I murmur, “Knowledge is power, right?”
“Exactly,” Dr. Mehldau says.
I feel my breathing slow down. My hands have stopped trembling and my body temperature has returned to normal. I no longer feel as if I’m trapped inside an ice chest. A sense of calm washes over me. I know what I have to do. Dr. Mehldau has not only relaxed me, he has given me a game plan.
Since my cancer is aggressive, I have to be aggressive, too. In order to fight, I have to know what I’m fighting. I have never been a passive person and I’m not going to start now. I refuse to lay back and let the cancer take over. I’m going after it. That will be my new purpose.
Talk about life throwing you a curve ball. Yesterday I fantasized that in six months I’d be known as Robert Schimmel, sitcom star. Today I’m fantasizing that in six months I’ll be alive. Amazing how fantasies change. Wasn’t long ago that my fantasies involved me and two women in cheerleader outfits.
“Robert?” Dr. Mehldau says.
“Huh?”
“You there?”
“Yeah. I was just thinking about what you were saying. I’m taking it in. The news today? Blindsided me a little bit.”
“I know. Look, I can give you a Valium tonight, but tomorrow morning when you wake up, you’re still gonna have cancer and you won’t have any Valium. And instead of dealing with your disease, you’re avoiding it. You have cancer, Robert. You have to embrace it. That’s how you deal with it. Sounds weird, but it’s true.”
I don’t say anything. I hold the phone close, cradle the receiver.
“You okay, Robert?”
“Yeah. Considering.”
“I know. Listen, I’m here. You can call me anytime. I mean that.”
“Thank you. Hey, Dr. Mehldau?”
“Yes?”
“Will you be my corner man?”
I can feel his smile through the phone.
TUESDAY
9:35 a.m. Leaving Arizona, heading to L.A. aboard Southwest Airlines. The desert below is the color of rust. My mission in L.A. consists of two brutal tasks.
One: inform my manager that I have cancer and that I have to walk away from my own television show, the career opportunity of a lifetime. No problem. Only waited twentyfive years for this. My manager has stuck with me through the worst bullshit you can imagine. Guy’s a saint. This news should send him screaming right into the street.
Two: tell Melissa that I’m breaking up with her and that I’m never going to see her again.
The only good thing about Number Two is that it makes Number One seem like a piece of cake.
The flight from Phoenix to L.A. takes a little more than an hour, but it feels like a day and a half. The landing is rocky. I barely notice. Funny how things that used to make me crazy suddenly don’t even make a dent. Like turbulence on a plane. So the plane bounces a little because one of the flight attendants is blowing the pilot. Who cares? I stayed up until three in the morning poring over information about non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma on the Web. Tons of stuff to learn. Of course, I was fascinated by those who didn’t make it.
Jackie Kennedy Onassis, for one, died from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Doesn’t matter how rich or famous you are, cancer is an equal opportunity shit sandwich.
First stop, my manager Lee’s office. The receptionist smiles, asks, “How’s it going, Robert?” I resist the urge to launch into the events of the past twenty-four hours. Nothing gained by making other people uncomfortable, so I mutter, “Fine, great,” and try to smile. Thankfully, Lee appears right away and steers me down the hall into his office. He closes the door. I’ve already given him the headlines on the phone. I fill him in on the details. He listens quietly, making a tent with his fin-gers. We’ve been through a lot of crap together, but this latest pile towers over everything else.
“Obviously, I can’t do the show, Lee. I know how hard you’ve worked for this. I’m really sorry.”
He blinks with a mixture of surprise and sadness. “Robert, the show doesn’t matter. This is about your health. It’s about getting well. I don’t care about the show.”
I know this is show business, the loneliest and most vicious business in the world, but Lee’s reaction touches me. He is a genuinely kind and supportive person. A mensch.
“What happens now?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “A holding pattern. The network will have to put on something else. I mean, the show is called Schimmel. It’s all about you. They can’t retool it.”
“What if they try to replace me with somebody else?”
“Like who? There’s nobody else like you.”
“I don’t know. You know how they think. They’ll go with Erik Estrada.”
Lee smiles, shakes his head, then blows out a sigh that could pass as a moan. “What a difference a day makes. Yesterday, June 4th, you had the world by the balls. HBO special, CD deal, sitcom on the air. The hat trick. Twenty-fours later, June 5th, the bomb drops. Boom.”
“Yeah. The Schimmel Touch,” I say. “The Midas Touch in reverse. Everything I touch turns to shit.”
Lee stands up, shakes his head, not disagreeing. He allows a small, ironic smile.
“I’m sorry, Lee,” I say again. “I know this is a kick in the nuts.”
“Robert, your job now is to get better, period,” Lee says.
“We’ll have other chances. You’re a fighter. It’s gonna be all right.”
We hug. A long, silent embrace. More than manager and client who are fond of each other. More than two close friends who’ve shared the same foxhole and fought the show business wars shoulder to shoulder. More like two brothers.
And then, as we cling to each other, Lee murmurs in a soft, low voice, “Just take care of yourself, Robert.”
Now for the hard part.
Breaking up with Melissa.
I’ve figured out what I’m going to say. Practiced it. Got it down.
I’m gonna tell her I’m gay.
Ah, she’ll never buy it. Plus I think she’ll want to try to cure me. I need to slow down. Think this through. And with my life currently whizzing by me at the speed of light, I desperately need to keep everything from careening out of control and crashing. But for some reason this conversation is one I can’t plan. Every time I try to write my “goodbye, Melissa” speech in my mind, my brain locks. Refuses to allow the words to form. Won’t let me go there.
I believe in signs. Symbols. Should’ve seen the signs at all three of my weddings with Vicki. The signs weren’t exactly subtle. I’m talking about huge neon yellow caution signs flashing right in my eyes, blinding me. Somehow I didn’t notice them.
Wedding number one. A justice of the peace presides, a nervous woman in a powder blue suit. She speed-reads our vows through thick half-glasses, her face tight, her lips barely moving. She finishes, breaking some kind of land speed record for completing the marriage vows.
“Congratulations,” she says, packing up her purse. “You can kiss each other, whatever.”
“Would you mind signing the marriage license?” I ask her.
“Can’t,” she says. “I’m late. I was supposed to be in the courtroom down the hall. I’m getting a divorce. I hope you guys have better luck than I did.”
I’d call that a sign. Missed it. A few months later we had that one annulled.
Wedding number two. Las Vegas. We go for kitsch. We hit a wedding chapel and are hitched by an Elvis impersonator. Lot of “Love Me Tender” references flying around, but I should’ve known that this was a sign that we’d be impersonating a marriage. Couple years later, “Heartbreak Hotel.” Divorce.
Wedding number three is the biggie. A sign here about as obvious as the burning bush, only, again, I don’t see it.
This time we’re married by a rabbi. The ceremony is trucking along smoothly, no glitches. Everything’s cool until the rabbi, a world-class shrugger, tells me to break the glass, which is the final leg of the wedding ceremony, right before we kiss to seal the deal. I stomp on the hidden sho
t glass, a tiny mound swathed in a cloth napkin. Only the glass won’t break. I slam my foot down a second time. The glass feels like a lump of concrete under the heel of my leather shoe. Now I lift my knee as high as I can to crush the thing a third time as if I’m making wine. Nothing. By now, the wedding guests are laughing.
“What happens if I can’t break the glass?” I ask the rabbi.
He shrugs in concern. “You must break the glass. According to tradition, smashing the glass symbolizes destroying any bad luck that’s surrounding your marriage. You want to get rid of the Evil Eyes, don’t you?”
I whisper, “You say Evil Eyes. I call them my in-laws.” Big-time rabbinical shrug, stifling a laugh this time. After a jab in my side from Vicki’s elbow, I say loud enough to get a laugh, “Rabbi, you wouldn’t happen to have some dynamite, would you?”
I manage to crunch the glass on my fourth try. Everybody applauds, mostly from relief.
Cut to today: my marriage wrecked, my body wracked with cancer. Should’ve realized that not being able to break that glass was a giant biblical sign.
It’s early Tuesday afternoon by the time I get to my apartment. I’m feeling drained and dizzy. I wander through my apartment, a zombie, tossing the few remnants of my life in L.A. into my suitcase: some books and CDs, a couple of shirts, sweatpants, and framed photographs of my kids. One picture is of Derek and me. He’s sitting in my lap. I’m smiling and he’s laughing, no doubt at something silly I’ve said. He was always my best audience. I really believe his sense of humor helped him through his cancer treatments. It’s stunning when I think about it. Derek was happy most of the time. Even through the worst of it, the most debilitating and painful procedures, he managed to keep upbeat. I learned so much from him. So much. I caress his face in the photograph.
And then I dial the phone.
Melissa picks up on the second ring. I barely wait for her to answer. I speak breathlessly. I let out my words as gently as I can, but I know what I’m saying is striking her, hitting her like a bomb. For me, it’s yet another explosion in twenty-four hours of nonstop explosions. I hear myself acting, trying to make her believe such half-truths as “I’m too old for you,” “I’m not being fair to you,” “I want to try again with Vicki for the sake of the kids,” and the most bullshitty of all bullshit reasons, “I need space.”
After I spew out my long goodbye, Melissa says nothing for what seems like an hour. Then she says, “This doesn’t even sound like you, Robert. I’m coming over.”
Before I can argue or stop her, she clicks off. I stand stranded in my bare-bones living room, a stranger in my own skin, feeling beyond horrible, feeling suddenly sick, spent, exhausted. Within seconds it seems, my intercom buzzer echoes through the empty apartment.
“Robert, let me in.”
“Melissa, please understand,” I say through the intercom.
“I have to end it. I have to.”
“Why? I don’t get it. You’re not telling me everything.”
“No, I am. I really am. I have to move on with my life and you have to, too. Let’s just leave it at that. Please.”
Everything I say sounds so hollow, so full of crap. No way Melissa’s buying any of it. I feel like such a heel.
“What did I do?” She’s desperately trying to figure this out, trying to make some sense of it. “Did I do something to you?”
“No, no, you didn’t do anything.”
“Robert—”
She’s crying now, sobbing. I can’t leave her like that in the lobby. I buzz her up. Time now shimmers and all I know is that she’s upstairs with me and I’m holding her, smelling her hair, and her tears are streaming down her cheeks onto my shirt. I can barely find my voice, but inside I’m silently screaming, It’s not about you. It’s not about us. I have cancer. I need to be in Arizona with my kids, my parents, and, yes, Vicki. I need to fight it there and you can’t be part of that fight. It’s too much for you.
And I suppose if I were being truly honest, I would have to add, It’s also too much for me.
And then there is silence as the two of us look at each other, look right into each other’s souls. Then we turn away. This, too, this end, is a kind of death.
“What am I supposed to do?” Melissa says. “Just walk out of here and forget about you?”
“You have to,” I say and mean it, but then add in a canned, tinny voice: “You deserve somebody better. A younger guy.”
She glares at me, her eyes tiny blue dots of rage. “You are so full of shit.”
I can’t say anything because she’s right. I am full of shit. I’m also full of heartbreak, loss, guilt, regret, pain, and terror. Plain, simple, unadulterated fear. With a capital F. Not the fear of dying, believe it or not, at least not at this moment. The fear that I have made the biggest mistake of my life. And the realization that I can do nothing about it.
“I’m gonna go.” Melissa stands straight as a sergeant and then her face creases. She suddenly looks very small and very sad. “Can I at least call you?”
“It’d be better if you didn’t.”
She nods, her eyes welling up. And then time slows. There is a quick clumsy hug, the door opening but not closing, and the sound of her footsteps clattering down the stairs. I teeter, feeling dizzy again, certain that I will fall. I reach behind me and lean against my rented living room couch for balance. I sit down slowly and exhale massively. I feel a sudden sharp jab in my chest as if I’ve been knifed, then I gasp for air, caused by the newly formed hole in my heart.
SESSION TWO
���FINDING YOUR PURPOSE”
TUESDAY EVENING
Back in the air.
L.A. to Phoenix.
Winging to my first chemotherapy support group meeting tonight at seven. This should be a hoot.
Okay, just for fun, let’s run through my recent little life change one more time.
In twenty-four hours I’ve gone from a sitcom star on Fox to a cancer patient in Phoenix. I’ve switched from trying to begin a life with Melissa to trying to save my life at Mayo.
Talk about whiplash. My head’s spinning like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist.
And I’m feeling—
That’s really it, isn’t it? That’s what being alive is.
Feeling.
Right now I’m feeling numb. In a trance. My head throbbing. As if someone’s swatted me across the skull with a tire iron.
But even in this zoned-out zombie state, even as I literally deal with death, I know that my attitude about life has changed.
I feel liberated in a way. But mainly I feel that I have to keep going. I’m going to beat this. I have to. I want to spend time with my kids. I want them to know me. And not just for the next six months. For years to come. I want to watch Jacob and Aliyah grow up and I want them to watch me grow old.
And I’m going to beat this because I want to reconnect with Melissa. Somehow, some way. Maybe we’re meant to be. Maybe we’re Fated. My head is foggy, but that’s not why I think that. At heart, I’m actually a goofy romantic. I cry at Cialis commercials. Especially when the guy thinks he’s about to get laid and his grandkids show up. What a bummer. But thank God he’s using the dick picker upper that lasts for thirty-six hours. Because if he’s using the four-hour one, it’s a whole other story. He’s got to get those kids out right away or explain why Grandpa’s got a baseball bat in his pants.
Thinking about my life now, it boils down to this:
I have to make a comeback. A comeback from cancer.
So where do I start?
Might as well start tonight at the chemotherapy support group.
I don’t know what to expect. Don’t really expect anything. I just know that the people there are my kind of people—cancer patients—and in my newfound determination to learn everything and anything I can about my disease, I want to go in open-minded.
I am going to face my cancer head-on.
A nondescript room in the back corner of Mayo. People strag
gle in slowly, heavily, find spots on folding chairs. Nobody bounds in like they’ve come to hear exercise tips or investment advice. It’s a different kind of vibe, an odd combo of hope and despair. A lot of nervous coughing and laughing. I scan the room, trying to get my bearings. I do a head count, which isn’t easy because almost everyone is bald. I keep counting the same heads over again. I finally come up with eight, including me. I expect a group leader, but there isn’t one. We introduce ourselves and call out our respective cancers. One guy, testicular, tells us that he was diagnosed five years ago and now he’s skiing and snow-boarding and skydiving. I choke up when he speaks. I vow that that’s going to be me. Minus the skiing and snow-boarding and skydiving.
Then another guy says in a flat dead voice that he too has non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. He was out three years, everything was cool, and then—
He turns his head and shows us a massive jagged scar, right out of Planet of the Apes.
“Yeah,” he says. “It came back.”
Oh, God, I think. That’s gonna be me.
I want to get out of here. This was a bad idea. What was I thinking? The panic is starting to stir in my gut—
Somehow I fight it. I beat it down. I can’t go there. I can’t do the what ifs and the I’m not gonna make its. I can’t.
The woman next to me whimpers and starts to cry. The Planet of the Apes guy has sucked the life out of the room. He’s like a Hoover. I have to change the energy in here. I have to turn it around. I have to do the only thing I know how to do.
Make them laugh. Even once.
“I have non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, too,” I say tentatively.
“But that’s a walk in the park compared to going through a divorce. I can beat cancer.” A group giggle. “Cancer goes into remission. Divorce lawyers never stop.”
Big laugh. The mood shifts, lightens. We open up. We talk about getting the news, how shocked we felt, how helpless, how we refused to believe it, and then how we gradually accepted the truth because we had no other choice. Cancer is part of us now. We talk about the earliest tests we’ve gone through. I tell them about my first CAT scan.
Cancer on Five Dollars a Day* *(chemo not included): How Humor Got Me through the Toughest Journey of My Life Page 4
