Cancer Schmancer (14 page)

I’d directed that episode since it held deep and personal meaning for me. The story had been inspired by a similar experience I’d had with my dad when I was able to score two impossible-to-get basketball tickets for us. He turned me down because he didn’t want to leave my mother out. Attending the game would have meant only three or four hours out of his day. I don’t know whether he doesn’t like to be alone with me, or whether he uses her as his excuse for stuff he doesn’t want to do, or whether he’s just so into her that there’s no room for anyone else, but stuff like that always made me feel like a third wheel.

I was really quite pathetic. Crying, while pleading with him to please open the box and set up the damn thing. My dad is so sweet and loving, but he can be unwittingly insensitive. “Okay, 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 111

The Night Before

111

sweetie,” he finally said. “I hear where you’re coming from, and I will set it up. In fact, I’m gonna go read the instructions right now!

Okay, darling?” Bless his heart.

Well, all the screaming and crying drove John out of bed, as well as Chester. It was official, the day had begun. Ramon and Angelica began cleaning up the dishes from the night before. “Fran, have you ever gone scuba diving? What’s it like?” Ramon asked.

“Yes, Ramon. But I didn’t like it, it hurt my ears,” I answered, while putting on my hiking boots.

“Oh, the ears. I never thought of that,” he mumbled. I wanted to take a walk. One last walk before going in for the surgery. I thought of stories I’d heard of people who’d been in terrible accidents, but because they were in such strong condition, they survived where others might have perished. Tony Danza was one of those people. When he got into that near-fatal skiing accident, everyone said he would have been dead if it weren’t for his having once been a professional boxer and having retained a hard physique.

I hoped the stronger my body was, the faster I’d recover. I love being out in nature and I wanted to be in as Zen a place as possible. I actually felt so much better now that I’d cleared the air with my dad. To this day I don’t really know if he indulged me because I had cancer and was going in for the surgery or because he realized I had a legitimate beef. My therapist would say it was probably a little bit of both.

Anyway, John, Chester, and I got into the car and were heading for my favorite trail when I suddenly thought of an even more perfect spot. I felt a strong and powerful calling to head to a retreat for Franciscan monks I knew high atop a beautiful mountain overlooking the ocean. It has tranquil gardens with fountains and quiet spots to sit and meditate. You have to park your car at the bottom and hike up to the top, but a small slice of paradise awaits those 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 112

112

Cancer Schmancer

who do. I’ve always loved Saint Francis of Assisi because he was the saint who loved all the little animals. Whenever you see a statue of him, you’ll often spot a bird or two resting on his shoulders.

I carried Chester in my arms—his walking days were long over—and the three of us made our way up to the top. I was in tremendous shape, and the climb presented little challenge, but the exhilaration of being there made me positively euphoric.

A German Shepherd puppy, maybe six months old, greeted us on our approach. His tag said his name was Joe and he was the sweetest, friendliest pup. Who wouldn’t be if he lived in Shangri-la? He stayed with us the whole time during our visit. It was refreshing to be around such a happy, gawky young dog.

John, Chester, and I all really enjoyed his attention. He was pure innocence, there was no heaviness to him like there was with us.

He was like an angel in a heavenly place.

As we sat on a bench at the base of the Saint Francis statue overlooking all the coastline below us, I turned to John and said,

“I don’t wanna go.” He looked at me with strength and compassion and said, “I know, Franny, but you gotta go.” And of course he was right, I had to go. We petted, kissed, and hugged Joe like departing dear old friends. He followed us a ways down the hill but connected with a groundskeeper who brought him back up to the retreat.

Without words we got back in the car and drove home. Me-thodically, I put a few things in a bag to take to the hospital. What do you take? Nothing of value, but things that would bring me comfort and remind me of home. I grabbed a picture of Chester, a stuffed teddy bear, a pewter dolphin John had bought me, some sundries, a book, and pajamas.

I got down on the floor and stroked Chester, knowing if anything happened to me, Kathryn would take care of him the way he was used to. She’s the gal who works closest with me on all of my 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 113

The Night Before

113

affairs, and over the years has proved as much a friend as coworker. He loved Kathryn, and she loved him.

As I walked through the house, Angelica, with tears in her eyes, hugged me long and fully and whispered, “Good luck, Fran.” When I got into the car in the garage, Ramon came running over to the window. I wondered what he was going to ask me this time, but much to my amazement he leaned into the car, hugged me, and said softly, “We love you, Fran. You are not alone.”

9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 114

9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 115

The Surgery

J u n e 2 1 , 2 0 0 0

i’d never been given anesthesia before. Even at the dentist, I’d never received gas for the fillings, and the thought of it really scared me. During my formative years, my mom felt compelled to share endless neighborhood horror stories. Right before my surgery, I remembered one of these stories. There I was, no more than twelve, eating Rice Krispies at the breakfast table minding my own business, when my mother entered.

“Ya know Richie, the lifeguard at the pool club?” she asked casually, while pouring some juice.

“Yes,” I answered innocently, unsuspecting of the tragic tale about to unfold.

“Well, he had a girlfriend, Marsha Rifkin’s daughter. Ya know Marsha Rifkin?” she asked, as she popped a Geritol vitamin in her mouth.

“No,” I said, trying to hear my “snap, crackle, and pop.”

“Very short, kinda chubby.”

“No.”

“Sure you do,” she insisted. “She always wears wedgies, very big breasts . . .”

“Oh yeah,” I cut her off, just to end this litany of description.

9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 116

116

Cancer Schmancer

“Well, anyway, her daughter used to date Richie and she was a beautiful girl, much prettier than the girl he’s going out with now,” she said, pouring herself a mug of coffee.

“So?” I said, playing with the mound of milky sugar at the bottom of my Tupperware bowl.

“Well, she went in for knee surgery. Nothing important, no big deal,” she said, while ripping open a Sweet’N Low. I could feel my throat begin to tighten, anticipating the ill-fated end of Marsha Rifkin’s poor, pretty daughter.

“What happened?” Like roadkill, I didn’t want to know, but I had to find out.

“She died,” Mom said, stirring her coffee for dramatic emphasis.

I immediately thought of poor Richie the lifeguard, and felt sad. “How? Why?” Sour milk came up in my throat.

“She was allergic to the anesthesia!” There was always a big payoff to Mom’s stories. Before that moment, I’d never known something like that was even possible. And then my mother added, as if that weren’t enough, “Yup. She never got off the table! Drink ya juice.”

Hearing this at such an impressionable age left an everlasting fear of going under anesthesia. Certainly any elective surgery that would require it was always completely out of the question. There I was about to enter a hospital, have major surgery, and go under anesthesia for the first time. Needless to say, I was pretty nervous.

Who was the anesthetist? Was he any good? What kind of anesthesia was I going to get? How much or how little and for how long?

Both my mom and dad had recently undergone some much more minor and less invasive surgery than I, which involved their being put under, and they came through it with flying colors, so I felt somewhat comforted. Of course, I was the only one of the three to get cancer, but I chose to ignore that minor detail.

I asked my parents what they were given and found out it was 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 117

The Surgery

117

the same thing as me, the most commonly administered anes-thetic. That calmed me, but I still spoke to everyone anyway.

Were they prepared for an allergic reaction? Did they know I tend to have a low threshold for most drugs? Would they administer the minimum first? I’m sure they thought I was a pain in the ass, but meanwhile, I was the one going under the knife!

Upon my arrival at the hospital I was informed that I’d need a chest X ray. Well, that just opened up a whole new can of worms!

I hate X rays, and have them only when absolutely necessary. Even when I go to the dentist, I’m reluctant to get X rays, which many dentists consider routine. Now, I could be totally off base on this, but I don’t need to help my dentist pay for his expensive X ray machine. Let’s not forget, it’s a business, and they do have overhead.

Meanwhile, you’re the one getting radiated. No thank you.

I asked the nurse why, if I was getting a hysterectomy, I needed a chest X ray. “It’s standard hospital procedure,” she said. “No patient can be admitted without one.”

John looked at me and said, “Take the X ray. What are you gonna do?”

So I had myself a small conniption, and then begrudgingly said, “Fine,” as I started to unbutton my shirt.

As previously arranged in an effort to keep my illness a secret, I was admitted under a different name to ensure maximum privacy. I had enough to worry about—I mean, I had cancer, for God’s sake!—and the last thing I wanted was to have my nightmare turned into a media circus. I’d already paid the price of fame. When my life was falling apart, my heart was breaking, and my world was coming to an end, the press didn’t care, because to them I was just a headline.

The day of the surgery I told my parents, who’d acquired some level of notoriety themselves through their appearances as Early Bird restaurant critics on The Rosie O’Donnell Show, that 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 118

118

Cancer Schmancer

they should try to keep a low profile when at the hospital. I told them to say as little as possible. “Ma, ya don’t need to be showing the parking attendant our family photos,” I whined. They’re so innocent, proud, and friendly, it’s difficult for them to be tight-lipped. It’s simply not in their makeup, I suppose.

I feel bad that my paranoia was so focused on them, but they just seemed like the wild cards I couldn’t control. I don’t know why I got so nervous about it all, but I did. I think psychologically, I felt so out of control where my body was concerned, I must have had some need to at least try to control the press situation. I also think I was still in denial of my cancer, still wanting to quietly put it behind me without everyone finding out, especially within the biz.

So anyway, there I was, under an alias, checked in and off to pre-op. I was told to get undressed and put on a hospital gown.

I kept on my sweat socks and even then I tried to look nice, still wearing a little lipstick and blush. They made me remove the engagement—uh, I mean friendship—ring John had bought me, and I handed it to him to hold in safekeeping until I came out of the O.R.

John, my parents, Elaine, Judi, and Rachel were all there to keep me company and wish me well. We all tried to seem cheery and light. The human spirit is amazing. Somehow hope springs eternal even under the bleakest of conditions.

“What’s that?” I asked Rachel, noticing a box she was clutching.

“Belgian chocolates. I figured we needed some rich chocolate.

When you get out of surgery, you’ll have some,” she said.

“Not if we eat them all first,” my dad said as he opened the lid.

“She can’t eat this stuff right after surgery,” my mom added, while grabbing a peanut cluster.

9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 119

The Surgery

119

“I love your boots,” Judi said, referencing the blue paper hospital booties on my feet.

“Manolo Blahnik, darling, they’re the very latest from Paris,” I responded.

They were all there, my closest friends and family, eating, laughing, and trying to be cheerful in an effort to conceal their concerns. When the doctors arrived, everyone but John, my designated partner, was asked to leave. We all kissed and hugged good-bye. My mom, who kissed the hardest and hugged the longest, had to be guided out by my dad. There were many last looks between us.

They started me on an I.V., which apparently made me drowsy quite soon thereafter, because John recalls my wearing a big dopey grin and assuring him how great everything was going to be. Then the orderlies arrived to wheel me in for surgery. John walked with me until they turned a corner and I got rolled away, leaving him behind. He said I was still smiling as I disappeared around the bend.

That’s when he said he broke down for the first time since the whole nightmare had begun. Unable to be anything but strong for my benefit since the diagnosis, he suddenly let it all come out as he wept deeply and uncontrollably against a wall. Though not usually given to public displays of emotion, at that moment he couldn’t hold back. His release was so full of grief and despair that a kind stranger came over to ask if he was all right and offered to lend a consoling hand.

According to John, for the next few hours while I underwent surgery, my support group of family and friends all clung to each other up in my room. John remained quiet and kept to himself, but the rest responded as Jews do, telling stories and eating comfort food. When my surgeon finally entered, still in her greens, she announced that the operation had gone very well and that she was 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 120