Now I’m feeling an icy fear in my chest. “Do you think the PET scan will be okay?” I asked.
“Yes, I think so. Now don’t worry,” she admonished as she left the room. But she could see the look of anxiety on my face. “It’s normal to feel this way,” she said. “You’re still in shock. First, going through all this with Farrah, and then finding out about your own brush with cancer.”
I hadn’t been able to cry in weeks, and suddenly I started weeping. She said it was good for me not to hold it in.
“And Sean,” I sobbed through my tears. “He doesn’t feel well. He says he feels weak all the time. He said the only time he feels good is when he’s here.”
“Alana,” she said, “it’s his brain. And he must not do drugs or alcohol.”
“Even when he’s sober, he still has problems focusing and says that his body feels weak.” I was sobbing so hard I could barely get my words out. “Can he get better?”
“Yes,” she said. “The stem cells repair his brain, but when he drinks or does drugs, it destroys them.”
I tell her I’m worried about Ashley, too, all the years he used drugs.
“Alana, your children are grown. You have to think about yourself now.”
“But I love them so much. I don’t want anything to happen to them,” I managed to get out through the tears.
“Your children will be okay. You must not worry so much,” she said gently, patting my hand.
Easy to say. I tell her I’m worried about my kids, I’m worried about myself, and I’m worried about Farrah. Life just feels hopeless.
“It’s not hopeless at all, Alana. And there is hope for Farrah, too. We are doing all these new treatments, and I really do think this new trial chemo program with Dr. Forman in Los Angeles can help her.” Then she left, saying she would give me a natural medicine that would help calm the circus of emotions inside me.
I cried a little more and felt much better. I’ve probably needed a good cry for a long time now. I can even take a deep breath now, which I haven’t been able to do in months.
Later
Mimmo called around five and I said I would come over for dinner at seven thirty. I was running late and didn’t get there until eight thirty. He was working feverishly in the kitchen. The restaurant was packed, but he’d saved the first banquette, where I always sit, for me.
As I sat alone in his beautiful, romantic, candle-lit restaurant, I started to feel deeply sad. I’d come back to Germany thinking it was going to be like the last two times with Mimmo, but this trip has been different. Before, our relationship was romantic and sexy and lighthearted. Now, it’s…I don’t know exactly. Sad, I guess. Just sad.
He joined me and ate his dinner. He showed me his new cell phone and told me about the new five-hundred-Euro bicycle he’d bought today. I wonder if he spoke English or if my Italian was more fluent, would the conversation be so superficial? Sadly, I fear it would.
As the conversation progressed, we began to talk about Sean, and Mimmo was saying how much Sean loves me. I said it was a pity Mimmo and his mother weren’t close. He’s told me before how they always clashed and that his nonna (grandmother) was more like a mother to him.
“Psychologists,” I said to him, “say that men who don’t have good relationships with their mothers have problems in relationships with women.”
“I don’t have problems. I have had a lot of relationships,” he said.
“That’s my point,” I countered. “Lots, maybe, but none lasting.”
“Women are too difficult,” he said. “They always want to know where you are, what you’re doing, who you’ve talked to.”
I told him, jokingly but meaning it, that that was because he’s selfish. Egoista in Italian. He always does what he wants, when he wants.
“When you’re at my house in L.A., I ask you every day what you want to do,” I said. “I don’t just go off and do things alone.”
He said, “But I always do everything you ask me to do when you’re here. When have I ever said no to anything?”
“But I never ask you to do anything!” I countered.
“But I would, though.”
“Okay,” I said, knowing full well he was looking forward to a sunny Sunday so he could go ride his new bike in the mountains all day. “Farrah and I would love to go to the lake on Sunday.” I smiled sweetly.
“Well, I will, if you really want to,” he said, trying to mean it, but looking like he was being asked to sacrifice his right arm.
“You’d die!” I said, laughing.
“Well,” he said sheepishly, “what about Saturday afternoon?”
I just laughed again. I’d made my point.
I was going to walk back to the clinic, but he insisted on driving me. He’d even prepared food for me to take to Farrah. Outside, walking to the car, he stopped me and asked, “Potete darmi un bacio?” (Can you give me a kiss?) Then, “You don’t kiss me anymore.”
When I got out of the car at the clinic, I kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for dinner and for Farrah’s food. Heading back into the clinic, I found that feeling of sadness creeping back in. I stopped by Farrah’s room, and we talked while she ate. I told her what had happened and she listened thoughtfully.
“I’m not sure he’s mentally stimulating enough for me,” I said. “Maybe it’s the language barrier, but even so, how much time can you spend talking about cell phones and bicycles?”
Just talking it over with Farrah was helpful, but I think both of us are beginning to think this relationship has possibly run its course.
June 18, 2008
We were supposed to be coming home to L.A. today. Now it looks like we’ll be here at least another week, if not more. Dr. Jacob just told me that Farrah has been really sick all night. She started throwing up at 4 A.M. and it continued on for hours. She’s finally sleeping now.
I remember Dr. Jacob saying to me the other day that there was always the possibility of an unexpected setback if some kind of complication or infection occurred. That’s always in the back of my mind now.
Later
Cancer is the great leveler of humanity. It doesn’t care if you’re a superstar or a housemaid. Everyone suffers the same indignities, although it must be a great plus if one has the money to afford the best doctors and the best care.
I’ve seen it now, up close and personal, and it’s not pretty…not easy. Farrah has been so ill today; she’s terribly weak and in pain. Everything seemed to be going well yesterday. She was her feisty self—doing business on the phone, giving the people here at the clinic hell (but with good reason). We were up late, talking and laughing, just like the old days. Then she got so ill in the night. I wish she’d called me. The nurses were with her, but still, she shouldn’t have gone through it alone.
We won’t leave for Frankfurt tomorrow, that’s for sure. Friday is Dr. Vogl’s last day before he leaves for his vacation, and Dr. Jacob and he feel it’s essential she have the liver perfusion. I don’t see how she can handle much more. This has been too much for one body to take.
The Three Musketeers.
Tina Sinatra and I have been best of friends since I first moved to L.A. In the beginning of our relationship, when my mother died, she showed up at the funeral to support me, and we’ve been best friends ever since. I introduced her to Farrah, though I can’t remember exactly when. All I know is that we just clicked from the beginning. We were all so different, but we brought out the best in one another since day one.
We had this tradition—every time we were together, we had to take a photo. Tina always says she’s hidden behind our big Texas blond hair, which Farrah and I took great pleasure in doing intentionally! This shot was taken at Christmas in 1991. We shared a lot of fun times together: birthdays, holidays, parties, and just intimate dinners at one of our houses. Tina has the biggest heart in the world. She is the kind of gal you love having as a friend…but would hate to have as an enemy.
ONE DAY AT A TIME
Farrah definitely can’t travel today. She’s still too weak. This morning, for the first time, I felt her determination starting to slip.
“I was thinking earlier that I wasn’t going to make it this time,” she confessed to me. “I have just never suffered as much as these last two days.”
I did my best cheerleading. “Of course you’re going to make it. We just have to take it a day at a time.”
Truthfully, I’m worried about the trip to Frankfurt for the liver perfusion. To travel five or six hours in a car in her weakened state and go through another surgical procedure is asking a lot. She’s so weak she’s having trouble just walking to the bathroom. I know Dr. Vogl and Dr. Jacob both feel she must have this second perfusion to continue to shrink the tumors in her liver. Dr. Jacob is more worried about the liver than anything else and feels it’s essential for Farrah to have it. I suggested we take a nurse with us, and Dr. Vogl seconded the idea. We’ll have to see how she is tonight.
I can’t believe Dr. Jacob left for a conference and isn’t here all day. She is so busy, and as a result I have to make important decisions for Farrah without any medical advisement. And we’re here in a country where we don’t speak the language. This is crazy. I feel like I’m in over my head—a child trying to do something she’s not equipped to do. This is all new to me. I sometimes feel like there’s no one to drive this stagecoach and it’s getting out of control. But having said all that, I know I’m strong and I have to help her through this. No one could go through this alone. You have to have someone there all the time, fighting for you.
June 20, 2008
We’re on our way to Frankfurt after all. Dr. Jacob finally came in this morning and spoke to Dr. Vogl again. The only choice now is to go today or wait for almost three weeks. Dr. Jacob also talked to Dr. Forman at City of Hope in Los Angeles last night, after we coordinated the phone call and insisted they speak. He’s going to try to get Farrah into a trial of a new cancer treatment that both he and Dr. Jacob think could be very beneficial for her. She couldn’t start right away, however, so he was also in favor of her going to Dr. Vogl if she can make it.
Farrah decided to go for it. She’s so weak and in so much pain, she can hardly walk. At my insistence, they finally found a nurse to come with us. I told Dr. Jacob that, with Farrah in this condition, they couldn’t just send us on a five-hour trip on the autobahn, not speaking a word of German. Like a medevac Thelma and Louise!
At the moment, we’re a couple of hours away from Frankfurt, and Farrah is sleeping. I’ve had to delay my PET scan until Tuesday. I’m a little nervous about it. God forbid they find anything. I need to get my thinking straight. I want to live, I really do, although I don’t think I could go through what I’ve seen Farrah go through this past year and a half.
Later
Thelma and Louise are back on the road again—the long drive back to the clinic. Fortunately, it was all a success. Dr. Vogl said the tumors had shrunk 30 percent from last time, which he was very pleased about. Thank God we came, and thank God for Dr. Vogl.
I’m so exhausted that I can’t wait to get into bed. Unfortunately, I won’t be getting into my own bed. I slept in Farrah’s room last night because I’ve got this horrible, musty odor in my room. I’m convinced it’s mold and it’s slowly killing me. The housekeeper thinks I’m crazy. I’ve had every piece of upholstered furniture taken out of the room. She couldn’t smell the odor, although Farrah smelled it immediately, and so did the night nurse. Finally, I dragged Dr. Jacob in this morning and she smelled it, too. I kept thinking maybe I was crazy or neurotic, and didn’t want to be any more of a pain in the ass than I’ve already been, but after sleeping in Farrah’s room last night, I felt much better.
Dr. Jacob said that the room next to me will be free on Sunday. I’ll sleep in Farrah’s room until then. It feels a little like a slumber party. Farrah said, “I like you sleeping in my room. You should just move in.”
“I’d love to,” I said, “but I don’t think we could fit all our clothes.”
June 21, 2008
Good news! Dr. Jacob came into Farrah’s room this morning very excited. She spoke to Dr. Vogl late last night. He’d just reviewed the scans and said that Farrah’s tumors had shrunk more than he’d originally thought. More than 50 percent, which he said was “amazing, better than anyone had ever reacted from one perfusion.” Dr. Jacob said the new treatment regimen has helped turn things around, and that the vaccines she’s now giving Farrah are changing the genetic makeup of the tumors and helping to destroy them. She feels much more positive about Farrah’s progress and is quite hopeful now. She was so happy that she had tears in her eyes. It’s great to have some good news after these very difficult four weeks.
We’re leaving on Friday, but I’m worried that when Farrah gets back to Los Angeles she will try to jump right into editing the documentary for NBC. I don’t want her to put too much pressure and stress on herself at a time when she desperately needs to focus on healing. But when her mind is made up about something, it’s tough if not impossible to stop her, so I’ll probably have to let it go.
This is where I have to detach from people I care about. I can’t make myself feel responsible for their decisions about their health or anything else. I have to be there as much as I can, be an advocate when it’s needed, and be a supportive friend, but I can’t control the decisions they make or the resulting outcome. It’s the same with my kids. I watch them make decisions that I know are going to have negative results, and eventually when that happens, they come to me, and it causes me pain to see them suffer. In the end, though, they are making their own choices.
June 22, 2008
I’m sitting on the terrace outside Farrah’s room, waiting to move into my new room. The musty odor in my room has gotten so bad now that all the doctors can smell it and they agree there is definitely something there. I’m in a state of paranoia about it. Farrah and I have dubbed it “the mold suite.”
Farrah is sleeping now. She was in such horrible pain that Dr. Jacob came in and gave her a pain IV. All she could do was just lie there and sob. God, it breaks my heart to see her in such pain. There’s nothing I can do but be there—and that makes me feel helpless. I can only try and comfort her and assure her that it will be better soon. Just hang in…
Farrah and I went to Mimmo’s last night for dinner. I was afraid it would be too much for her, but she really wanted to go. Speaking of Mimmo, I was so pissed at him I barely spoke to him. He had called earlier and said there was a big soccer match on Sunday night, so he wouldn’t be able to take Farrah and me to dinner. It reminded me of Rod when we were married. Mimmo goes bicycling all day on Sunday whether I’m here or not, and when Rod and I were married, he played soccer all day every Sunday and then went to the pub with the boys afterward for hours. He’d always come home late for Sunday dinner, which by that time would be stone cold, but not as cold as me. It wouldn’t have been such a big deal except that Sunday was the only day he had to spend with me and the kids because he was in the studio all week.
It became a big issue in our marriage. Now, I look back and think, “Why did I let it bother me so much? Why didn’t I just let him do what made him happy and not take it so personally?” I always end up with men who are completely self-centered and then try to change them, and when I can’t, I get angry at them. I end up feeling, in some way, that they don’t care enough about me and are not making me a priority in their life. Since this has happened with every man in my life, I think I’d better look at myself and my part in it. Funny how history—or at least my history—repeats itself.
I really have to remember that things always work out for the best if you just let go and don’t try to control them or take them personally. God, do I need another thirty years in therapy to figure it all out? By then I’ll be ninety and too old to care.
June 23, 2008
Farrah was so sick last night, I was afraid she would go into one of those
all-night marathons of vomiting. I’m not sure what the record is now. Ryan swears it was the night he went with her to Frankfurt for Dr. Vogl’s perfusion, and she threw up for six hours in the van all the way back to the clinic. I still think the record is that seventy-five times in twelve hours, again in Frankfurt.
There was only one nurse here last night. She doesn’t speak English very well and Dr. Jacob was away in Frankfurt. Farrah finally went to sleep, thank God. I slept in her room in case she got sick again.
Today was a brighter day. Now if we can just get our room situation sorted out. I’m starting to smell that musty odor in my new room, which is next to “the mold suite,” and in Farrah’s room as well. They may think I’m crazy, but I know mold when I smell it. Farrah said last night, in the midst of her pain, “We’ve got to get out of here. They’re trying to kill us.” Well, it is starting to feel that way!
And on top of everything else, I have to go to Stuttgart tomorrow for my PET scan. The doctor reads the results to me right afterward. What if they find something and I’m there alone? I know I have to think positively, but there’s been so much shocking, unexpected news on this trip that I’m a little gun-shy.
June 24, 2008
I’m on my way to Stuttgart for the PET scan. I can’t believe that June is almost over. I barely remember it. The surgeries, the doctors, the hospitals and clinics have all blended together into one dreary, wet, German blur. We’ve been hoping to get out and do some filming by the lake or in the mountains. There are so many beautiful places around here in Bavaria, but we haven’t been able to make it. We thought for sure we’d be going home this week, but Farrah doesn’t seem to be getting better fast enough.
Farrah would have come with me for the scan, but she’s just too sick. She had a terrible night. At midnight, just as I was going to sleep, the nurse called me to say that Farrah had started throwing up again and was in terrible pain. They gave her all the right things, but nothing was working. I’d taken an Ativan and could barely keep my eyes open, but I stayed in her room with her. I ended up sleeping there. Every time I’d drift off to sleep, I’d wake up a few minutes later when she would start throwing up again. Finally, the doctor gave her a shot that put her to sleep and I was able to get a few hours of sleep myself.
My Journey with Farrah Page 11
