—
FROM THE beginning of the shoot into the first month or two, Patrick actually started to do . . . better. When we were into the month of September, he turned to me one day with hope in his eyes, venturing to say, “I’ve been feeling so good . . . I almost feel normal.”
We had managed to carve a niche for ourselves that gave us privacy. What small respite we could provide for ourselves was much needed. We were still fighting a serious illness and behind the public face that we presented to the world, we dealt with it every day. It was kind of funny because I felt like we had a dual identity—the TV series and all that went along with that work, and then our alternate life, chemotherapy and treatment. Like “The Shadow” or Clark Kent, here was the public face, and then, step into the nearest secret hospital and out comes “Chemo-Man!” Or, “CT-Man!” depending on the day. There’s something surreal about shooting a TV series where there are dramatic life-and-death situations—people getting shot, beaten to death, or poisoned—and then showing up for a real-life chemo treatment where the stakes really are life or death. No doubt about it, it brings you down to earth pretty quickly.
To add to our secret identity vibe . . . We usually had our appointments after hours when the hospital floor was empty. George Fisher had transferred all our medical files to Dr. Mary Mulcahy at Northwestern Hospital. Mary was a team player, smart, dedicated, and caring. Everyone did their best to be flexible, and we were able to schedule Patrick’s treatments for Friday evenings or on Saturdays at the very latest. This was not only for privacy, but more important so he would have the couple of days he needed to recover from the enormous fatigue he always experienced before he had to show up for work Monday morning. It was a critical balancing act.
And then, of course, there were the always-sobering scans. In mid-September, a CT scan showed a slight increase in the spots in Patrick’s liver.
—
WE WEREN’T going to panic. For now we were going to hold our right to panic in reserve. We were going to keep a close eye on it. And then a week later . . . his CA19-9, the blood work that roughly measures increased protein, thus possible tumor activity, went up again.
These were all little signs that something was awry, but it wasn’t enough yet to lead us to abandon his course of treatment. But needless to say, we were very concerned.
And then, in early October, Patrick had yet another scan to ascertain the trend of what was now happening inside him. The spots on his liver were stable, and in some cases, decreased! He had amazingly, miraculously, somehow dodged yet another bullet. We didn’t know what caused the change in scans—maybe a pocket of infection that suddenly unclogged, or maybe the treatment suddenly worked where it hadn’t earlier, and then, who knows, there’s always the possibility of magic, that all the prayers and good wishes that were coming his way were paying off. But it was a sobering scare. Man! We were getting pretty tough about taking these ups and downs in stride. We had remained steady and fearless throughout. We just kept collecting ourselves and kept putting one foot in front of the other. But we couldn’t help but be shaken.
Another thing that was discovered in that CT scan was that he had developed colitis, an inflammation of the large intestine that would account for much of the abdominal pain he was experiencing. Mary suspected the PTK was the culprit in causing the colitis, and had Patrick stop taking it to see if it cleared up. I hated any interruption in his treatment, but . . . Lisa, remain steady, steady . . . no doubt about it, if the colitis cleared, he would feel better and it would improve his quality of life. And colitis, unchecked, could very possibly result in surgery. I waited on pins and needles until he could get back on treatment, and kept my eye out for any signs of trouble in the meantime.
In addition to the new colitis condition, there were some things that started to happen, things that we had long been warned of that came along with the territory. We considered them to be “housekeeping items”: the stent that kept his bile duct open clogged again and had to be replaced, and the chemo started to trash his veins so much, it would take sometimes over seven painful sticks to get an IV needle in, so he had a portacath put in to remedy this. The portacath, while not glamorous, is a wonderful invention (though not without its own set of problems), in which a semipermanent access for intravenous treatment is placed in the upper chest just under the skin and connects to the jugular vein and into the superior vena cava, which is a short, thick vein that carries blood through to the right atrium of the heart. No more having to get stuck with needles for chemo, just stick a Huber needle into the access that is already hooked up to a vein. As luck would have it, the very day after Patrick had the portacath put it, he was scheduled to shoot a fight sequence for the show. And wouldn’t you know it? The actor he was fighting with ran into him. It was a direct hit on the new portacath! Needless to say, it hurt like a son-of-a-gun.
—
ONE EVENING, one of the writers asked me how Patrick would feel about an episode being written where his character, Barker, dies. I’m glad he asked me what I thought and not Patrick. This was just about the worst idea I’d ever heard. And I couldn’t believe I was being asked. I knew he had to ask, that he had to be responsible to the show, and Patrick was indeed a sick man. On the outside, I’m sure I just looked calm and like I was considering it thoughtfully. And then, wanting to make sure I was being perfectly clear I said, “No . . . no . . . he wouldn’t like that at all.”
Part of me would have loved to have a normal life at that point, you know? As grateful as I was for the life we had, I’d be crazy if there weren’t times that I just wanted it all to go away. Depression would sneak in and grab me here and there, as witnessed in a private observation I had written down in October of that year (probably right around the time of the scans). The page was full of anger, self-criticism, and bitterness at how unfair life can be. Let’s just say that I talk about how “worthless” I am, how “fat,” how “I was wrong about life being fair,” that I’m a “wuss.” And now worst of all things, “I may be losing my husband. And I don’t know if I can do this. It’s beyond unbearable.”
I’m only giving snippets here. It’s just too hideous and unattractively self-pitying to reprint the whole thing.
But, what could I do about all these feelings?
I can’t change the choices I’ve made. And I couldn’t make my husband live if he was not meant to. But what I can do is change the way I think about it. I can decide that I will go on. That every day is a new day and I get to choose the person I want to be, make the choices that are before me, and show the love I wish to feel and give to the one I love.
And regardless—sometimes you get the bear, and sometimes the bear gets you. There is no way you can stop feeling. And nobody ever said it was going to be easy.
—
IT’S BEAUTIFUL in Chicago. I ride my bike, walk the dogs, buy food, do Patrick’s meds, watch on set, help with scenes, run interference, and watch fireworks. Not bad. And now the air is getting cool and crisp. The sting on my face feels invigorating, and when it rains, I navigate under my umbrella with my dog’s leashes and I laugh inside as I dodge the raindrops.
When we get to a weekend in October, I’m in the kitchen rustling up some food and I mention to Patrick that a director of an upcoming episode has dropped out and there are some people encouraging me to submit myself to direct it instead.
“And . . . ?” he queries. When I shrug, he says, “You should do it.”
I shake my head, “Eh, maybe next season.” That makes me a little sad. There may not be a next season and I don’t like to think about that.
“Why wait?”
“That’s not why I’m here. I’m here for you.” I smile at him.
He rolls his eyes. “I can take care of myself.”
Now, did I believe him? Not entirely. Not that he wasn’t intelligent or capable enough of taking care of himself (though sometimes he could make you wonder). But his treatment and medication schedule was complicated and
involved. Consistency is not Patrick’s strong suit. And then there were the food issues, the dog-walking issues . . . and the issue that things were hard enough on him as it was.
But the idea was now out in the light of day, and there was no turning back. Once Patrick established in his mind that I wouldn’t pass up a possible opportunity because of him, this was something that was not going to go away. Now his pride was involved in the issue.
And, yes, I still didn’t believe him. What—he was going to jump up and start doing all the things I had been doing for him the last eight months? Uhm, naw . . . But I was going to come up with an idea about how I could be covered for the couple of weeks I might be working. But as it was, it was way too early to get excited. I didn’t have the job yet. And getting it was going to prove to be one of the biggest hurdles.
On the set of The Beast. (Photo by Roy H. Wagner, ASC)
Chapter 11
IF YOU CALL ME CAPTAIN, I’LL CALL YOU DADDY
YOU NEED MORE time to prepare,” “We’re only using A-List TV directors,” “It’s really hard to break into episodic television,” “This is a really tough schedule,” “It’s particularly hard for women to break into episodic television,” “It’s complicated,” “The studio and/or network is not keen on the idea,” “It’s just too hard to work it out this season.” These are some of the things I heard when I first broached the concept of my directing an episode. And then there was . . .
“Next season?” I was talking to the line producer on the phone. I took a breath, “Look . . . I’ve been around this business long enough to know that that’s just another way of saying, ‘no.’” He laughed. It was true. But in all these excuses, I didn’t hear one that convinced me that I couldn’t or shouldn’t direct the episode that was now available. I had directed a feature film that I also wrote and produced, had put together several other short pieces for which I shot, edited, engineered sound, and output the final polished version on my own. I had been on film sets for over twenty years and was not without experience or talent. True, most of my experience had been in and around feature films. But in the last four months I had gotten to sit behind every talented A-list director that came on The Beast. It was a wonderful experience to get to see them work and how different they were—how they handled scenes, interacted with the crew, the actors, the writers and producers, their perception of the material . . . I felt lucky that I got such a heavy, concentrated dose. It was valuable seeing all of them work on what was essentially the same material. A wonderful opportunity for anyone. I had also started directing some B-roll (additional shots and unscripted scenes) and second-unit shots on the show, and shot a scene with Patrick with minimum crew to help out when the schedule was tight. I also had the advantage of really knowing the characters inside and out, in addition to the actors playing them, the crew, the writers, and producers, and the show’s consultant.
So, what was the problem?
But they, whoever they were, weren’t budging.
Now, probably anyone who wanted to be nice and not rock the boat would have backed off. But I had gotten braver than I used to be in my early twenties when I was so quiet I had trouble saying “hi” to the grocery store cashier. And to tell the truth . . . there’s something about facing cancer that makes you not scare off as easily. Facing a deadly illness can make you unafraid about many things. Why? Because most things are so incredibly insignificant in comparison. I was facing Death. Do you think a TV executive was going to scare me off? So, did it really matter that they had considerations about my ability to deliver the work? My unafraid answer: No. And what was I going to do about it: Not go away.
I was going to pull out my Sisu for another purpose here . . . I had experiences with being told “no” before. Hollywood loves to say “no.” I definitely had faced that when I did my movie a few years back. But I hung in there and simply wore everyone out until they couldn’t say “no” anymore and it was easier for them to say “yes!”
And with The Beast, I wasn’t alone. I had so much support from everyone, most notably Roy Wagner, the director of photography. Roy had clued me in on the open spot in the first place. “That’s BS,” he shook his head and muttered when he heard they were balking. “There’s no doubt you can do this! And listen . . . Patrick is a star. He can insist.” He went on to tell me how his first directing job was on CSI, and he got the job because one of the stars insisted that they hire him. A star with far less “pull” than Patrick.
Patrick and I never liked to use the “star card,” which is probably why his being one never seemed to help me. I always wanted to be hired on my own merit (a crazy and pure thought!). But Patrick called in to say that he’d really love it if I directed an episode. And still . . . nothing moved. Why would it be so easy for others to insist but not for him? Maybe there were some gender issues involved. Or, maybe because I was his wife? I don’t know. But I had no reason to doubt what Roy said, and Patrick and I decided we would play that card. If it came to that. We hung in there, knowing that the only way you get what you want is to not give up. We had had plenty of opportunities to learn that lesson. It had certainly been the case throughout Patrick’s acting career.
—
PATRICK SEEMED to have to work hard to get the films that he really wanted. And when he got them, he worked hard on making them the best possible.
On Dirty Dancing, he was up every night working with the writer and director improving the script. Patrick worked tirelessly. And then, after hours and on weekends, he’d take his “time off” to learn choreography and hone his routines despite swelling in a bad left knee that sent him to the hospital to get it drained. A year later, he was at the Golden Globes with a nomination.
On Ghost, Jerry Zucker, the director, stood up after viewing Roadhouse and said, “Over my dead body will Patrick Swayze do this movie.” On that note, Patrick still went in to audition and read practically the whole script for him. People in the room were in tears, and he got the job. And another Golden Globe nomination.
On City of Joy, one of his favorite movies of all time, once again he was an unlikely candidate. But he managed to get an interview with the director, Roland Joffe, and he told him with sincerity, “If you give me this job, I will give you my heart.” Roland went to his producer and financiers and said, “We have to have him.”
On the audition for To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar, Patrick went in and had full makeup and dress drag put on. And after he was dressed up like a woman, he had the balls to insist that he improvise a scene as Vida Boheme rather than read the appointed scene. Director Beeban Kidron and the casting director took the tape of his audition in to Steven Spielberg and the other producers. They didn’t even tell them who Patrick was when they showed them the audition. When the producers were bowled over, Beeban and the casting director revealed who it was, and they were further bowled over. And so was everyone else when they saw the performance that garnered him a third Golden Globe nomination.
We always thought it was odd that the really good projects had to be fought for, and the ones that weren’t of such good quality or potential always offered a lot of money. It’s like, wait a minute, isn’t there something wrong with that picture? Wouldn’t it be nice if you could do the really good projects and they paid the really good money? We could never figure it out. Not that we were complaining. Patrick was one of few actors who could make a more-than-good living in his chosen profession. Also, yes, he could have chosen to do the movies that paid a lot, but that wasn’t the kind of choice either of us was making in our lives. There were things more important than having a ton of money in the bank. We were doing the work we wanted to do. Hah! And if things went south, we had lots of skills to fall back on! We could go back to doing carpentry if we wanted. We could dance, round up cattle, train horses! Fly airplanes! You name it!
—
YOU KNOW . . . back in October of 2007, four months before Patrick was diagnosed with cancer, we went to flight training at
Simuflite in Dallas, Texas. It was a requirement every year, and was valuable in keeping our skills sharp. This was the first time we were going to specifically learn our Beechcraft King Air 200. We were going to learn it inside and out during a demanding six-day course in which the first four days are spent in a classroom, and the next two in a full-motion simulator. Patrick and I took all our training very seriously and prided ourselves on our commitment. Patrick loved to say that we “fly as a cockpit team,” and that we “operate up to professional standards.” But we were going to be presented with a whole new concept in regard to Cockpit Resource Management.
We got to the full-motion simulator and spent time alternating as pilot and copilot, doing engine failures on takeoff, stalls, emergency procedures on approach, you name it. I was in the pilot’s seat, executing one such emergency, and Patrick was talking a million miles an hour. I waved my hand for him to just calm down and wait a minute while I finished what I was doing. Suddenly, he grabbed the yoke from me. “If you won’t listen, I’ll fly it.” Needless to say, I was not pleased. But I didn’t want to argue in front of the instructor. The instructor of course saw exactly what happened, and in his slow, Texas drawl, told Patrick that grabbing the yoke probably wasn’t the best thing to do at that moment. I was doing fine and had the plane under control. A few moments later, he introduced an idea . . .
“I found that this can really work in the cockpit. Whoever is in the copilot’s seat should call the pilot in the left seat ‘Captain.’ It’s just a reminder of who’s flying the airplane and whose decision it is to respect.”
“Hmmm . . .” Patrick and I were considering this.
I was thinking about how hard it might be to remember and how you’d really have to want to remember to do that. And I saw that Patrick was having a little trouble with the whole concept himself. The look on his face said that he wasn’t buying the idea at all. But for me, what the heck, I try anything if it’ll make us better pilots.
Worth Fighting For: Love, Loss, and Moving Forward Page 12
