Chapter 6
Letting People In
I couldn’t sleep that night wondering how I was going to tell my friends and family about my diagnosis. I was so worried that no matter what they said, they would be thinking, “Here she goes again…” I didn’t want pity. I most definitely didn’t want to be a burden. What I wanted to say was, “I wish I could tell you this, deliver the news, and at the very same time take away all the worry. I’m still me. I just have a terrible diagnosis, and I wanted to let you know because you’re important to me and I wanted to share it with you.”
One of my persistent thoughts was “Here I am, putting them through this again.” Do you know the “what now?” friend? The phone rings, you look at the number and you think, “Oh boy. What now?” I never envisioned myself being that friend. My friends never ever made me feel that way. But that was one of my biggest fears, both when I was diagnosed with breast cancer and then again with MDS. I didn’t want to be the burdensome friend. I wanted to be the fun one. I always pride myself on being the life of the party; good for some laughs. Pollyanna Roberts. I’ve always been an optimistic person. Being optimistic is like a muscle that gets stronger with use. Makes it easier when the tough times arrive. You have to change the way you think in order to change the way you feel.
I called my siblings, Butch, Sally-Ann and Dorothy, and although they were devastated to hear that I was sick again, they really heard me when I said that a cure was on the table. They were also anxious to take the test to see if they might be a match. Telling Mom was much more difficult. She’d been battling her own health issues, and the last year had been hard. She had high blood pressure, arthritis and a heart condition. She’d had a knee replacement that didn’t go well. It was hard to explain to her over the phone that I had this mysterious, rare illness that most people couldn’t spell or really pronounce. I gave Mom the broad strokes—I had a secondary illness to the breast cancer, I was going to bring home swab kits to test Dorothy and Sally-Ann and, most important, the doctors thought that they could cure me. That was all my sweet, eighty-eight-year-old mother needed to know.
Deborah Roberts, my ABC news colleague, Gayle King from CBS, Tonya Lewis Lee (Spike Lee’s wife) and Theresa Moore (a friend from my ESPN days) started what they call “Robin’s lunch” when I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2007. It was a way for them to keep an eye on me and see for themselves how I was doing. Every few months we still get together to discuss life, our families and just a smidge of the latest gossip. Just the five of us, no one else. Many have tried to invite themselves to join us over the years, but we prefer the intimacy of a small group and the history we share together. The one and only time we broke our rule and let someone else have lunch with us was my mom!
It was at one of our luncheons that I told the group about my MDS diagnosis. Tonya had just gotten emotional talking about how thankful they all were that I was doing well and had survived cancer. It was such a sweet moment that I didn’t want to ruin it by telling them what I was about to face. But I knew it would be difficult for us all to get together again before I went public with the news. So I waited until the end of our lunch and quietly told them. We hugged, we cried and we knew we would always be there for one another.
Though my friends never felt that way—that I was the “what now?” friend—I cannot tell you how many hours I spent in needless worry about being a burden. Oh, gosh, that’s one thing that’s changed in the past year. I know—with my head and my heart—that life is too precious to fritter away so much of it with needless worry.
I remember in 2007 when I called my good friend Jo after I was diagnosed with breast cancer. She and Kim, also one of my closest friends, were very upset.
Jo was crying and I said, “It’s okay, Joey.”
She said, “I just can’t deal with this, Robbie Rob.”
She and Kim call me Robbie Rob.
I tried to calm her down and said again, “It’ll be okay.”
She said, “It’s just too much. I was just talking with my mom and my dad. He is facing a health crisis, too, and now you.”
I listened and expressed my sympathy for her dad.
Then Jo said, “This has been a really bad week for me.”
And I said, “A bad week for you??? Um, yeah, Joey, things have been a little worse for me.”
That made us both laugh because I knew what she meant. It was terrible to hear that your father and your best friend each got a bad diagnosis during the same week. But when I thought of that conversation, I thought, “Oh, I don’t want to call Jo and share this kind of news again.”
But I did. And because they are such amazing friends, Jo and Kim drove down from Maine and met me and Amber at my home in Connecticut. We sat out in the backyard that Saturday night and just spent hours talking and crying. All four of us were big crybabies. I remember Kim was just inconsolable. I was a basket case, too. They were just so angry that I was going through this again. They knew how serious it was the first time, and they just wanted to be able to take on some of it for me.
But the best part of the evening was that there were whole hours when we sat around the fire pit and didn’t say a word. We were together as a group, but they knew I needed silence. That can be very hard for friends. But Jo, Kim and Amber can be with me in the quiet. Sometimes, they would just reach out and touch my hand or squeeze my shoulder. It was like once we’d cried and yelled and raged at the injustice of it all, we decided we’re just going to sit here and be together. We didn’t have to fill the silence with stories of what we did or what we were going to do, although we did that, too. And I think it’s often very hard for close friends to understand that sometimes you want them to be there but you don’t have to say anything, that their presence is as powerful as anything else.
I am a woman of deep faith, but I was angry with God. Why was I being tested again? Why would I have to put my loved ones through this again? Over the course of my struggles, many have asked me if I ever lost faith. Stopped believing. The simple answer is no. I feel it’s okay to get angry with God. He can take it. Just don’t stay angry. It takes courage to believe that the best is yet to come. I hold steadfast to that belief, especially when I come face-to-face with adversity.
Chapter 7
I Want to Live
My doctors understood that my MDS was most likely caused by the chemotherapy that treated my breast cancer. MDS is a mysterious illness. For many patients, there is never a smoking gun, never an explanation of why their bone marrow had been permanently damaged. But for me, knowing how I had developed MDS was no comfort at all. Instead, it yanked me back—five years into the past—to my breast cancer diagnosis. At the time, I thought that was the fight of my life, and I thought it was a fight I had won.
My journey with breast cancer began in July 2007. I was simply stretching my arms when I noticed a lump in my right breast. I thought to myself: “Funny, I don’t remember feeling that when I showered this morning.” I had recently moved full time to New York City and hadn’t found a doctor there yet. My colleague and dear friend Deborah Roberts referred me to her doctor, Albert Knapp. I scheduled an appointment with him for a general checkup, not mentioning the lump in my breast. I know, crazy, right? Perhaps if I didn’t mention the lump, I thought, it didn’t really exist. After all, my mom had repeatedly said: “We’re lumpy people.” My sisters and I had felt lumps over the years and they always turned out to be nothing. But deep down I knew this was different, because it felt different. This time the lump was very hard and didn’t really move when I pushed on it.
Since it was my first visit with Dr. Knapp, he sat with me in his office before examining me. He wanted to know my family history. He has a warm, easygoing nature that put me at ease. It felt as if he had been my doctor for years. Again, I did not mention the real reason why I was there. Later, I was surprised to learn that 80 percent of people diagnosed with breast cancer have no prior family history. Eighty percent! It makes you wonder why there’s so much attenti
on paid to disclosing prior family history.
Dr. Knapp proceeded to examine me—just the basics, a “check under the hood and kick the tires” kind of exam. He was about to leave the examining room when I finally spoke up. “Um, Dr. Knapp, just one more thing before you go—could you check out this lump in my breast?” In the news biz that’s called burying the lead. That was the first thing I should have told him. He gave me a breast exam and immediately ordered a mammogram and an ultrasound. I walked a couple of blocks to the radiology center. Since it was the end of the day, I was told, if I could wait they would squeeze me in. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard stories of others having to wait months for a routine mammogram. I’m told if you have a lump, most places around the country will make an exception and see you in a more timely fashion. I believe in being patient and persistent. That is especially true when it comes to your health.
My mammogram came back normal. Good thing Dr. Knapp also ordered the ultrasound. As the technician was performing it, Dr. Mona Darwish, the attending physician, watched the screen. She has an extensive background in breast cancer work, and her trained eye picked up a tumor that had not been detected with the mammogram. It’s not unusual for that to happen. This is especially true for young women whose denser breast tissue makes it harder to detect abnormalities. I can’t stress how important it is for younger women and those with a high risk for breast cancer to have ultrasounds.
Dr. Darwish told me she wanted to do a core biopsy. I just wanted to get out of there. I was tired and hungry. It had already been a long day. When I asked her if we could do it another time, she gently squeezed my hand and said, “Why don’t we just take care of this right now.” Truth be known, if I had gotten off the examining table, there’s no telling when I would have come back. Dr. Darwish was patient and persistent. (Sound familiar?) I agreed to have the biopsy—a memorable experience, to say the least. I’m not a fan of needles, especially one being inserted into my breast. Dr. Darwish said she would get the results back as soon as she could.
After GMA the following morning, I flew to Atlanta for an assignment. As the plane pulled up to the gate, I turned on my BlackBerry and cell phone. There was an e-mail from my then assistant, Ayana, saying that Dr. Knapp’s office had called, and I needed to answer my cell phone because he would be trying to reach me. Just as I finished reading Ayana’s message, my phone rang. It was Dr. Knapp. He asked if there was any way I could come to his office. I told him I was on the road and to please just give me the news now. He didn’t want to but I insisted. I was still in my seat on the plane when he gave me the test results. “Robin, it’s cancer.”
I know he said more than that, but to me it sounded like the adults talking in a Peanuts cartoon. “Wawppp, wawppp, wawppp…CANCER…wawppp, wawppp, wawppp.” I do recall agreeing to have a breast MRI the next day in New York and to meet with a breast surgeon.
There is no way to prepare yourself to hear the words: You have cancer. Trust me, it’s less than ideal to be sitting on a plane when you hear it. After all, in the movies when you learn you have cancer you’re seated in the doctor’s office holding a loved one’s hand. I was all by myself, surrounded by strangers, about to get off a plane in Atlanta. When I boarded in New York I was just Robin. Now I was Robin with breast cancer. My eyes started to fill with tears, and I put on sunglasses so no one would notice.
A driver was waiting to take me to Pine Mountain, Georgia. I wanted to call Amber. We’d been dating less than two years at that point. I also wanted to call my family and friends to let them know I had cancer. But I didn’t want the driver to know what was going on, because I wasn’t ready for the public to learn about my diagnosis. I’d only had minutes to digest it myself. The driver could not have been nicer, but he was also a bit inquisitive, and I knew he’d be listening in on my conversation. So I played a little guessing game with my loved ones. “Remember how I told you I was going to have that thing checked out?” I asked, in a quivering voice. “What do you think I found out?” I guess my tone was a dead giveaway. They knew. They’d been praying for the best, but were prepared for the worst. And here it was. The Big C.
Revealing my diagnosis to Amber and my family was difficult. I remember in particular telling Sally-Ann. She was just back in her flood-damaged home that had taken nearly two years to rebuild following Hurricane Katrina. I called Sally-Ann and she sounded so happy. She was in her car at the drive-thru of the newly rebuilt Popeye’s near her neighborhood in New Orleans. (We both like two pieces of white meat—spicy—with french fries.) When I told Sally-Ann I had bad news she got out of line and parked her car. Then I took a deep breath and I told my oldest sister that I had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Willie, her college sweetheart and husband of twenty-five years, had died of colon cancer the day before Thanksgiving in 2002. I could hear the fear in her voice that she could lose me, too.
What is so remarkable about that day is that in the midst of being scared and shaking with my personal crisis, I could become so uplifted and inspired by bearing witness to someone else’s tragedy. As my mom always said, everybody’s got something. I was in Pine Mountain to interview Michael and Jeri Bishop, whose only son, Jamie, had been killed a few months earlier in the horrific shootings that took place at Virginia Tech in 2007. Jamie had been a beloved teacher there, and his parents were still numb with grief. Nevertheless, they had agreed to talk to me for a story that would air the first day the students returned to campus in Blacksburg.
The Bishops are such lovely people. They welcomed me into their home and fed me delicious cherries. Their warmth touched me, and it was all I could do not to collapse into their arms and cry, “I have cancer.” But I pulled myself together. They had lost their son in one of the most tragic ways imaginable. I was there to comfort them.
The Bishops spoke so eloquently and movingly about Jamie. When I asked them what they wanted the students returning to know, Jeri said, “I want them to know that they are in the right place at the right time.” Her comment was in reference to President George W. Bush’s words during a memorial service that the thirty-two people killed were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Bishops felt that despite the tragedy, their incredible son had been where he was supposed to be. He was a passionate teacher making a difference in countless lives.
I hugged the Bishops good-bye and got back in the car to return to the airport. I was desperate for some privacy. All I wanted was to get home. But wouldn’t you know it, my flight was delayed, and it was almost 11 p.m. before I walked through my front door. I crumbled like an accordion on my couch and had a good long cry. Something I had wanted to do ever since I heard Dr. Knapp utter those words almost twelve hours earlier.
The next day I had a breast MRI, and Amber went with me to meet my surgeon, Lauren Cassell. She’s the absolute best: a little dynamo in designer dresses and killer high heels, a force of nature, adored by all her patients. Dr. Cassell clearly explained the situation to me. My tumor appeared to be a little more than two centimeters. During surgery she would also check my lymph nodes. I barely have a scar thanks to her brilliant work. More important, she expertly removed my tumor and got clean margins the first time. She spends countless hours reviewing X-rays and images of the breast. She’s gifted in knowing how much beyond the tumor to remove. Cancerous tumors are tricky, because it’s not just removing the tumor but also any minute particles it may leave behind. Many patients have to go back a second or third time because the surgeon didn’t get enough. Not the case with Lauren Cassell.
I endured many months of chemotherapy and radiation. I remember when my hair started to fall out from the chemo. My beloved mother was staying with me. She wanted to be with her baby girl when I began treatment. Two weeks after my first dose of chemo my hair started coming out in clumps. Momma was in my kitchen cooking her world-famous collard greens. I went to her bawling my eyes out, holding chunks of my hair. She sweetly comforted me with one arm, while stirring her collards with the other. I don’t
think she wanted me to get too close to her pot of delicious greens. I cherish that memory.
Amber, my dear siblings and friends were there for me every step of the way. Diane Sawyer was a constant source of comfort. We always have each other’s backs. In fact, to celebrate my last chemo treatment, Diane snuck in some Popeye’s chicken for me—she has a knack for knowing exactly what you want. Diane also knew my mind was always racing and so I had a hard time sleeping. She would send me a message late at night and tell me: “You can get some rest, I’ll take it from here, I’m on watch now.”
My emotions were all over the map. I was scared, angry, confused and even embarrassed. Yes, I said “embarrassed.” How could I have cancer? I prided myself on being health conscious and athletic. Would people think I had done something wrong? Did I think I had done something wrong? A million questions raced through my bewildered mind, and none of them had answers.
Later answers did come, and the most lasting one came from my mother, who urged me to use my diagnosis to raise awareness about the importance of mammograms and early detection. “Make your mess your message,” Momma liked to say. And I did.
The video diary that I made of my hairstylist, Petula, shaving my head after chemo started causing my hair to fall out in clumps touched millions of viewers. I had worn a wig on GMA, because I didn’t want my baldness to distract from the stories I was covering. People magazine was about to publish a story about my battle with cancer. The article would include never-before-seen pictures of me bald. I didn’t want GMA viewers to think I had been keeping something from them, that I was ashamed of my bald head. Instead I felt that my baldness and all it represented could become an important part of the story—another way of reaching out to others who had faced cancer. Do you know that some women actually refuse to be treated for fear of losing their hair? In the words of my friend India Arie: “Hey, I am not my hair. I am not this skin. I am a soul that lives within.” I wanted to make a statement that I wasn’t ashamed to have cancer or be bald. I was absolutely stunned by the reaction to my video diary. The outpouring of support was overwhelming.
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