Worth Fighting For: Love, Loss, and Moving Forward
Page 7
—
SINCE PATRICK had had success with projects like North and South, Dirty Dancing, and Ghost, we had some experience dealing with celebrity and press in the last twenty-five years. And Patrick was always smart and very much a gentleman about how he handled it. If we were being chased by photographers in London or someplace, Patrick’s solution would be to tell the driver to stop, he would get out and smile while they took a few photos, after which the photographers would just go away. Easy! In airports or appearances where we were going to encounter many, many people, too many to stop for . . . he would have bodyguards and escorts around him, but told them to go easy and not be aggressive. It’s funny; the ones who are aggressive invite trouble. They give the crowd something to push against, so the crowd pushes back. Basically, we figured that all people want is some kind of connection. And both Patrick and I would try to achieve that as we moved through, smiling, looking people in the eye, and shaking as many hands as we could. And we could let the bodyguards be nice.
One of our first encounters with “extreme” celebrity happened after Dirty Dancing came out. We went to a record signing at Sam Goody in New York, where there were approximately three thousand people waiting in line around the block outside. It was a little frightening to see these people pushed up against the store’s two-story, plate-glass windows. I thought surely they might come toppling through, making for a really major disaster. But like the saying goes, “Nobody panic and nobody gets hurt!” So, we acted like there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing at all. Getting out through this crowd to the car only fifteen feet away was pretty exciting also. I had to focus aggressively and, without delay, get into the car and get the door closed.
Of course many women had the good taste to think my husband was sexy and gorgeous. And most fans we ran into were respectful, excited, and had great fun meeting him. And there were the few who shamelessly gave him smoky eyes and flirted with him and all but slipped him their phone number . . . right in front of me! I remained cool when this happened, I mean, I didn’t feel threatened, but I wanted to wave my hand in front of their face and go, “Helloooo? I’m right here! Helloooo?” It was just bad manners! Some of these coquettish ladies were fairly famous, too. It was like they couldn’t help themselves. People do strange stuff sometimes.
And then there were bodyguards, aides, and handlers who were so focused on Patrick that they put their arms out and separated me from him and forced me into the crowd, almost knocking me down, or preventing me from getting into the car! One time, a person leaned over to talk to Patrick and literally draped a coat over my head. Patrick emphatically and politely pointed out the rudeness. We soon learned that some people could be pretty stupid in these situations, and we learned how to deal with it. Patrick made sure that he impressed them from the get-go that I was to be treated with as much respect as he was. It was that, or he was going to be one ticked-off dude. And people learned very quickly. For him it was like, “You mess with her, you mess with me.” We were a team, right?
Being recognized, followed, photographed, and asked for autographs . . . if you were going to be successful as an actor, this was something you could expect. And if you didn’t want these things to happen—you didn’t go out. There are great things about being well known; you’re treated like a VIP, you’re escorted around lines, people give you free goods, and you get treated to all sorts of things. The downside is that you have to pay for lawyers to keep people from suing you for things you’ve never done, pay for things you really don’t need, and choose where you can go and where you can’t if you want to have a life. And even that doesn’t work out some of the time, but you take your best shot. There were many things we couldn’t do with our friends because it just wouldn’t work—like go to an amusement park, or go to a concert where you weren’t cordoned off like a bunch of goats with the other celebrities.
And I’m not telling you all this so you think we were some kind of elitist couple. We weren’t above picking up horse and dog poop. It was other people who were making us out to be an elitist couple.
I remember Patrick and I were at the White House for some big dinner with Bill and Hillary Clinton. I can’t remember what for. Afterward they had a band and a dance floor. This was after the Monica Lewinsky scandal and things had finally died down to about as much as they were ever going to die down. I was dancing with Bill and chatting while Patrick was swinging Hillary around the floor. A photographer stepped in front of us to take our picture, and Bill immediately stiffened and stepped back formally while we kept dancing. I felt uncomfortable because I knew why he adopted the more distant pose. He wasn’t going to take any chance that a photo might be misconstrued. I, being the brilliant conversationalist I am, said being a movie star was tough enough as far as what people say about you, but it’s nothing compared to what they go through. “You just have to have a thick skin,” he said, and mentioned that when he came into office, they asked the press to leave their daughter Chelsea alone, as she was a young girl who couldn’t protect herself as they could, and the press honored that request.
My mom has the photos that were taken that evening. In the picture of me dancing stiffly with Bill, I look like an awkward third-grader with a double chin. Meanwhile Patrick and Hillary’s photo looks like a promo shot for Dancing With the Stars, with Patrick dipping Hillary with flair, and Hillary listing delightfully, having just erupted into a lovely peal of laughter!
Thick skin . . . I thought we, I, had developed a pretty good, thick skin as far as the press and tabloids were concerned. I thought so . . . but the situation we were in now was a little different. I was going to find out how different as time went on.
Anyway, with celebrity, once you learn the ropes it’s not so bad. I was always in awe at how some stars always seemed to have photographers catching them at all sorts of places, until I was on the receiving end of the attention with Patrick. The paparazzi are pretty easy to deal with and pretty easy to avoid. The people who were in the press all the time wanted to be in the press all the time, made sure they showed up at places with press, and probably even called and alerted the press on themselves. So, press is easy to avoid—unless it’s something big, and particularly if it’s devastating. Then it’s hard, really hard to avoid being written about. It’s even harder in this day and age where anyone, anywhere can snap your photo or take a video of you with a phone. I was to find that the professional paparazzi are very good at what they do. When everyone heard Patrick was sick, it was a double-edged sword—so many, many people cared so much, and because they cared so much, the tabloids wanted stories and bad pictures of Patrick even more. His life and his possible death meant money for them.
My brother Ed and his wife, Dr. Maria Scouros, visit us in LA.
Chapter 6
THE TROOPS ARRIVE
I’m a tough girl
I’m here to stay
I won’t cry
And I won’t run away.
—March 2008
IT HAD BEEN very tough keeping Patrick’s illness a secret. We thought maybe there might be some relief now that the word was out, but after the news broke and everyone knew, we yearned for the simplicity of having to just look after ourselves. It was infinitely easier when all we had to focus on was getting Patrick better. Having so many people know, and having his illness reported so much, demanded attention and focus.
Maria, my brother Ed, and the two kids came to California to visit us. (Ed had taken the news very hard and wept openly on the phone when he first heard the news.) We visited our friends Warren and Jale who were in town in Laguna Beach, where Patrick indulged in eating clams and then paid for it by painfully throwing up the entire night. (This was before we knew that he needed to avoid any foods that might carry bacteria.) And there were other friends who came in to visit.
It was wonderful to see people, but hard at the same time. I knew why Ed and Maria were visiting. They knew how aggressive this disease could be. They knew it could be the last time
they saw Patrick. I loved having them there, but it frightened me also. I wanted to accommodate people’s feelings, but secretly, underneath it all, it was an additional emotional burden. Likewise with others who wanted to visit. We had one friend who jokingly threatened to jump over the gate, saying that come hell or high water, “I’m going to see Patrick!” But that was exactly what we didn’t want. It sent the message, “YOU ARE GOING TO DIE and I’m GOING to see you before you do.” There was even a family member who wept copiously on the way out of our house, falling to her knees in sobs two to three times before reaching the car. Patrick and I watched some of this scenario from the kitchen window. I couldn’t help but be just a little ticked off and shook my head, and turned to Patrick and deadpanned, “I think someone might be losing their visiting privileges.” I didn’t want to cut anyone off . . . but I didn’t want us to be put in the position of having to take care of everybody else. And I certainly wasn’t going to give people free rein at the expense of Patrick’s well-being. He was the one going through it.
—
I BOUGHT a wig, a cute little dark, reddish brown Victoria Beckham number, and I wore it when I went out shopping or to run errands. Since we were in the press so much, people’s radar was sensitized, and I got recognized a lot. Or at least I noticed it more. And it wasn’t that I didn’t want to be recognized, not like Britney Spears shielding her face from prying eyes. And it wasn’t that people were rude, just the opposite. It was just that—people cared. When I got out of the house for whatever reason, it was a break for me. I could get lost in the aisles of canned goods checking calories, or among rows and rows of shirts at T.J.Maxx. But when people recognized me, I would see this look of sympathy and care on their faces. They felt sorry for me. And how wonderful is it that they cared, but they reminded me of the one thing I was trying to forget for just an hour or two. Trying to forget that my husband could die. Could die soon.
It’s so hard to know what to do when someone is ill. Do you call? Send a card? Flowers? Knock on their door? I was probably the worst at knowing what to do in the past so . . . I didn’t do anything. I was so afraid that I wouldn’t do the right thing that I did nothing at all. That’s changed now. I know what it’s like to be on the other side. Now, I pick up the phone. I call, and I offer my services if I’m able. But the message I leave goes something like this:
“Hi! Just checking in. Thinking of you. I’m here if you need me. Just call, any time. Love you.” And hang up. Click.
And you don’t even have to offer your help if you’re not able. Just say, “Hi! Just called to say I’m thinking of you. Don’t need to call me back . . .” If you do offer and are called back, be ready to listen to what they need. They might need help with groceries, a ride, or the laundry, or something crazy stupid or mundane. Or they might need to cry, bitch, or just talk like a normal person and have a few laughs. But don’t expect a return phone call, and don’t ask for one. There are many reasons why calling you back is hard, so hard. And you’re looking to ease their difficulties and pain, right? Not add to them. Just remember that all you’re offering is your love and support, not your personal baggage about death and loss. They’ve got enough to carry.
Anyway, it was already a full work and stress load. And we could handle only so much. We couldn’t spend all our time responding to press and people’s suggestions, letters, and requests, and weren’t about to! Our plate was full. Every moment of every day counted in his treatment and that’s what came first. Selfishly, selfishly, selfishly, my, our goal was that Patrick live. And when it came to that, everyone else was just going to have to deal with his or her own world. And every chance we got . . . it was like we had an invisible, Zenlike wall come down and shut the world out. We were on our ranch with the fresh air, our animals . . . and we focused on his daily treatment and on our resolve that things would continue to move us in a positive direction.
—
AND NOW. The flip side.
As with celebrity, there are pros and cons in every situation. Yes, Patrick’s health no longer being a private battle made things more stressful and difficult, but it also brought some huge gifts.
While the tabloid headlines were busy reporting that Patrick says “Sad Farewell to Wife,” “Plans His Funeral” (accompanied by photos of his father’s and sister’s graves), and touted so-called exclusive information about his “Final Days” as he “Prepares to Die,” there was the flip side of all this negative attention. And that was in the number of good people in the world who came forward to lend their support. And in this dark cloud of everyone knowing, there was the silver lining of some very beautiful people.
It was unbelievable. The amount of genuine love and care that poured out to Patrick from all over the world was awesome and inspiring. There were so many people praying for him, and sending him supplements, information, offering services . . . and asking for nothing in return. With some exceptions (and there are always exceptions), the support coming Patrick’s way was given freely and without strings. It was amazing and incredibly touching. Boxes and boxes of letters, supplies, tokens, and good wishes were funneled through our agent, our publicist, Stanford Hospital, friends, family . . . There was so much that I got my mom and a few family members to sort through it all and organize it into something that made sense so that Patrick and I could look at it.
In addition to cards, letters, prayers and meditations, sacred oils and waters, feathers, and a four-leaf clover encased in plastic that had gotten one man through World War II in one piece, there was a wide range of treatment suggestions. As wide a range as there were people who cared about Patrick and his battle with this formidable cancer. The number and diversity was truly surprising. There were healers with Reiki, Bioenergy, Naturopaths, Psychics, Gemstones, Reconnection, Visualization, Past Life Readings, Zenmasters, Shamans, and the Lord . . . who sent letters, prayers, and healings from Scotland, Brazil, Cardiff, Massachusetts, India, Las Vegas, Germany, Arizona, and so on. There were the more traditional suggestions such as the surgical Whipple Procedure, cyberknife, removing several organs to access the tumor and cancer growth and then putting them all back in again, Insulin Potentiation Therapy, Vitamin B-17, and a list of other chemotherapy drugs . . . coupled with suggestions of hospitals like MD Anderson, Johns Hopkins, St. Luke’s, New York Presbyterian, and UCLA, along with many personal recommendations of doctors from all over the country.
And these treatment suggestions radiated throughout the world. There was cryosurgery in China, Mongolian herbs, Ayurvedic Medicine, bicarbonate of soda in the U.K., biological immunology in Germany, Toad Venom from Asia, which was recommended alongside chemotherapy. It was an impressive list that included everything from snake charmers to modern angiogenesis protocols.
From the start, Patrick and I drew a strong boundary—he was in charge of his own treatment. We took suggestions but made it clear that the final word would be his. Our learning curve was intense, there was a lot of information out there, and the emotional stakes were undeniably high. It was important to us to create an atmosphere of support for those closest to us, not one of fear. In an email I had sent out to all our friends and family, I had borrowed a “Helper’s Code of Service” that was written for our dear and beautiful friend Mela, who was facing her own battle with ovarian cancer:
We are here to support Patrick’s Healing Journey. This is the Guiding Spirit of our Service. We are like a chariot with horses and Patrick is the charioteer. Whether medically, emotionally or spiritually, Patrick makes decisions for his healing: we help to empower him and support his decisions. We may have opinions, yet we do not try to “sway” Patrick’s decisions. We bring information and ideas, contacts and resources, offer physical service and the Power of Prayer. Our agenda is Patrick’s healing and we are unified in this quest. We hold space for Miracles and are guided by Mystery.
Peace & Light
It was perfect.
I cannot tell you how much everyone’s support and encouragement meant to u
s. I know it was meaningful for Patrick, particularly because he had felt a little forgotten in the last few years, at least careerwise. It was the old “You’re only as good as your last movie” axiom. He had worked so hard and given so, so much. He wasn’t a perfect individual, and he’d often be the first to admit it. But he was tirelessly kind to people and went to great lengths to treat them well. And he had a brilliant spirit. It was like he had a radiant light that he could shine on people. He had a talent for making everyone who came into his orbit feel special and important. And often, he had to plug in and recharge that “shining light” battery, because he ran it down every chance he got. Among the letters he received were those from people letting him know how he had changed their lives, or helped them through a bad time. For many of those people, it was Patrick’s taking the time to stop and give them advice or an encouraging word that made all the difference for them. He was—one of the good guys. For him to see the impact that he had in people’s lives meant a lot to him.
For me, this outpouring of support restored my faith in the kindness of humankind. For some time I had lived in a world of people who judged success by money and status, people who sometimes couldn’t even find it in themselves to have basic human consideration. And that can wear on you. The reaction to Patrick’s illness turned that around for me, and quick. It renewed my belief that people are basically good. Given the chance, people will do the right thing.
My mother once had mused how some psychiatrists in the 1960s insisted that a human being’s true nature is to f*#k and kill and it’s only socialization that keeps us from doing this all the time. “Well, then,” asked my mom, who was a dedicated nurse, “why is it then that all babies want is to be held and loved? Why is touch so important?” Yeah . . . and I think there are aberrations, the odd “didn’t get enough serotonin to the brain” individuals. But mostly, I think it’s much like what happens with horses, the beautiful majestic beings that Patrick and I loved so dearly. Horses are basically inherently good-natured, forgiving animals. It’s damaged people who mess them up.