“Yup,” was all he could get out. While the cameras rolled he had become tongue-tied.
“Well, here—she—is,” Regis said, indicating the side curtains where she appeared.
We didn’t need to say any more. Love took over, and said it all. He rushed over to his wife, put his arms around her, and gazed into her face with the look every woman dreamed of. “You’re beautiful,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. For the first time she smiled ear to ear, revealing her new bonded teeth.
“You’re gorgeous, I love your hair,” she said, running her fingers through it. They kissed a soap opera kiss. Regis tried to tear them apart, but they were lost in their own world. This is what made my work magical. Not only did they look amazing, but fixing the chipped tooth had transformed a shy wife into a confident woman. Her smile said it all.
For those few incredible minutes on television I was pain free. I was not an abandoned child. I was not a sick UCLA patient. I was an accomplished woman.
I didn’t get to talk about her makeover on TV—there wasn’t any reason to. Their actions told the story of a young couple who had discovered each other once again. We went to commercial break. I walked back to the dressing room to clean up and organize for Couple No.2, who waited in the green room for their makeover for tomorrow’s show. The process was about to start all over again and I couldn’t miss a beat, especially since Michael was watching.
“Are you taking steroids?” Michael asked me as I stood by his desk, trying to confirm future projects. Surprised, I didn’t know how to answer.
“What made you say that?” was all I could come up with at the moment.
“My friend was on steroids, and her face looked swollen like yours,” he said, making me feel totally self-conscious.
“I’ve got a lung infection. Doctor thinks it’s from so much airplane travel. He put me on prednisone to clear it up.” It took all of my discipline not to wheeze or cough while I talked.
Michael, being Michael, shrugged his shoulders and started scrolling through his e-mails, dismissing me in his usual manner. I left without a future TV date, which was not unusual. Michael liked to keep talent off guard, his power play in position.
“I’ll call you about a date,” he said. Translated, I’m busy, this is not a priority, you’ll chase me down. It was the dance we danced, at his convenience. I left powerless and frightened that my cover-up was wearing thin. I wasn’t sure if I felt so overwhelmed because of his probing questions or because of my unending bronchial problems.
My health issues surfaced shortly after one of the happiest days of my life.
8
Pepperoni Pizza at Cedars
LATE FEBRUARY 1992
Two weeks after the Light My Fire Makeovers, when I was safely back at home, my health took a major turn for the worse.
Dr. Gordon, my pulmonary specialist, looked at me over the top of his tortoiseshell half glasses as I sat on the exam table and said, “I have to put you in the hospital, Christine. I know how you feel about this, but your fever keeps spiking, and despite two weeks of various broad-spectrum antibiotics you’re getting worse. I want you to check into Cedars—today.” Up until then I had been able to convince him I was better off at home, but not today. Today I knew he was not giving me a choice. I looked around at the dreary room. I fit in perfectly.
“We need to find out what’s causing the fever and get a further evaluation. I’ll call the hospital, make the arrangements, and set up the tests we need. Go home and pack your bag.”
I was devastated. The hospital. We were due to travel to Chicago next week. I was working on a book proposal. I had six upcoming television segments to put together. I convinced myself that working in freezing temperatures a few weeks ago in New York caused this setback. Sloshing through melted snow puddles would make anyone sick. Wouldn’t it?
I loved snow as an adult because I never saw it as a child. Living in Los Angeles, the closest snow was a few hours away by car, and, as a “boarded-out” child, the only trips I took in cars were when my mom picked me up. People who take in kids for money take them in to live in their house, eat at their table, and sleep in their beds. It never included any trips to markets, movies, or even the local snow. That line was firmly drawn between boarders and family.
One day out of frustration at not being able to go to the local mountains with Margie and Bill and their kids, I asked the sitter to call my mom and tell her, but when I couldn’t remember her phone number that put an end to that. “Maybe she’ll call you,” the sitter said.
But I knew my mom wouldn’t call. She never called to talk to me because I would always cry and ask her to come pick me up.
“You make me so sad, Chrissie. You know I have to work. I come pick you up whenever I can,” my mom tried to explain.
“Hi love, do you have a sec?” I wheezed into the phone to Shelly later that afternoon, cuddled up in my afghan on the cozy chenille den sofa watching an old Diane Keaton movie. Watching television in the daytime should have made me realize just how bad things were. I never sat still long enough to watch daytime TV before.
“I was just getting ready to call you. How did it go at the doctor’s this morning?” Shelly asked.
“Not so good. I have to check into Cedars for tests.”
“Well maybe now he can get to the bottom of this, find out why you’re not getting better. I’m going to clear my calendar, and I’ll pick you up after your tests and take you to Orso.” I pictured Shelly hurriedly writing notes for his assistant on what to reschedule.
“No dinner, I have to stay in the hospital for a few days, just until they get the test results.”
“Well then I’ll bring Orso to you,” Shelly said. “I’ll be there at seven o’clock with your spaghetti all’arrabbiata.”
I gathered my toiletries, clothes, pajamas, robe, Filofax, and work folders. I planned on making my business calls from the hospital; no one would need to know that I was not in my home.
My room was small and sterile and smelled of Lysol. I placed a few family pictures on the bedside table: my son Erik in his USC cap and gown, my stepdaughter Kerry, the television publicist, and my stepson Kyle sitting under a big shade tree with one of Kyle’s rescue dogs poised between them. A group shot of me with my half sisters, Pam and Susan, arms lovingly intertwined, and of course Shelly, sitting on a chair in his office looking distinguished and presidential. I didn’t even think to bring a picture of my mom. She knew I was going into the hospital, but I knew she would never call to check up on me, and I didn’t need a picture to remind me of that. With my mom the emphasis was never on how to be a good person, but on how to clean my room. It wasn’t about using proper English but on choosing the right wardrobe colors. Not on good grades but on good hair. Studying wasn’t important to her—she only had an eighth-grade education. Her priorities were teaching me to stand in the first ballet position for a photo and the values of using a good tingling facial masque to make my skin glow. Without knowing it at the time, she prepared me for my television fashion career. She never prepared me for the realities of life, let alone the strength I’d need to deal with disease.
By the time I unpacked and changed into the hospital gown the evening lights were starting to go on in the city below me. I felt out of breath and light-headed. I should have been used to that feeling of needing to sit down to catch my breath, but it was so against my nature that it still surprised me even after two years of living with RA.
“What are you doing out of bed?” the nurse asked as she rolled the IV bottle into my room.
“Doctor-ordered IV of erythromycin. Should make you feel better,” She reached for my arm with her elastic band and needle.
“It’s freezing in here.”
“It’s you, your fever is 102, and you’re shivering. We need to get that down,” the nurse told me, taping the needle firmly into my arm.
The noises of the hospital—visitors talking in the hallways, a floor waxer polishing outside my do
or, carts moving from place to place—all kept me from sleep. I decided to accomplish something and called my assistant Amy.
“Amy, hi. Look, I’ve got lots going on right now and was wondering if you could take over some of the fashion-segment calls. Mostly showrooms and manufacturers to see if they have what I need.” On my last trip to New York I finally had to tell Amy about my RA. I knew from the way she looked at me and the things I would ask her to help with, things I would normally do, that she was aware something wasn’t right. Because she was young and didn’t know about RA, she just listened and assured me she would be there for me and keep everything under wraps.
“Sure, I’ve got time. Fax me the list of what you’re looking for, and I’ll start calling tomorrow. You don’t sound good, is that cold still bothering you?”
“Yeah, I can’t get rid of it. Between the weather in New York, the airplanes, and now all this talking on the phone, I can’t seem to shake it. I’ll fax you tomorrow and then call you in a day or so, no need for you to track me down.” I wanted to hang up quickly before I started coughing again.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Christine, just take it easy.”
“Thanks, talk to you in a few days,” I said in my hoarse voice, as I pulled the hospital blankets up around my trembling body.
Why couldn’t I ever stop? Why did I always need to prove myself over and over? I knew the answers. I just didn’t want to think about them right now.
The next day Shelly had his assistant fax the information to Amy. She made the necessary business calls, only now I couldn’t return her calls because I was too sick. My cough was almost nonstop, making any conversation difficult. And really, at this point I hardly cared about work. I hardly cared about anything.
For four days I lay in the hospital, only getting up to use the bathroom, which was a major ordeal. My outings now consisted of a trip by wheelchair to a testing room and Shelly’s nightly visits, which exhausted me. Trying to carry on a conversation made me cough. So he would tell me about his day and I would try to smile and nod, when all I wanted to do was close my eyes and sleep. Morning, noon, and night I was served meals that didn’t look or smell appetizing, even by hospital standards. The flowers from Shelly, white daises, my favorites, were of no comfort. I dozed in and out all day and night, irritated by the many interruptions of doctors, nurses, and cleaning people. All I wanted was to be left alone, I didn’t want to see or talk to anybody. I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs to keep me from wheezing. My cell phone would ring, and I never had the energy nor inclination to see who it was. I didn’t care about anything or anyone. I felt as if the life was draining out of me. The nurses would tell me “you’ll feel better tomorrow,” but I knew they were just trying to hide from me how gravely sick I was.
Four doctors, an infectious disease evaluation, gallium scan, fiber-optic bronchoscopy and endoscopy, and numerous biopsies later, I was worse. Each doctor came into my room with test results, which, except for pneumonia with granulomas, and some anemia, seemed to be normal. So why was I weaker and sicker with every day? Why couldn’t I rally myself to care? It wasn’t like me to give up, even with a battle this hard and scary.
On the fifth night in the hospital, Shelly decided to surprise me by bringing his daughter Kerry to visit. She was my first visitor other than Shelly because I had specifically requested “no visitors.” Kerry, being a publicist in television, didn’t take no for an answer. She was sure she could cheer me up. I just wasn’t up to being cheered. They arrived after work carrying take-out containers from the Daily Grill.
“Chicken picatta and mashed potatoes with spinach,” Kerry gushed in her overenthusiastic manner. “How can anyone look so good in the hospital?” she lied, trying to make me feel better.
One of my all-time favorite meals looked unappealing. Even with all the steroids being pumped into my veins, they couldn’t make even that food appetizing. Not tonight. Not in this hospital. I politely moved the food around the paper plate on my bed tray while they hungrily devoured theirs, making way-too-chipper small talk.
I couldn’t contribute because it only made me cough. I was so exhausted and uncomfortable all I could think about was when they would leave. After an hour I gave Shelly the look, and he packed up and gave me a kiss. As they walked out, I barely made it to the bathroom to throw up. Their good-natured visit overwhelmed me. I was so weak it was all I could do to crawl back into bed and close my eyes. I didn’t know if I would ever leave the hospital.
The next morning the phone rang while the nurse changed my IV.
“Just a minute, she’s right here,” she said, handing me the phone despite my frantic waving and shaking my head no. “It’s your doctor from UCLA,” she whispered.
“Christine, Ken Kalunian, I just heard you were at Cedars. What’s going on?” I couldn’t even answer him. All I could do was cough and cry. I was so glad to hear his friendly, reassuring voice. Dr. Kalunian didn’t know it, but over the last year he had become my new best friend.
“It’s okay, take it easy. I just want to talk to you. Gordon gave me your test results. When did you stop taking the methotrexate?”
Between coughs and tears I answered, “I’m still taking it.” Why would I want to stop? It worked the best of any of the drugs so far. At least my RA was not the problem. I heard a muted gasp over the phone.
“YOU’RE STILL TAKING METHOTREXATE?” he said, almost shouting. “Does Dr. Gordon know?”
“We’ve never talked about the methotrexate.”
“But he does know you are taking it, right?”
“Of course, he never liked the idea that I was going on it in the first place, before all of this illness even started.”
“Does he know you’re taking it in the hospital?”
“I don’t know, I hardly see him, it’s all specialists, but why would he think I had stopped?” I asked between coughs.
“You MUST stop. I can’t believe he hasn’t taken you off already. I think most of your problems might be caused by methrotrexate lung poisoning. Some people are allergic, and I think you might be one. I wish I’d known you were sick.”
“I never thought to call you because my RA has been doing great, it’s all this lung stuff. I never put the two together, and the nurses kept bringing my medications.”
“How would you know? Your doctor should have known, or called me earlier.” I could tell he was working hard to cover up his agitation.
The healthy me would have been furious. Nobody checking on my medications to see if one of them was causing my severe illness. The normal me would have been angry. If this was the type of care I was getting, I’d have been better off at home where I could sleep without a million interruptions. But this was the sick me, the sickest I had ever been in my life. I didn’t have the energy to be anything. I curled up in a fetal position, pulling the covers over my head, and sobbed.
On my sixth day in the hospital, after stopping methotrexate, I started to feel better. Dr. Gordon visited in the afternoon.
“Your tests came back fairly normal except for the nuclear scan. That one lit up your lungs like a Christmas tree. Your biopsies showed an interstitial pneumonitis with granulomas. This is deemed consistent with the diagnosis of methotrexate lung disease. By stopping all antibiotics and methotrexate your condition is improving.”
It was still all I could do to keep my eyes open, I was so exhausted. My body seemed to be my own once again, but the fear that RA or the medications to treat RA could make me this sick loomed heavy in my mind. If it could happen once, could it happen again? All I wanted to do was get out of the hospital and back to my life, the one before RA.
“Thanks for the pizza. I can’t believe how much I craved a slice of pepperoni,” I said to Shelly later that night as we sat side by side on my hospital bed with the Mulberry pizza box on our laps.
“I knew you turned a corner when you asked for a pizza,” he said.
“Dr. Gordon said I might be able to come home tomor
row if my fever is still down.” I ran my hand through Shelly’s hair, the first time I had really touched him in more than a week, the first time I felt like a human being.
It was a beautiful sunny winter day in Los Angeles as Shelly drove me home from Cedars. “Your messages are saved on the phone,” Shelly told me over the fifteen-minute ride from the hospital to our condo. It was the first time I thought of messages, work, projects that have been ignored, or unreturned calls. Everything looked so lush and green. People rushed in cars and on sidewalks. The streets seemed busy, so occupied with life. Nobody was wearing hospital greens. Life was bustling. The life I missed. The life I never thought I’d return to. I realized I had given up. I never gave up on my unhappy life as a child, but disease never had been a part of my life as a child or an adult, until now. The power of disease made me shudder even though the sunlight was streaming in through the windshield. As I looked over at my husband, the thought of loss overwhelmed me with sadness. Could I really have given up on my career and my life so easily?
In my work I had always concentrated not on who I was, but on how I could improve. I understood the vulnerability of my job, having seen too many television personalities find out they were replaced by reading a tabloid story or watching the television news. This fear kept me on my toes and looking over my shoulder. The thought of losing my career to this disease was too close to the childhood fears that still haunted me. Three foster homes in six years had left me scared and insecure. Security was not a familiar word in my vocabulary. I had learned about survival, but trust? Trust was beyond my comprehension.
When I first met Shelly it was all about the glitz and glamour. Our pasts were so different, our present paralleled in some ways, but our future became solidified because of our similar values. We both loved to have fun, were passionate to succeed, and, as we grew to know each other, it was our values that enabled us to fall in love. We valued friendship, family, and each other. Slowly I began to learn to trust. Gradually I learned that this was a person who wouldn’t abandon me. I knew I could never give up on that.
Take Me Home From the Oscars: Arthritis, Television, Fashion, and Me Page 9