Cancer Schmancer (9 page)

I love art. I remember my mom once bought me a book on van Gogh that I cherished. As a kid I always loved to draw and sketch.

As an adult I became more knowledgeable about art appreciation and collecting through my friendship with Elaine and Allan. It en-riches me to no end. I love looking at auction catalogs, going to art museums, and learning to recognize different artists from many 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 68

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different genres. I mean, where I came from fine art was a paint-on-velvet picture of a man in a sombrero. But now it’s a passion of mine. When John and I first became friends, art was not a common denominator—not until he spent an afternoon with Howie and me walking through the Louvre in Paris. Our enthusiastic discussions about the pieces sparked John’s interest, and he soon developed his own appetite for fine art. John and I began to enjoy both a sexually and intellectually stimulating relationship, I’m happy to say. It was becoming the full flavor of the bean, and who doesn’t like flavorful beans?

I had my eye on a few pieces of art from the upcoming Billy Wilder collection auction at Christie’s and decided to go to the viewing. I fell in love with a Botero sculpture. A gorgeous rotund female nude, lying on her side, bathed in bronze. She was magnificent. I just knew that if I owned her, I’d make her the center-piece of my living room. Howie helped me research what similar pieces had gone for at auction in the past so I could make an informed decision about whether to bid on her, and how high to go before I’d be going overboard.

Meanwhile the birth control pill wasn’t giving me the pimples or irritability I’d felt from the progesterone, but it was suddenly making me bleed 24/7. What the hell kind of a cure was this?

While the progesterone from Doctor #1 seemed to reduce the midmonth staining, the birth control pill from Doctor #8 seemed to increase it. After about five days I called Doctor #8, who was quickly losing her appeal. She was out of town doing television appearances and wouldn’t return to L.A. for a few days. Nu? She’s got a better career than me. When she finally called me back, I told her the pill seemed to be worsening my symptoms. The bleeding was quite heavy and nonstop, and my leg cramps were bothering me more than ever. Annoyed and disappointed, I said, “This can’t be the right treatment for me!”

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She told me to stop the pill. It was Tuesday, and I’d been taking it for only a week. She said she could see me on Thursday, first thing in the morning, and just as a precautionary measure, she’d do a D&C to scrape some tissue from the uterus for biopsy, but I probably was just taking too low a dose of birth control pills. Her advice didn’t strike me as logical. How could it help to take a higher dose of a substance that was already worsening my symptoms?

But that was what she said, so I stopped the pill in anticipa-tion of the procedure on Thursday morning. On Wednesday night the Billy Wilder collection was going on the auction block in Beverly Hills, and John and I got dressed in business attire so we’d look serious and classy for our first live art auction. It was all pre-arranged: my credit with the auction house, my copy of the cata-logue . . . I even got a paddle with a number! We were meeting my agent and his wife, who are major art collectors, followed by a dinner at Mr. Chow. I wore something black and slimming, since I thought my stomach was more distended than usual.

It was very exciting. As each lot number came up on the auction block, the bidding was displayed in seven different currencies up on the wall. An attractive Indian woman stood behind the podium with a gavel and about half a dozen Christie’s reps lined the wall, all holding telephone receivers ready to relay phone bids from art enthusiasts throughout the world.

John and I sat in the back row. When the Botero sculpture bidding began, about ten people raised their paddles, myself included. Now, I’d been told by friends who are serious collectors that it’s always best ahead of time to put a limit on how high you’ll go. This is to prevent getting swept up in the excitement and overpaying. Famous last words.

So I set my limit, the final figure beyond which I wouldn’t go higher. Within no time at all every paddle in the place was down ex-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 70

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cept for mine and a Christie’s caller on the phone. The caller made the last bid, which was of course above my preset limit. The auctioneer looked at me to go higher. “What should I do? She’s lookin’

at me.”

“Don’t do it,” John whispered.

“The lady in the back, does the lady in the back want to make a bid?” Me? I was the lady in the back? People were turning around to see the response from the lady in the back. I pressed my paddle into my lap and nervously shook my head no. She got my drift and searched the room again. “Anyone else, anyone at all?”

I’d never realized how forceful these auctioneers can be. Positively pushy. I mean, they look in your face and will you to raise that paddle. But John was muttering under his breath, “It’s too expensive, it’s too high.” With no new paddles entering the bidding, she had to turn to her only remaining bidder on the phone. “All right then, going once, going twice . . .”

Suddenly a little voice inside me spoke to me as clear as a bell.

Don’t let her go to some stranger’s house, she belongs with you. Now, I don’t know who that big mouth was buzzin’ in my head, but with that my paddle shot up, and in the true tradition of live auc-tions, everyone in the room gasped and turned to see the celebrity in the back row take it home! The auctioneer then turned back to the phone rep, hoping she still had a horse race, but the phone rep simply shook her head, and the auctioneer quit while she was ahead. She pounded her gavel on the podium and shouted, “Sold to the lady in the back!”

I didn’t know whether to celebrate or vomit, but we already had reservations at Mr. Chow so it only made sense to celebrate now, vomit later! On our way out we ran into a big television producer I’d worked with in the past. My agent had told me this guy was a serious art collector, and since he’d bought the other Botero in the collection for his wife I felt more confident about my pur-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 71

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chase. I figured if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for me.

Mr. Chow is always a crowded Beverly Hills scene, and we were kept waiting for a while at the front. This only gave me time to slip back into worrying about my impulsive expenditure. But as fate would have it, the table we were waiting for was occupied by Billy Wilder himself! Well, if seeing the producer had been a positive sign, seeing Billy Wilder really got my appetite going.

As the great director exited the restaurant in a wheelchair pushed by a cheerful Asian man, I leaned down to Mr. Wilder and said, “I bought your Botero sculpture!” Well, the man pushing his wheelchair seemed happy, but I got absolutely no response from Billy, and wondered if perhaps he was a bit hard of hearing. It didn’t matter; to me the stars seemed aligned and good signs were everywhere. So bring on the spareribs.

All night I had such indigestion from my anxiety that I barely slept. Why was I spending so much money on an inanimate object when I didn’t even know what was wrong with me? I felt like I’d made a terrible mistake, like I’d been frivolous and indulgent. It has always been so difficult for me to splurge on things for myself. Except, of course, on food, for which I’ll spend any amount. I was so anxious and regretful, I cannot even tell you. This, in the auction biz, is commonly known as “buyer’s remorse.” But alas, when you buy at auction, there are no exchanges, no refunds, no nothin’ but the bill. That chubby bronze naked lady was mine, like it or not!

John thought I was just nervous about the D&C. I wasn’t sure if it was that or the sculpture, but nevertheless I needed to get my ass out of bed and rush to get ready before I missed my appointment. In the car I noticed I was indeed running late and immediately called Doctor #8’s office to let them know. They put my mind at ease and told me not to worry; they’d be awaiting my arrival whenever I got there.

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Then I called Howie, whom I was supposed to meet for breakfast after my appointment. The mounting traffic made it doubtful I’d fit it all in. I literally broke down in tears to the poor guy, who was not only hungry but had his own problems, since he was scheduled for knee surgery the next day. I’m not sure whether it was the sculpture, being late, or not knowing what was wrong with me, but suddenly I was overwhelmed with fear and sorrow.

Fortunately, Howie was able to calm me down on the phone as I pulled into the medical building’s garage.

Upon entering Doctor #8’s office, I found the waiting room empty and tranquil. The nurse greeted me with warmth and led me into the examining room. Once again I undressed and put on the cover-up. Doctor #8 wanted to shoot me with Novocain before doing the D&C. In retrospect I wouldn’t have taken this extra step. The shots themselves were painful and then I had to hang around in the examining room for at least ten minutes before they started to work. In that time I could have had the procedure done and been finished already instead of just beginning. Plus, the Novocain failed to dull my pain.

While I was waiting for the Novocain to kick in, Doctor #8

launched back into her favorite topic. “Have you set an appointment for you and John to meet with the fertility doctor?” Oy, what’s with all these doctors? Can’t she give it a rest? I’m bleedin’ 24/7 here.

“Not yet, I’m sort of concerned about the D&C, to tell you the truth,” I replied. But she was convinced this procedure was merely a precaution and still held firm that hormone replacement was the answer. I called Howie on my cell and told him they hadn’t even started yet and that I thought breakfast was a bust. There I was, full of Novocain up my yitz, chatting on my cell phone about breakfast plans. Talk about surreal.

The D&C was definitely painful, but literally took no more than two minutes. It felt like a Pap test, only worse. Given the brief 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 73

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amount of discomfort involved, I believe it’s something that should be offered right away to any woman of any age who’s experiencing midmonth staining, cramping after sex, or unusual weight gain.

Two minutes of discomfort right in your doctor’s examining room should be the worst of your problems. For me it was just the beginning. It would take three days before I’d receive the results. So I dressed, got back in the car, and drove directly to a furniture store to buy a new coffee table for my Botero.

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“It’s Cancer”

J u n e 1 2 , 2 0 0 0

when the phone rang I was in the bathroom. Since becoming single I always like to have a handset wherever I am in the house, in the event of an emergency. As long as the phone is within arm’s reach, I’m never really alone. When I heard it was Doctor #8 I went into my bedroom to grab a pen and paper. I’d learned from experience: When speaking with a doctor about anything that concerns you, get in the habit of taking notes.

That’s when it happened. In that moment. Reality with a cap-ital R came and bit me on the ass. On the phone, sitting on the edge of the bed, in my workout clothes, clutching a tiny pad, I wrote down that I had cancer as tears rolled down my cheeks.

How could this be happening? How could this be true? No one else said I had cancer, and I’d had blood tests. Isn’t cancer supposed to be indicated by your blood count? I’d had many ultrasounds of my uterus—why didn’t the cancer show up there?

Why, why, why?

I hung up the phone in a complete state of shock. Was I going to die? Was I now to become another medical statistic? How could this have been going on for so long undiagnosed? Scribbled on my pad was an appointment on Friday to meet with a gynecologic on-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 76

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cologist. Friday? But this was Monday! How could I, why should I have to wait four days before taking the next step? You know what my answer was? “Because that’s when she sees new patients.”

Who cares about some new-patient policy when I have cancer, for God’s sake?

But the world doesn’t change itself because you have cancer.

The only world that changes is yours! I opened my bedroom door slightly and could see Ramon and Angelica putting fresh flowers in vases.

“Ramon, is Leesa here?” I asked, trying to maintain control.

“Yes, Fran, she’s upstairs waiting for you,” he said, walking over.

“Can you tell her to come down please?” I asked. He then instructed Angelica in Spanish, “Dile a Leesa que venga para abajo,”

and she dropped what she was doing and hurried upstairs.

“Thank you, Ramon,” I said, as I began to close my door.

“Fran, I’m thinking about getting a hot dog stand, what you think about that?” He always comes up with these “Ralph Kram-den” ideas and bounces them off me.

“I think all the good street corners are taken, Ramon,” I answered, trying to remain calm.

As I retreated into my room, I could hear him mumble, “Ooh, I never thought of that. . . .”

When Leesa entered my room she said, “What’s the matter, honey, is everything okay?”

Crying, I said, “The doctor just called and said I have cancer.” I threw my arms around her and wept on her shoulder. She sat with me on the bed as I paged John with the 911 code. This, we decided, would only be used for true emergencies—like if Chester, my geriatric dog, died, or something of that significance. Well, I figured it didn’t get more significant than this, and dialed it in.

Leesa and I had become friends over the course of our work-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 77