Foxy

by Pam Grier

  I sat down to begin the paperwork that would dominate a great deal of the coming year. I had filled in my name, address, and contact numbers when a long wail issued from one of the cubicles where doctors were consulting privately with patients. I found out later that the moaner was a twenty-two-year-old newlywed who was just getting her cancer diagnosis and was unable to control the terrible sounds she was uttering.

  When my paperwork was done, I got up to take it to the reception desk when a nurse stopped me. “Oh, my God,” she said much too loudly, “is that you? Pam Grier? Foxy Brown?”

  I cringed. Being recognized was the last thing I wanted right then, but I didn’t have a say in the matter. I smiled weakly at her, and she shoved a piece of paper at me.

  “Can I have your autograph?” she practically sang. I wanted to give her a lecture that celebrities were people, too, and I didn’t want to speak to her right then, but I scribbled my name on the paper and handed it back to her.

  “So what are you doing here?” the breathless woman wanted to know.

  “Just having some treatments,” I said. She wandered away, clutching the paper to her chest, never noticing that I was wearing a medical bracelet. Surely celebrities didn’t get sick, did they? I was relieved in the next moment when a coordinator escorted my mom and me out of the main lobby and into an area called the Physicians Hall. Trailing in and out of the various offices were people in different stages of therapy, some bald with IV tubes and medications attached to them like an extra appendage. I better get used to seeing this, I told myself. This would be home for at least the next six weeks and possibly for months afterward.

  When I sat in the doctor’s office, he handed me a list of the numerous tests they would be running on me before my surgery—including CAT scans, brain scans, and MRIs—and explained that I would need to donate six to eight pints of my own blood, which I might need during surgery. Following the doctor’s stern talk, I did everything that was asked of me. I was lucky to have good insurance coverage through the Screen Actors Guild, which would take care of most of it, but there was an additional $55,000 that I would have to pay out of pocket. I didn’t think twice. They could have every penny I earned if they could just save my life, which the doctors said was highly probable.

  Throughout that preparation period, it seemed like I was constantly lying on yet another test table in a cold room, where they injected various dyes into my spinal cord for different scans. I remember having a blue dye injected that was so hot I fainted right there on the table. Another time, I was told to fast for three days before a particular test, and I had to drink the contents of a kit full of liquids that would clean me out like a colonic.

  It was all unpleasant, and a lot of it was painful and uncomfortable, but I did it all, and I got my estate in order, naming my mom as power of attorney. I was preparing for my surgery with the same due diligence with which I prepared for a film role. “The actor prepares,” said Stanislavsky. So does the human being, I added. But this was no role. This time it was real life, and I was doing everything I could to hold on to mine.

  CHAPTER 30

  Separating the Men from the Boys

  When three weeks of tests and checkups had passed, I saw the doctor for an evaluation. There were still three weeks left before my second surgery was scheduled, but I was surprised to hear about a change of plans. “The good news,” said the oncologist, “is that you’re healing much faster than we expected. It’s been three weeks, but you were so healthy to start with, your body has already recovered from the surgery.”

  I was terrified that my next surgery was being scheduled right away, but I was also relieved to be getting it over with. Waiting was making me crazy, and I was more than ready the night before the actual procedure. I had called Philip and told him that I did need him now. He agreed to get on a plane to California as soon as he could, but the concern in his voice was bordering on morbidity.

  “Philip,” I told him, “it means a lot to me that you want to be here. I really want you here, but when you come, I need strength from you. I need easy conversation and lightness. Most of all, I really don’t want to have to take care of anyone else. They keep stressing that in my therapy. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” he said, sounding like he was preparing to attend my funeral.

  My cancer counselors had taught me that when you first tell people about an illness, you have to figure out who can handle it. Who could support me without needing anything in return? Who had developed their spiritual side enough to be able to process their own feelings without interfering in my healing process? I hoped Philip could do that, but he sounded so negative and somber. “C’mon, Phil,” I said, taking care of him one more time. “I’m just having surgery to remove some bad tissue. I’m going to be fine, and we can have a good life and some fun again.”

  Satisfied that he would be there for me, I asked Mom to rent him a hotel room and a car, which she did. I knew he wouldn’t be arriving before the surgery. There wasn’t enough time. But he promised to be the first sight I saw when I came out of the anesthesia. That was good enough for me.

  Since I was not allowed to eat the evening before surgery, I was hungry, wired, and sleepless that night as I grabbed the TV remote control and started flipping channels. Whether it was divine providence or mere coincidence, I have no idea, but I found a medical documentary called Bill Moyers’ Journal: Mind Over Matter. The timing could not have been better, since my spirit and my resolve were being so heavily tested right then.

  Bill Moyers, a well-respected and brilliant journalist, was visiting medicine men and shamans all over the world, exploring the most primitive to the most technologically advanced healing cultures. This particular show had been filmed in China, and at the start of the show, he introduced a Chinese woman with a malignant tumor the size of an orange growing out of her back. Mr. Moyers explained that if a patient needed surgery, the Chinese doctors would do it. But in general, they were prone to less cutting and more herbal remedies whenever possible, allowing the natural principles of yin (the female energy) and yang (the male energy) to swing back into balance. This was all new to me, but it made a great deal of sense. When you considered the fact that these Chinese healing methods dated back thousands of years, they must know what they’re talking about.

  I watched this woman drink herbal teas, receive acupuncture and acupressure, and work with her own mind to visualize the tumor shrinking. As the doctors balanced the meridians of her body to strengthen them and remove all energetic obstructions, the woman’s tumor began to shrink. Each day they filmed, you could see the tumor literally getting smaller and smaller. In five weeks, it was completely gone, and the woman had avoided chemotherapy and radiation.

  I suddenly sat up in the bed with a shot of hope. How can I get to China and save myself? I wouldn’t be going to China, and I had to have surgery, there was no doubt. But from what I just saw, there were other ways to work with my body afterward to become healthier and stronger. Bill Moyers had saved my life by renewing my spirit with hope and new possibilities. He had reminded me that cancer was not necessarily a death sentence. I vowed that night that when I was well again, I would find a way to thank him, so here I am, doing just that. Thanks to Bill Moyers’s powerful show, when they wheeled me into surgery and the anesthesiologist began to administer the sleeping medication, instead of shaking with fear, I was visualizing the cancer cells being scraped away so completely that they would be gone forever.

  The surgery, although extensive and lasting many hours, went well. Several hours later, I was in the recovery room, looking up at my mom’s concerned face. “Is Philip here?” I asked, groggy and confused.

  “Not yet, Pammy,” she said gently.

  “Did he call?”

  “Not yet.”

  I fell back into a sedated sleep, waking up every now and then to ask Mom, “Is Philip here?”

  “No, honey,” she said.

  “Hope he didn’t get lost,” I slurred bef
ore I passed out again.

  The next time I woke up, Mom was sitting in the chair beside my bed in a hospital room. She smiled at me. “The surgery went really well, and a lot of people called to check on you,” she told me.

  “How did they know I was here?” I asked. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Someone announced it on the radio.”

  “That I had surgery?”

  “Seems so. A ton of people called.”

  “But not Philip?” I asked.

  “No, not Philip.”

  That day went by and so did the next without a word from Philip. A few close friends visited me on the third day, and I was distraught, certain that Philip had gotten into a car accident because no one had seen or heard from him. Mom had left a ton of messages on his answering machine, and so had I, but it seemed like he had disappeared into thin air. I even called his office a few times, but it went straight to voice mail. “I just don’t understand, Mom,” I said. “He promised to be here. I can’t imagine what happened.”

  Gratefully, my medications kept knocking me out. It was stressful to be worrying about Philip, but in the meantime, other friends were showing up and bringing me flowers, books, and various treats. I was touched to receive three dozen roses from the now late Gregory Hines, with whom I had danced in his video. Actor Steven Seagal, whom I’d acted with in Above the Law, showed up, and we had an intimate conversation about health.

  I also got a visit from my dear friend Peter Douglas, producer of the film Something Wicked This Way Comes, a film I starred in, written and co-produced by science fiction luminary Ray Bradbury. Peter, brother of Michael Douglas, brought in a blender, and he and my mom got totally loaded on margaritas and kept me laughing in spite of myself. I also had a visit from an old skiing pal, Alfred Sapse, who later became my entertainment attorney. He came to provide deep wisdom, since he had studied healing from a very young age.

  On the fourth day postsurgery, my mom called Philip and left the following message: “The surgery went well, and now Pam has some therapy to get through. We still have your hotel room, and we’re wondering if you’re coming. Please let us know.”

  She knew there were people who couldn’t handle illness. During her extensive nursing career, she’d seen them walk out on children, wives, and siblings all the time. But I still had hope—until the doctor himself sat on my bed. “He isn’t coming,” my physician informed me. “I called him myself. But I need you to focus. I need you to get well. This journey is critical to your survival, and I need you to concentrate on you. Can you do that for yourself?”

  I made a decision in that moment. No one would rob me of my healing energy. A few days later, still unable to walk steadily, I literally crawled to the bathroom with all my drainage tubes sticking out everywhere. I was in agony, not only from the incisions but also internally, wherever they had cut out tissue. I had so many stitches, I actually fainted from the pain, but I managed to get my head in the shower to wash my hair. Then I got back into bed and did what I could do to exorcise Philip from my mind. He wasn’t worth it. No one was.

  Friends who visit you in your hospital room are often people whom you didn’t expect to show up. These are your real friends, and I was thrilled and overwhelmingly surprised to see Fritz, my songwriting mentor; Carl Gottlieb, my screenwriting mentor; and Tammy Hoffs, my directing mentor from Women in Film. Andy Davis, director of Above the Law, sent his sister, a nurse at Cedars, to check up on me, and Lani Groves, my spiritual advisor, also showed up.

  When the doctor was doing his rounds a few days later, he stopped to talk to me. “Don’t tell anyone what I’m about to say, because I’m a Harvard-trained physician and this would not be good for my reputation. I want you to go to Chinatown.”

  I burst into a smile. I had just watched the miracles of Chinese healing on TV, and I was enthusiastic to start taking advantage of it. He continued, “People would call me a quack if they knew I was telling my patients about yin and yang energies. Are you familiar with that?”

  “A little bit,” I said.

  “Well, the Chinese are absolutely on target. I’ve done all I can with Western medicine. Now you need Eastern medicine to create a balance.”

  Balance was the name of game when I was discharged from the hospital on the third of July. On July 5, I went to a pharmacy in Chinatown run by a renowned Chinese herbalist who checked my tongue and my eyes, took my pulse, and prescribed herbs. Over the next few months, I took the herbs, I got acupuncture and acupressure (the therapeutic massages were nothing short of nirvana), and I started practicing yoga to quiet my mind and learn to be still. In a bookstore in Chinatown, I picked up information on the meridians and how Chinese medicine can help to balance the body. The point was to be able to sense—in other words, to feel and hear—any medical issues in my body and mind.

  When I look back at my healing experience, I would have to say that I saved my life by keeping my mind wide open. There is a spiritual term, agape, pronounced a-ga-pay, which literally means “love and wide open.” I stayed agape to treatments, philosophies, and other cultures, focusing on and attacking my illness as if it were an acting role. I used each procedure as an affirmation of life, and I never missed a treatment. I leaned on friends for strength and support, and I avoided self-pity. I set my sights on five years ahead, when I could say to all who cared, “I had cancer, and now I’m in remission.” That was my goal and my motivator as I reviewed my life one more time to see where I had come from and where I might end up.

  CHAPTER 31

  On the Move Again

  Surviving cancer, as miraculous as it is, can also be a shaky proposition, as it demands a complete change of lifestyle and attitude. I’d been given a second chance, and to make the most of it, I needed a clean, healthy, low-stress environment in which to heal. I thought about Minnie and Krista, who both had died from cancer. There was no way to know why they were gone and why I had been saved. I tried to avoid survivor’s guilt, since I knew that cancer was random. But I felt I owed it to these amazing women as well as to myself to get strong and become functional once again.

  For starters, I had to figure out where to live. My oncologist told me in no uncertain terms that living permanently in the pollution and smog of a big city like Los Angeles was not smart. I also needed to eliminate preservatives and hormones that were often found in commercial chicken and other meats.

  When you’ve been through the terror of facing your death, you find yourself questioning your priorities. Although I would need to be in LA once a month for the next year to get tested, I would have to go back to Colorado to heal, which made me think hard about my career. How much did I still want a career in film? How important was it to me? Would I be willing to commute if need be? Since the radiation and other treatments, my memory was a little shaky from not working and not exercising my brain. Would I still be able to remember lines?

  I had a lot to consider when I arrived in Denver and temporarily moved in with my sister, Gina, who was eager to take care of me. I was hoping to find peace and quiet there as opposed to the stress of Los Angeles, but life has a way of turning things upside down. I’d been in Denver for only a day when I realized that Papa Sam’s Alzheimer’s disease was getting much worse. His dementia had escalated to the point where he had trouble recognizing people. This frustration led him into sudden acts of violence, and my mom felt that she was in danger, afraid to be alone with him. My plans to heal quietly and recover in a peaceful environment were shot when I found myself sleeping on the floor outside my mom’s bedroom several nights in a row, in case her husband became dangerous when they were sleeping. All we could do was bide our time until he moved up the waiting list for another nursing home.

  I had returned to Colorado to be with my dogs and to focus on myself, but there I was, chasing after my stepdad in the wee hours of the night and searching for him when he once took the car for a drive. This would not work, I realized, so when I had time to myself, I started driving out into
the country, looking for a small parcel of land to purchase. An old abandoned farmhouse was what I had in mind, in the area south of Denver.

  The farmlands were compelling, with their clapboard houses and brick ranch homes. This was the land where we went on hayrides when I was a little girl, places that got covered with snow so quickly and completely, they looked like Hallmark Christmas cards. The acreage prices were low, and I kept looking, certain that I would be guided to the right spot. In all the healing books I read, the common wisdom was to find a quiet, stress-free, unpolluted environment, a sanctuary of sorts, where you could sleep, meditate, and become better acquainted with nature. This was what constituted a place to heal.

  My family, with their rural sensibilities, had taught me that before you buy any property, try to live on the land and see how the wind blows and where the sun rises and sets. Is there adequate water? What about access during bad weather? Could I survive a snowstorm there? Was the place built next to a lake or river that could result in flooding or landslides? With these questions in mind, I kept returning to an area south of Denver toward New Mexico, where the wind was gentle and the land was teeming with healthy trees and abundant vegetation. My plan was to lease the land first and purchase it after I’d lived there for a while.