Cancer Schmancer (13 page)

9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 103

The Night Before

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in my heart I feared life would never be normal again once the surgery was performed, and I suddenly had a great need to spend as many last minutes as possible in my home by the sea with my beloved dog, Chester. It sounds calming, but actually my house is pretty chaotic, always full of life, with friends, barking dogs, and workers. It’s a bit of a zoo, but it’s my zoo, and I wanted to wrap it in my arms and never let go.

My sister told me to make sure the hospital knew who my designated partner was going to be. I wanted it to be John. He’d be the last person I’d see in pre-op and the first person I’d see in post-op. Funny how important and significant my relationship with John had become in such a brief time. After two and a half decades with Peter, a lifetime with my parents, and twenty years of friendship with Elaine, as well as Judi and Rachel, it was John whom I needed, whom I wanted.

John is a natural caregiver. It’s surprising how similar we are in this respect. His need to make everyone happy relates to an older brother’s having died of crib death years before John was born. As he grew up, he was told over and over again that he was the miracle God gave the family to make everything better and take all the pain 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 104

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away. How’s that for pressure? And I, of course, needed to make everyone happy because I felt guilty that my mother almost died giving birth to me. It’s because of our history that we both always shift into rescue mode. “I’ll fix, I’ll make better, I’ll handle things.”

Such is our lot in life!

Normally, I won’t let him feel responsible for me and vice versa. But now was different. I let him make it all about me. I could relax completely around him; John would be strong for the both of us. And thank God for him, because I was really worried about the colonoscopy. My aunt’s cancer had spread to the colon. Everyone used to say we looked alike. I was so scared that my fate was linked to hers. Especially after having been told that my cancer was more advanced, I felt sure it must have spread.

But Elaine told me to put a rubber band around my wrist and snap it each time I’d start thinking terrible thoughts. Ouch. It hurt when I did that, and I think the pain distracted me. “Don’t mix fear with imagination,” she’d say. “It’s a deadly cocktail!”

And she was right. But try as I might, it was difficult not to, because once I was told I had cancer, anything seemed possible.

Going to the hospital for the colonoscopy was like a dress rehearsal for the surgery on Wednesday. Doctor #10 told us they’d insert a long tube through the rectum all the way into the intestines to see if there were any growths. Yikes. It all sounded so gross. I can’t believe people actually go into that field. I was put under heavy sedation through an I.V. and didn’t feel a thing. My doctor had also given both Elaine and her husband, Allan, colonoscopies. This same little man had looked up all three of our asses.

Eww. Whatta business!

Anyway, much to my relief, when I awakened from the sedation, the doctor told me I was totally clean; he saw no growths of any kind. What a great guy. No wonder Elaine and Allan love him so much. We’ll never bend over for anyone but him!

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This hospital treats many high-profile celebrities and has a V. I.P. department that deals with the special needs that go along with fame. So after the colonoscopy, we met the V. I.P. rep. She was a pleasant, well-dressed, amiable woman who made us feel very welcome and seemed quite confident that the hospital would be able to keep my condition under wraps. As she swept through the corridors pointing out back doors and hidden hallways, she said, “Every staff member of our hospital signs a con-fidentiality clause in their work contract. Tomorrow, we’ll register you under an alias, I’ll meet you at a side entrance, and every effort will be made to protect your privacy.”

“But when my girlfriend Twiggy underwent surgery here, they told her the same thing, and still it was leaked to the tabloids,” I challenged. I mean, I didn’t want to sound difficult, but they did give Twiggy the same spiel.

“That was the British tabloids,” she said dismissively, as though that was supposed to make me feel better.

“But still, someone at the hospital must have leaked the story,”

I said.

“Who knows?” she said, pointing out the beautiful view from what would soon be my hospital room. “Try to worry less about that and more about getting better.”

What was there to say? My only hope was that I’d emphasized my concerns sufficiently that every precautionary measure would be taken. My girlfriend Donna once said, “You won’t believe how much time and effort is spent trying to ensure your privacy.” She and her husband, Danny, have spent the better part of their adult lives dodging the press, and now I was in the same boat. I’d never thought I’d get to this point, but every celebrity does, eventually.

When Peter and I first started The Nanny, we enjoyed the press and their fascination with our having been high-school sweethearts.

It was a Hollywood fairy tale of sorts. Two kids from humble begin-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 106

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nings in Queens, New York, meet, fall in love, and move to California to pursue their dreams of making it in show biz. In the show’s early years it helped to do as much press as possible, and so Peter and I were both amenable. But we’d painted ourselves into a corner that nobody could possibly have predicted. Unless of course you were somebody who’d been there, done that, and paid dearly for it.

The very people who wrote such nice things about us in the early days were the most venomous after our breakup. It was horrible, but I had to learn the hard way. I finally understood why Danny and Donna had eloped. They knew what I lived to find out: that it’s best to be as low profile as possible, because the press’s appetite is unending. Papers and magazines need content every day of every month of every year after year after year. . . .

When I moved out of our home in Hancock Park, reporters were all over both of us. They camped out on our front lawn and harassed Peter constantly. Stalkerazzi sat in cars outside my apartment and followed me in my car. I’d been paired in the tabloids with everyone from my assistant to Danny to Esa-Pekka Salonen, the resident conductor of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. If I was simply seen shaking the hand of someone it was cause for gossip.

Peter and I had unwittingly set up the feeding frenzy by exploiting our once happy relationship for the benefit of the show. I wouldn’t ever do that again, not in a million years.

We returned home to the beach by midafternoon and beat the rush-hour traffic. Dear, sweet Angelica prepared a big bowl of orange Jell-O for my return. The new coffee table and my beautiful Botero in all her zaftig bronze glory were a welcoming sight. Life continued to go on all around me despite my own personal horror. And I suppose it was good in a way that it did, because it helped pull me out of the nightmare and gave me things to talk about besides the nasty business of cancer.

My friend Caryn and I had been keeping close tabs on the 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 107

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Lakers’ NBA finals. We thought they’d win in five, but it was the sixth game against the Pacers that won them the trophy. While we worried and grieved over my now more advanced case of cancer, the rest of Los Angeles was rejoicing over the Lakers’ first cham-pionship in twelve years. Gotta love that Shaq!

When Tuesday night rolled around and my folks arrived, they were thrilled to see how well I looked. I don’t know what they were expecting, but I had to admit, I did look good, and we were all grateful the colonoscopy was normal. I was thrilled to feel their arms around me as we all hugged at once. Each time they expressed how great I looked, I’d return the compliment, because they really did look so healthy, vibrant, and well. But I know that their words to me were more than complimentary; they were an expression of profound relief.

“What are ya cooking? Do I smell garlic?” my mom asked while sniffing the air.

“I’m making shrimp scampi over linguine for you guys and John,” I answered, knowing that was one of their favorites. “I can’t eat until after the operation.”

“We’re not hungry,” my dad chimed in. “Mother made us each two sandwiches for the plane, one peanut butter, one tuna fish,” he added. She hates when he calls her “Mother,” but for some reason when he’s around the kids he goes into automatic “Mother” mode.

He just can’t help himself.

“I packed us a lunch because they’d only give us breakfast on the plane,” she explained.

“And it’s a good thing we did because not two hours later we got hungry again, and ate the sandwiches for lunch,” Dad said while lifting the lid off the shrimp.

They’d flown American Airlines nonstop from Florida to L.A.

that day. “It was one of the nicest flights we’ve ever been on,”

Mom said, mushing Chester into her bosom. After a brief tour of 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 108

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whatever new stuff I’d done with the house, we all sat around the dinner table.

“We’re not even hungry,” Mom said.

“We’re hardly gonna eat a thing,” Dad added, as he began shoveling in the pasta. My one regret was that I’d made only a pound of linguine, because there wasn’t enough for seconds or leftovers.

“I love pasta!” my dad exclaimed as he used his fork to twirl up the lion’s share of the pound.

“Linguine with shrimp scampi and plenty of garlic is my favorite,” my mom said while pushing the last strand on her fork with her thumb. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: The Dreschers are good eaters!

I bought a WebTV for my dad to play with. I thought it would be fun for us to e-mail each other, and helpful for them to have the Internet for travel or medical research at their fingertips. He didn’t open the box, but decided he’d save it until he got back to Florida.

“I wouldn’t want to interfere with Mother’s TV viewing,” he said and then shifted to his favorite subject, Tiger Woods, who’d just won the U.S. Open. “He’s the greatest golfer who ever lived!” Dad shouted, as he swung an imaginary nine-iron in the living room.

Mom thought Chester looked well, even though I’d nicknamed him Mr. Wobbly at this point, because of his difficulty standing and walking. It’s true; he was still a beautiful dog. I was glad the show had ended and I’d been able to spend more time caring for him in his later years. My mom thought I should write a children’s book about Mr. Wobbly, who thought he died and went to heaven in my beautiful white home. Don’t ask me why this struck her as such a hot seller, but she repeated it a few times until I finally said, “Why don’t you write it, Mom?” And that was the end of it. They’re both really creative, my parents, but they never seem to get past the idea stage. Under the circumstances it all seemed pretty normal.

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As we kissed each other good night, I remembered another Elaine wisdom: “Plan your play, then play your plan.” Well, the plan was to undergo the surgery, get it over with, and then everything would return to being like it used to be. Feeble as it was, at least we had a plan.

That night I didn’t sleep well at all. I mean, I have trouble sleeping the night before I’m getting on a flight to go on vacation; can you imagine preparing to go in for cancer surgery? It bothered me that my dad hadn’t opened his present. I tossed and turned all night, running a dialogue over and over in my head. I knew he hadn’t meant anything by it, but I worried that it wouldn’t be good for me to go under the knife with unresolved anger.

It was still quite early in the morning as I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling while John slept. I wish I slept as soundly as him.

Even under the best of circumstances I’m never able to stay asleep for as long or as late as he does. This morning was no different, so I crept into my bathroom and dialed my parents. I knew they’d be up because they were still on East Coast time and my mother and I share the same sleep habits, which means she probably hadn’t slept a wink.

She answered, and we commiserated about the lousy night we’d had. I didn’t have to be at the hospital until early afternoon, and we discussed going in two cars so they could return at the end of the day to be with Chester. John would remain with me but still have a car at the hospital in case he needed to run out for something over the course of my stay. I guess I should say “our” stay, since he’d decided to remain with me the whole time.

I asked to speak with my dad, so Mom put him on. Poor guy didn’t know what was coming, but I’d worked myself up over this WebTV gift, fueled by my anxiety and anguish over my illness. I wasn’t taking shit from nobody! “I’d really like you to set up the WebTV so we can write to each other,” I said bluntly.

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But Dad wasn’t catching my drift and answered, “I’m gonna set it up just as soon as we get back to Florida.” Oy, he could be so dense sometimes.

“I want you to set it up here, first, so we can use it together while I recover,” I replied.

Of course he just couldn’t see the necessity of it all and responded, “But Mother loves to watch her programs on the TV.”

Now, this just got me so incensed I saw red.

“Why can’t you just open it and set it up? There are two TVs, and besides, she doesn’t watch TV twenty-four hours a day,” I continued. “She reads her novels, she talks to her mother, she takes her time doing her hair and putting on makeup. Can’t we ever share in anything without you making it about Mom?” I’m sure he wasn’t sensitive to how he was making me feel, but the time had come to let him know.

There was an episode of The Nanny that dealt with this very subject. Miss Fine got some tickets to a sporting event for herself and her father, thinking he’d be so happy, but she was mistaken; he chose to watch the game on TV.