Had I Known

by Joan Lunden

  So the thought of all that brought tears—real tears, which I hadn’t yet encountered during this journey. I’d been fighting and staying positive because that was what I thought I needed to do to ensure a good outcome. Surprisingly, I hadn’t cried much.

  Not yet.

  Not until that moment.

  I’d heard other women talk about how much they cried.

  Why were they so consumed with crying and sadness about their cancer and I was not?

  Was it because I was so cocksure I wouldn’t succumb to it?

  Hey, I was also really cocksure I wouldn’t ever get it, wasn’t I?

  But I got it.

  Damn.

  The concept of death had become a reality to me when my brother died eight years before, and then a year before, when I lost my beloved mom.

  I had experienced other deaths in my life, tragic deaths of friends, and of course my dad—but I was so young then.

  In recent years, I had experienced the finality of it all.

  When my dad died, it was impossible for me to grasp the concept of death because of my age. Although I understood that his plane had crashed, I made up my own story as a means of coping with my sadness and loss—my own “truth” about what happened in that plane crash. I remember our home being filled with people who had come to pay their respects. I overheard someone telling my mom that at my father’s funeral, there would have to be a closed casket because the plane had crashed at full speed and no bodies were ever recovered.

  Well, that didn’t happen in my version.

  In my young suffering mind, my dad walked away from the crash. He was hurt but alive; however, he had amnesia. He walked until he found a house where they cared for him, but because he didn’t know who he was, he could never make his way back to our family. My reality left the possibility of a happy ending, that one day he might regain his memory and come back to us. I know it’s implausible; however, childhood fantasies don’t always make sense.

  Then the cruel finality of death hit me when my brother, Jeff, died of complications from type 2 diabetes. After he was gone, I tried to recall something about our youth, our family, or our friends. I would reach for the phone to reminisce but then quickly remember it was no longer possible. It was a very lonely feeling, because after my brother’s death, my mom began to experience dementia more and more. She couldn’t remember details of our life, which really made me sad. Jeff had been my only connection to our family story. With no grandparents, aunts, or uncles alive to contact, I felt like our family history would never be tapped into again unless I remembered it.

  Oh, God, please don’t let my memory start to go, too.

  In 2013 my mom passed away at ninety-three. So now there was just me left. Oh, how I wish I still had that wonderful opportunity to just pick up the phone and say “Hi” and “I love you.” I still have many moments when I want to ask my family members something that only they would know the answer to, or to share a piece of exciting news with them, but then I realize they are no longer here.

  And that is what it would be like for Jamie, Lindsay, Sarah, Jeff, Kate, Max, Kim, and Jack if I died.

  Allowing them to feel that way was unimaginable to me.

  Unable to shake the thought of what would happen should this cancer actually do me in, I began pondering what my family would find when and if they ever had to go through my things.

  Oh my God.

  They are all going to think I was a totally unorganized slob!

  I emptied my underwear drawer and folded each pair of panties and neatly stacked my bras according to color. Then I dumped out all of my socks and paired each and every one and folded them in neat stacks of pairs. I weeded out my closet, trying to make it look as neat as I could. Then I began opening file drawers in my home office and pulling out documents and putting them in newer, neater folders. I rearranged the folders in an order that I thought would make more sense to someone looking for important documents. A few times I found folders empty of important documents.

  Why had I taken that document out of its folder?

  Where was it?

  I began searching through my in-box and out-box.

  I couldn’t find some of them, and that was making me anxious.

  No matter how much organizing I did, it seemed like I only scratched the surface that day. There was so much left to do to make things more orderly. I opened another drawer.

  Oh no.

  It was full of thousands of photos that hadn’t been filed.

  That task would take me forever.

  I didn’t have forever.

  I could be there for days—no, weeks—months!

  Putting all of my affairs into better, neater order suddenly seemed like a priority.

  Did I really need to go to this effort now?

  It had become so overwhelming.

  Wait, why was I making myself crazy?

  What happened to that positive attitude that said, “I will beat this!”

  I needed to go back there.

  At least I wouldn’t have so much work to do.

  But in a silly, stupid kind of way, my “mortality mayhem” was good for a little run. I got a lot of drawers cleaned out.

  However, I was exhausted—mentally and physically.

  I had to let go of the thought that I might not make it through. I needed to return to my “glass half full” or “You bet your sweet ass I’m going to win this battle” attitude pronto.

  I had a tennis lesson scheduled at nine A.M., and by gosh, I was going to it!

  But before hitting the court, I wanted to hit the beach to grab a little sun. For the first time since shaving my head, I was going to take off my bandana, get outside, and get some sun on my pinkish-white bald head. My mom used to tell me that tan fat looks better than white fat. If that is true, then a tan bald head could be kind of cool, right?

  Or would that just apply to men?

  Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s just on men.

  But I thought I could pull it off.

  This brought up one last question that made me laugh every time I got into the shower.

  What was I supposed to use to wash my head?

  Shampoo or body wash?

  CHAPTER 15

  You’re Never Too Sick to Throw a Party!

  You get pushed down, you pick yourself up and move on. I’ve never been a victim.

  SHARON OSBOURNE

  TV personality, diagnosed with breast cancer in 2002

  It was now the middle of July, and I was scheduled to have my fifth chemo treatment. As soon as that was done, I planned to head back to my home in Connecticut for Lindsay’s baby shower. I couldn’t wait to get all of her girlfriends together, many of whom were new moms themselves, to celebrate Lindsay’s pregnancy. I had also invited some of my friends who had watched Lindsay grow into a beautiful young woman and who were excited to share in the joy of her becoming a mommy. And what a mommy she would be! Lindsay has always been incredible around children; whenever she walks into our house, she lights up, drop her bags, and runs to scoop up the twins to play with them for hours. I could only imagine how she would be with her own baby. I could hardly wait to see her as a mommy.

  Worried that I might not feel up to the task of throwing a party for forty people, Lindsay graciously did her best to talk me out of hosting the event, but there was no way I would cancel. I wanted to do this. I’ve never been too sick to throw a good party! Especially a baby shower for my first grandchild!

  By this time, I wasn’t doing any long-distance driving alone. It’s not that I wasn’t able to drive. It was more that everyone agreed I shouldn’t because I was tired, and my physical reaction to the chemo was still unpredictable. Knowing this, I reluctantly called Jamie, who lives in New York City, and proposed that I get someone from camp to drive me halfway down, at which point perhaps she and George could meet me. Jamie would have no part of that plan, saying she and George would drive up to Maine together, stay overnight, take me to my trea
tment the next day, and then drive me back to Connecticut. I felt so guilty having them go through all of that. They’re both incredibly busy executives, Jamie in PR and George in the music business. The hectic busy life those two lead would make most people dizzy; I really didn’t want to burden them.

  It’s been challenging for me to graciously accept these types of gestures because I’ve been so independent my entire life. I’ve never had to ask for help, let alone depend on anyone, especially my children, for anything. Some parents look forward to the day when their kids will take care of them the way they took care of their kids, but not me. All that did was make me feel old and incapable, which I didn’t see myself as—and that only made it harder for me to swallow my pride, smile, and say, “Thanks.” Jamie was actually happy to have the opportunity to be with me for one of my treatments, to meet my doctor whom I’d told her so much about, and to have a chance to ask questions.

  The appointment was over around one P.M., and we were all hungry. We asked the nurse, Jenny, if there was any place nearby where we could get something healthy to eat. Jenny knew about the clean-eating program I’d been following and suggested a nearby health food store. Jamie was excited about this adventure, going on a “healthy food shopping spree” with me. Jamie has been a healthy eater for years, and George looks ten years younger than his age—he’s a runner, he works out like a maniac, and he is what I’d call an ultimate clean eater. (Oh yes, and he’s worked in the music industry his whole life, which also keeps you rockin’ a younger look.) When those two got together, they took healthy eating to a whole new level. Even their Yorkie, Stella, had to become a healthier eater—much to her dismay. No more table scraps for poor Stella!

  Not only are George and Jamie health advocates, but they are out of bed before the sun comes up and in the gym at the crack of dawn. To them, an eight A.M. meeting is a late start. I am in awe of their enthusiasm and endurance. They are constantly running 5Ks and signing up our whole family to run in shorter races with them. I love it and think it’s a great example for my younger ones.

  For years, Jamie had been trying to get me to “come over to the other side” and eat more like they do. Now that I was on Dr. Z’s anti-cancer clean-eating plan, she couldn’t wait to walk the aisles of the health food store with me. It was a fun bonding moment for the three of us: We were like three kids in a candy store, albeit a sugar-free, dairy-free, gluten-free one! We filled our carts with veggie dishes, healthy veggie chips, and lots of water. When we were done, we piled into their car for the ride back down to Greenwich. I’m not sure I ate very much before falling asleep in their backseat. The chemo and the anti-nausea meds had a tendency to do that to me.

  My daughter Sarah would be arriving from Los Angeles later that night and staying with me at the house. I was really looking forward to some mommy/daughter time over the weekend. She’d been living in L.A. for some time, working in television production and loving the California sunshine (which I couldn’t argue with, since I’m an original California sunshine girl), and I missed seeing her on a regular basis. She was planning to move back home in a month or so to help run my company once Lindsay went on maternity leave, which was truly exciting, but I couldn’t wait to see her over the weekend. This would be a super-fun sleepover, movie-watching, crossword-puzzle-solving marathon. Just the way we always loved it! And Sarah would help me with all the last-minute shower plans.

  With a baby on the way, Lindsay and Evan decided they needed a larger apartment in New York City. As it turned out, that weekend was the same one they would move to their new place. Normally, I would be there helping with the moving effort, but I simply wasn’t up to that task. While I wanted to pitch in, I didn’t have the energy or oomph. Besides, it was taking everything I had to pull together the shower. That was my first priority.

  When I got back to Greenwich that night, it felt a little strange to be there without Jeff and the younger kids. Our home is usually so chaotic, and that night it was oddly quiet and calm. While it was lovely to have my older girls around, it was a completely different vibe from what I was used to in that house. Jamie and George stayed the night, along with Sarah, who had settled in after a long flight.

  As my girls have gotten older, they’ve all gone on to live very independent lives. (Gee, I wonder whom they get this from.) Each of them has grown into an amazing, incredible, and accomplished woman, making an individual mark in the world. With Sarah in L.A. and Jamie and Lindsay in New York, we don’t all get together as often as we once did. I can’t explain why I felt sad that night, why I thought that it took a crisis to pull our family together, when in fact, we had gathered for a celebration of life: a brand-new life we were about to welcome into our fold. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how blessed I was to have these three amazing women in my life, and I got to call them my daughters.

  The next morning was my only day to get as much done as possible before the shower. Sarah and I set off with our to-do list, which included picking up flowers; confirming delivery times for the tables, chairs, linens, catering, and cake; and hitting the liquor store. By the end of the day, I noticed that I had raised hard sores on my forearms. They weren’t there when I left the house earlier.

  What the heck could they be?

  They didn’t really hurt, but they sure looked nasty. My best guess was they had been exposed to the sun all day as I drove around town. Like a bonehead, I hadn’t put on sunscreen because I didn’t think I’d be “out in the sun.”

  Okay.

  So I guess I was now super-hyper-sensitive to the sun, just like my doctor said I would be.

  Note to self: Be more careful going forward. And wear sunscreen at all times!

  The next day, for reasons I can’t explain, I felt like I was flying high. I don’t know if it was pure adrenaline or the bag of steroids they gave me before my chemo, but I was like Wonder Woman that day.

  No, maybe I was more like the Bionic Woman.

  I had all of the tables set before anyone else in the house was awake. It could have been nervous energy. Whatever it was, for a while there, I felt like a million bucks.

  Having everything done early gave me time to take my daughters out for brunch at a wonderful little French restaurant famous for its fresh pure ingredients. I was working hard at staying the course with my clean-eating plan. I carefully looked through the offerings, starting with the list of soups, which felt the safest to me. When the waiter came to our table, I asked about every single ingredient in each soup: “Is there any cream added? Any sugar? What’s the stock base?” When he told me the one I wanted was made from pure butternut squash and pureed roasted apples, I stopped him. “Perfect,” I said.

  I perused the menu for my main course, and while there were lots of dishes that looked good, it seemed like each had at least one ingredient that was not on my approved food list. So I’d need to modify a dish or two a bit—which wasn’t difficult to do. The beet salad over arugula with goat cheese could work if they remove the cheese and put the dressing on the side, I thought.

  This exercise proved I could eat out without a lot of distress or deprivation. It wasn’t all that hard, and the waiter was happy to oblige my requests.

  Unfortunately, as the day passed, I found myself getting terribly fatigued. I felt nauseated, and I needed to go home, get into bed, and rest. I was very worried that I might feel this way for the shower, when I so desperately wanted to be bright and happy for Lindsay’s big day. I was beside myself when I broke the news to the girls that I needed to cut our day short. Of course, they understood, but it wasn’t how I wanted the day to end.

  When I awoke the following morning, I still wasn’t feeling great. Lindsay and Evan had moved over the weekend; she had to be exhausted from all of the unpacking. I was more worried about her than I was about me. I definitely didn’t want her to know how crummy I was feeling. I wanted to rally—to put on my best game face and get through the day as though nothing were wrong.

  I reste
d until the caterers arrived at three in the afternoon. By then, I was feeling a bit like my old self and was able to call the shots. By the time our first guests arrived, I was feeling great. Every time a guest walked in the door, one of my older daughters quickly announced that “Mom is only taking air kisses, no touching or hugging or kissing,” because they were concerned about my low white blood cell count and were being extra-careful not to expose me to other people’s germs.

  Toward the end of the shower, Lindsay gave a very emotional speech that brought the entire room to tears. It wasn’t a prepared speech. It came straight from her heart. I smiled because she had become such a gorgeous woman, and now she was about to become a mother, too. My heart was full, truly, listening to her and realizing that my baby was having a baby.

  A couple of days after the excitement of the festivities had faded, Sarah and I headed north to Maine, but not before lending Lindsay a hand with unpacking all of her baby gifts and getting settled into her new apartment. None of my girls had ever moved into a new apartment without me helping them place their art on the walls—make that my art on their walls—and I wasn’t willing to forgo the tradition. As soon as the last picture was in place, Sarah and I hit the road. About two hours into the drive, I could see that Sarah was sleepy, so I decided to take the wheel for the rest of the six-hour trip. I felt good to be taking care of her for a brief time.

  I was having a rare and especially good day, full of energy and positivity. There was a lot to look forward to. Camp Reveille was three weeks away, and I was about to hit the halfway mark in my first round of chemo. Meeting that six-week milestone felt like a big accomplishment. That was the mind-set that would help me get through this unplanned journey. Early on, I made the decision that my attitude would dictate my experience, and my experience was absolutely dependent on my attitude. I looked at every small step as a tiny success leading me toward my ultimate bigger goal: to beat the crap out of this disease. That was the only way I could remain optimistic and happy.