turned pale as his client cursed him out on the phone, but he remained silent. It seemed that someone (most likely Philip himself ) had miscalculated the design and size of hundreds of chairs that would not fit under the desks. When Philip hung up, he said, “Oh, Pam, I have to go to the site right now. I need to open hundreds of boxes, find the chairs, and send them all back. My career is on the line.”

  “I’m going with you,” I said.

  “You don’t need to do that,” he told me. “It’ll take all night.”

  “It’ll take half the time with two of us. C’mon. Let’s go.”

  Assuming the role he usually played, I kept him calm as we taxied to the building site, where we spent the entire night opening cardboard crates and sorting out what needed to be shipped and what could stay. The sun was starting to rise when we finally headed back to his apartment, exhausted. But that’s what people do for each other when they’re in love. Or so I thought before that concept was tested.

  If I had been looking for red flags, I should have seen them waving wildly when Philip took me to meet his mom in Georgia, where we would stay for a week. I was thrilled that he considered me special enough to want his mother to meet me, but I was saddened when we got there and saw her lifestyle. A professional domestic, Philip’s mother had worked hard all her life cleaning other people’s homes. From the lifelong fruits of her labor, she had managed to set aside a little money and purchase a small home on stilts that was so unsteady it listed to one side. The living room was tiny, the sofa blocked the front door, and you could only enter from the back. Unstable and too small for much furniture, the house was lit with one naked lightbulb screwed into the ceiling that this poor woman unscrewed and carried from room to room so she could use it where she needed it.

  We stayed with her for seven days, during which time she gave up her bedroom and slept on the sofa. One evening, Philip and I were chatting at the kitchen table when his mom came in and unscrewed the lightbulb to use in the bathroom. I opened the refrigerator door to shed some blue light in the room, and we sat there in silence. Times were tough in those days, and Philip’s mom couldn’t work as much as she used to, so she needed to get the most out of everything she bought.

  It was stunning to me that while Philip was a self-made millionaire, his mother was living like a pauper, although clean, orderly, and neat, since she took great pride in the little that she had. Could the red flags have been any more obvious? When she and I sat in the living room one evening after she screwed back in the lightbulb, she told me about a yellow brick house she had cleaned weekly for several years, her dream house. It was filled with light, had central heating, and was up for sale for $125,000, so she would continue to dream about it.

  “Why don’t you help her more?” I asked Philip. “Buy her that house she wants. You can afford it.”

  “I tried to buy her a color TV once, but she wouldn’t take it. She’s too full of pride,” he said with a look of disgust on his face.

  Where would she have put a television? Besides, she needed other amenities a lot more than she needed a color TV. I made it my mission to talk Philip into buying her that dream house before we left. If we broke up, I figured he would never follow through. When Philip left for a day to visit other relatives, I bought his mom several dozen lightbulbs and other basic supplies to make her life easier. By the time he agreed to purchase the house, I was thrilled for his mother, but I had lost some respect and affection for my boyfriend, who was showing me who he was. And still, I refused to see the whole truth about him.

  We’d been dating for less than a year when I went to Los Angeles for auditions and to appear on some TV shows. I had been cast in several roles lately as the older woman dating the younger man, something we call a “cougar” today, and I’d become the “it” girl for that type of role.

  In the midst of everything, it occurred to me that it was time for my yearly pap smear and mammogram.

  I took a break from my packed schedule, went in for the checkup, and headed back home, relieved to have it over with. Actually, I’d forgotten about it when the call came the next morning from the gynecologist’s nurse. “We need you to come back in right away,” she said.

  “Why?” I wanted to know.

  “You need to have a biopsy.”

  “What’s wrong?” I felt my stomach drop.

  “We have to see you tomorrow at the latest,” she said, avoiding answering my question. That made me really afraid, and I called my mom to comfort me. When I told her what was happening, my voice must have sounded awful.

  “Oh, Pammy,” she said reassuringly, “it’s probably nothing. You go back and get that biopsy. I’ve seen this a million times in my nursing career. You just need to make sure.”

  Back at the clinic, after the biopsy, I found myself sitting opposite the doctor, who told me, “You have cervical dysplasia. That’s a pre-cancerous condition, but we caught it in time. We need to do surgery to remove the infected tissue, and you should be just fine.”

  I thought back to when I was dating Richard Pryor and the doctor reported a problem with a buildup of cocaine in my cervix. He’d said that I could end up being a very sick girl. Was that the cause of this? I didn’t waste much time trying to figure it out, though. I just picked up the phone and called my mom. “They want to do surgery,” I told her in a shaky voice.

  The moment we hung up, she called in sick at work and made a plane reservation to come be with me in Los Angeles. I called Philip in New York to tell him what was going on, but I wasn’t prepared for his response.

  “How does this kind of thing happen?” he said in an almost accusing tone. “Is it something you catch?”

  I was deeply offended by his reaction. Did he think cancer was a sexually transmitted disease like AIDS? I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, reminding myself that no one knows what to do when you say the C word. “It comes from the HPV virus,” I said patiently. But everyone knew that cancer was not contagious.

  Philip halfheartedly offered to come to Los Angeles and be with me. Whether it was his lack of enthusiasm or my desire to spare him the stress, I declined. I thanked him for the offer, but since Mom was already on her way, I told him it wasn’t necessary. We would keep close tabs via the phone, and it was most likely nothing, anyway. Philip sounded relieved and slightly distant when we hung up. I didn’t attach much to it, but I wondered if I’d wounded his male ego when I said I didn’t need him. I did promise to get to New York, though, as soon as I could travel again.

  I had the procedure with my mom at my side. I’d chosen to stay in California so I could be close to work, and Mom stayed at my place, caring for me. She was prepared to stay for up to a week, as long as I would conceivably need her, but we were both in for a shock. The same afternoon they did the surgery, after they tested my blood and some additional tissue samples, my gynecologist called. “We need you back here first thing tomorrow morning,” he said.

  “Why?” I wanted to know.

  “We’ll discuss it tomorrow,” was the answer.

  After a sleepless night, Mom and I went to the doctor to hear what he had to say.

  “We ran some additional tests,” he said, “and we found an area where the cancer cells have reached stage four.” I felt Mom’s grip tighten on my arm as he went on. “We need to do another surgery to remove more tissue. I wish we could do it right away, but we have to wait six weeks until you heal from the last one.” The tremors I felt in my mom’s body were making me terrified. This was not the way I had envisioned things going.

  Devastated, I said, “How did this happen? I don’t smoke or drink. I jog on the beach almost every day. I ride my bike to the gym, and I eat right. I should be ridiculously healthy. I’ve had no symptoms at all. How did it happen?”

  The doctor had no answers for me. “I wish I knew. We can be successful, but you’ll have to listen to me and do
everything I tell you.” He handed me a large manila envelope. “These are your introductory materials for the cancer clinic at Cedars-Sinai. You won’t be able to have surgery right now, but you need to go over there immediately and register. There are various tests you need, and I want you to take all of them. Do you understand?” He gave me the name of an oncologist, Dr. Leucter, whom he liked working with.

  When he looked at Mom’s and my blank faces, he said, “I hate to be blunt, but you both need to understand something. If you don’t follow every single guideline and instruction you’re given, you have eighteen months to live.”

  “That’s a year and a half,” I said. “I’m thirty-nine.”

  He nodded. “I want you to take care of your will and your estate right away. You have to prepare for the fight of your life. Now, would you like to harvest your eggs?”

  I looked at him, confused.

  “There could be damage to your ovaries, and if you want to have children, I’d suggest you harvest some eggs in case you can’t conceive later,” he explained.

  By the time I agreed to harvest some of my eggs, Mom’s face had turned a scary shade of yellow, and I could see that she was trying to compose herself. I felt as if I had risen up and out of my body, the thing that had cancer, and I was staring down at myself from a surreal world or a strange dream from which I couldn’t wake up.

  Mom drove the rental car as we headed over to Cedars-Sinai Cancer Clinic. Silent and in shock, neither of us said a word as we pulled into the parking structure. I don’t remember where we parked or how far we walked to get to the elevator. I only knew that this clinic was reputed to be one of the best cancer centers in the world, and the waiting room was filled with people of every nationality and from every walk of life.

  I walked past babies that were black, Asian, and Caucasian, several elderly couples, and everything in between as we stepped up to the reception desk. My voice cracked when I told them my name, my attending doctor, and anything else they asked. Then I broke out in hives as they handed me a clipboard with a load of papers and a plastic hospital bracelet that contained all my pertinent information. They snapped the bracelet around my wrist. Now I was a statistic, one of hundreds of thousands of women who had cancer. Not only was my ability to have children in jeopardy, but my very life had become eerily uncertain. Gilda Radner from Saturday Night Live and my dear friend Minnie Riperton had both died from cancer when they were younger than I was.