Take Me Home From the Oscars: Arthritis, Television, Fashion, and Me

by Christine Schwab

  Perks of Hollywood include glamorous events like the Oscars, The Emmys, The Golden Globes, and the National Association of Television Program Executives.

  5

  Rockin’ to the Pointer Sisters

  JANUARY 1991

  I used all of my patience to lie on the padded table while my mind worked in overdrive thinking about all the things I needed to be doing at home. Having my hands and feet massaged and covered with warm paraffin wax, then stuffed inside heated gloves, was not one of those tasks. If I was in a salon selecting a polish color it would be lovely, but this physical-therapy treatment was supposed to help my fingers and hands from aching. The throbbing of my feet had now moved up from my knees to my wrists and hands. I squirmed on the hard table, smelled the camphor mixed with sweating bodies that filled the physical therapy room, stared at glaring, blinking fluorescents on the cracked ceiling, and listened to the chatter of the therapists as they worked with their patients at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. I drifted off, dreaming of the familiar, safe little prairie house from my favorite childhood book where I was running and jumping, chasing my dog Sam, trying to catch him as he slipped through my big greasy, heated mittens.

  The therapist goal today was to help me feel better for the upcoming NATPE (National Association of Television Programming Executives) convention in New Orleans, which was just six days away. I doubted that paraffin and massage would be the magical antidote, but hey, with pain I’d found that anyone would try anything, including me. I had bought a copper bracelet that was supposed to ease my hand pain, but all it did was bruise my wrist when I would bang into something. I had tried an amethyst ring that was supposed to strengthen my immune system, but the stone was large and it brought attention to my red, swollen fingers. My favorite ethereal purchase was a stone etched with the word “believe,” because it made me think that if I believed I would be well, I would. Some days it worked better than others.

  NATPE was the biggest professional convention of the year for Shelly. Being there for my husband was a social obligation, but the access to high-powered people was also good for my career. Shelly’s schedule would be nonstop, morning to night, and most days I had to myself. I liked to walk the halls of the convention. I passed everybody in the business. Instead of trying to get through assistants and busy calendars on the phone, I could be in direct contact with the major players in those halls, making it easy to give a little PR-type pitch about what I was working on that might fit into something they had in progress. It was a major perk to be able to attend as the wife of Shelly Schwab. The four evenings would each be filled with mandatory business dinners and parties, and I was expected to attend.

  That first day of diagnosis at UCLA was the worst day for me, because I was blindsided by the words “rheumatoid arthritis.” I’m not sure if I borrowed my survival tool of denial from my childhood that day or not, but I was so positive—or at least I had convinced myself that I had a sports injury. Health had never been an issue for me. My career was based on promoting the image of a healthy, active, stylish woman. And still, even after the diagnosis, I hung on to the denial. I couldn’t read any books on arthritis because they were so depressing. The so-called bible, The Arthritis Cure, sent me over the edge of depression. This wasn’t me. I wouldn’t, couldn’t, allow it to be me. I would never let rheumatoid arthritis define who I was. I might have it, but it wasn’t going to define me.

  Luckily my follow-up meetings with Dr. Kalunian had improved. He talked to me now, because Shelly was at work. I had stopped crying, at least in front of the doctor. The shower, the car, and waiting rooms were another matter. I wouldn’t admit I accepted this disease, but I at least came for my appointments. We were trying a new, stronger combination of drugs to take down the inflammation in my joints. It seemed to be the key to keep the swelling at a minimum, but the drugs were strong and played havoc with my stomach, making me queasy most of the time. Crackers replaced my favorite Oreo cookies as the staple in my purse. I feared I was becoming one of those little old women taking saltines from restaurants.

  I was growing to like my doctor. We were getting to know each other. He understood my busy, demanding lifestyle. “Seeing you and Shelly together and hearing your schedules, I see the pressures on you to keep your life as normal as possible,” Dr. Kalunian said, once again squeezing my joints to test for inflammation.

  “And keep this disease under wraps,” I added. “I have no doubt it would hurt my career and actually, I don’t know how I could handle people knowing. I’m having a hard time dealing with it, let alone dealing with everyone else.” I didn’t mince words when I told him I must feel good and look good, and he seemed to feel he could make that happen. And because he already worked with a celebrity clientele, he knew he would have to keep all our efforts secret as he became my partner in hiding.

  Me? I wasn’t convinced. Visions of wheelchairs haunted my dreams. Of course the phone conversation with my mom the previous week didn’t help.

  “Mom, they finally figured out what’s causing my pain. I have rheumatoid arthritis,” and then I quickly went into my “Sparkle Plenty” sales pitch. “But my doctor feels he’s catching it early and will be able to keep it under control.”

  “Oh my God, Chrissie, arthritis? Are you sure? Half your father’s family ended up in wheelchairs. You’re too young to be crippled.” Wow. A sentiment right out of Hallmark. There was no concealing the horror, even disgust, in her voice. She was the anti–Tony Robbins. “Sorry, Mom, I’ve got a call coming in that I have to take,” I said to shut out her negativity. Another necessary lie. Once off the phone I knew she was right, at least about my dad’s family.

  I reflected back on my dad, a self-made and somewhat destroyed man. With no support from his family he went to college and got a bachelor’s degree in engineering. He became successful with seven water-saving patents in his name, traveling the world teaching water conservation. He came back into my life when I was nine and living with my mom and new stepdad. He was a stranger I didn’t know, a dad I never knew how to love because he never knew how to love me and yet we forged an odd, distant relationship, unlike any father and daughter I have ever known. Being his only child, I was the one who was there at the end of his life, and along with the hospice nurses kept him comfortable and, per his wishes, out of the hospital. Now I had arthritis just like my dad. In my hands and feet, just like my dad. Only unlike my dad, I was being proactive. My dad had chosen to ignore his disease. I refused to end up in a wheelchair as my mother predicted. I may have inherited some of my dad’s denial, and some of his arthritis, but I was determined not to be like my father.

  I lived for climbing into bed and stretching out. It was about the only place where I could relax. My husband lived for getting into bed to play. He had the sexual appetite of a twenty-year-old. As he was lighting candles and putting on music, I’d be aching all over. The mere thought of sex hurt my joints, but the thought of him filled me with lust. How could I abruptly change the great sex life we’d had to this point? I couldn’t. This was a man who loved sex, and this was a man I loved. I kept my aches to myself, and we continued the life we had, or at least he thought we did. For me, the beginning and after of sex was painful, but the middle? I was lost in delicious passion. Relaxed and satisfied, he spooned next to me, already half asleep. I sneaked out of bed to take a pain pill, the euphoria of sex worn off and the reality of my tender joints returned. Soon I joined him in a sweet, chemically enhanced slumber, my new favorite part of the day.

  In the morning it started all over again, the slow awakening of my body and my pain. It was as though when I started to stretch, I’d awaken the army inside me that quickly marched from feet to shoulders, raking fingernails across my nerve endings, irritating them to the point of throbbing pain. Every time I moved, the pain shot through a joint. I was aware of how many joints I had in my body, joints I never thought of before, now complaining when I activated them. To do something so basic as bending to pick up a piece o
f paper on the floor stressed my shoulders, elbows, wrists, fingers, hips, knees, and ankles. Each joint grumbled as I engaged it for such an everyday task.

  By my first cup of coffee, my pain was at full throttle, and I wondered how I would get through the day. My days now consisted of very little. My only goal was to make it through the minimal amount of work I needed to do for my career and the business dinners and events I had to attend for Shelly’s career. I canceled every appointment I could without causing suspicion. I was getting good at it. Some days I could even convince myself that I was normal, healthy, all the things I now pretended to be. My media contacts weren’t suspicious. A quick excuse and then I would make it all about them: “I saw that special you produced. You are amazing.” And “You’re going to be running that network soon” always did the trick, putting the focus on them and taking it off me. “The camera caught you on the set yesterday as I was watching TV, and you looked incredible, what’s your secret?” was another good deterrent. And they never thought to ask the second question about why I wasn’t available or was rescheduling. I was still working, some weeks more than others. The only difference? My health now dictated how successful I could continue to be.

  My latest excuse to friends went like this:

  “I’m jammed with this Entertainment Tonight project about celebs getting ready for the Academy Awards. It’s going to go on for weeks, and there’s tons more to research. ET is demanding but it’s ET, they get to be.” And because it was a hot show that I had worked on special assignments for before, no one questioned my cancellations of breakfasts and luncheons. Much of my calendar was covered with Wite-Out, making way for my new appointments with pain.

  Some days, my entire day would consist of a trip to UCLA for labs. It should have been easy, but it took hours of parking, sitting in the waiting room, taking labs, waiting for results, meeting with Dr. Kalunian for an update, adjustments in medicines and then home to rest up for the evening. At home, it took me twice as long to get myself ready for a night out because everything now exhausted me. Even blowing my hair dry was a chore. I was sure my hair dryer had gained weight; surely it couldn’t have been this heavy before. The more active my disease, the more time and effort I spent dressing, styling my hair, and applying my makeup. Percocet took the edge off my pain but put me in a fog that made applying a straight line of eyeliner almost impossible. Ozzy Osbourne didn’t have this much trouble putting on makeup. I used a damp Q-tip to adopt the smudged look, or as I started naming it for evening, “smoky eyes.” For someone who had taught television viewers the “ten minute out the door in style morning routine” I was now the “two hour, barely out the door” fatigued example.

  Appearance was the only thing that gave me the feeling of some control over my life. As I checked my clothes in the mirrored closet doors, my chocolate-brown evening suit looked chic. The three rhinestone pins I placed on the collar sparkled into my face. The brown fishnet nylons felt sexy and took the focus off my low-heeled, sensible, comfortable shoes. Sensible was not a word usually found in my fashionable vocabulary. My magnifying makeup mirror reflected a healthy face made-up with a touch of shimmer for evening. It surprised me that I looked so normal.

  This night we were going to the Beverly Hilton for a charity black tie event honoring Sherry Lansing, the president of Paramount Studios. An hour of cocktails in the lounge area used to be an appointment for stimulating conversation with media moguls. Now I regarded it as an hour of standing on my aching feet, then painfully maneuvering my way through the crowds to a table occupied by the top executives at Shelly’s company, Universal Studios. At least there I could sit, but that in itself created a problem when it was time to stand for an ovation. I pretended to do an outfit adjustment while getting my stiff feet and knees to work properly. I was getting good at hiding my disease. Often I’d whisper something in Shelly’s ear as I stood, just enough time to stall and get my circulation moving.

  “What’s with the secrets?” Shelly asked, trying to hear my whispers in the noisy room. I’d just give him a little kiss and smile. Secrets were now my way of coping.

  The evenings usually ended by ten o’clock. These were busy people who had early morning meetings and short attention spans. They were savvy people who went to many events during the week with the stipulation that they could be home at a decent hour. The challenge came in getting our car. Rude as it seemed, almost half the guests started heading for the exits during the last speech. Often we were part of that rude crowd. I moved so slowly that if Shelly didn’t run ahead we would end up at the back of the valet line. How I felt determined how long our exit would take. The key was to walk and act as normal as possible. My RA had not made any physical changes in my appearance. No one outside my immediate family knew, and I intended to keep it that way. Really, in show business nobody cared about what was going on in other people’s lives unless it could somehow translate to something that would benefit them. A new show, an upcoming party of the somebodies, or a hot new agent in town looking for clients could translate to potential work; those were topics that make people listen. Disease was certainly not.

  Later that week we boarded Universal’s private Gulfstream jet for New Orleans. It was usually empty, but on this particular day every seat was filled with presidents of the different divisions and their spouses.

  “Best lox and bagels, where do they get this food?” Shelly asked one of his colleagues, who was also munching a bagel.

  “They gather everyone’s orders and send runners out to the best restaurants in the city. I think this is from Wasserman’s favorite deli, Nate’n, Al in Beverly Hills,” the coworker said.

  “Taste this herring,” Shelly handed me a fork filled with white- and silver-looking slime.

  “No thanks, I’m fine with my crackers and cheese.” The thought of adding herring to my already upset stomach was inconceivable.

  The oversized leather airplane chairs were comfy and made the cross-country trip pleasurable. The open space made it easier to get up and walk. When we arrived at the small airport, black town cars were lined up, trunks opened and waiting for their important passengers. Such a spoiled, easy way to travel. These executives worked long and hard, but their perks were glamorous and indulgent. The company wanted them to concentrate only on business.

  The Windsor Court Hotel in New Orleans was exquisite. The “conversation pit” in the center of the lobby was already filled with the who’s who of television: Brandon Tartikoff, the head of the NBC Network, looking for new shows to buy. Phil Donahue working to secure more outlets for his show, and Suzanne Somers pitching her pilot. Everyone drinking and promoting. Business had begun. Shelly stopped to visit while I went to the room to unpack for the King World party at the Superdome. King World always threw the party of the convention, sparing no expense for top-notch bands and extravagant decor. Tonight the Pointer Sisters were performing. Everyone would be there as the group rocked the football stadium, and the dance floor would be jammed. I packed my most comfortable shoes with padded inserts, and the doctor had given me permission to take an additional half a Percocet for pain if necessary. I wanted to be part of the party, too, but the question was, would I be able to? My joints seemed a little better from my increased drug regimen, but my stomach was churning.

  “Hey, we better hustle, sweetie,” Shelly asked, rushing into the suite two hours later, finding me dressed in my robe and lying on the bed, the heavy blackout drapes closed against the bright setting sun.

  “You’re not even dressed. Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not doing so well. My stomach’s upset. I called Dr. Kalunian, and he said to call the hotel doctor. Something about ruling out internal bleeding from my medications,” I answered, grabbing my stomach as it went into spasm from trying to reach for the glass of water by my bed.

  “So when’s the doctor coming?” Shelly asked, handing me the water. Even scooting up in bed for a sip was excruciating.

  “I didn’t call. I can’t call
a hotel doctor with everyone in this hotel being in the business.”

  “Christine, we’re calling the doctor. This is crazy and could be serious,” Shelly said, running his fingers through my tangled hair. “Yes, we need to get the hotel doctor to room 711 as soon as possible. My wife is having stomach pain, and her doctor at UCLA wants her checked out.” Shelly spoke in his no-nonsense business voice. He could get anybody to do anything.

  “They’ll have someone here in twenty minutes. Can I get you anything?” he asked, laying out his outfit for the evening. “Why don’t you get ready, so we can leave as soon as the doctor gives you the okay,” Shelly glanced at me, trying to figure out why I looked so good when I complained of feeling so bad.

  “I can’t go, Shelly.”

  “But you’ve been looking forward to this party for weeks,” he said, obviously thinking of the pre-RA Christine who wouldn’t miss a party for anything. Anything. “The doc will give you something to settle your stomach, and you’ll be good as new,” Shelly said in his optimistic tone, as he changed his shoes.