Everybody's Got Something (10 page)

After addressing the staff, I went to my private office to catch my breath. Sonny, my rock, quietly stood at the door, gently telling my colleagues not to come in right now. I needed a moment to myself. I didn’t want to check my e-mails or voice mail. I just wanted to be still. I closed my eyes and took deep, long breaths. Time seemed to stop. When I opened my eyes, Sonny was still standing guard. Thank you, Sonny.

W
hen Sally-Ann and I got to the treatment room later that day, we turned on the TV. It happened to be on CNN and at that very moment, they were doing a story on what I had disclosed that morning. The anchor, Alina Cho, was sensitively and thoughtfully discussing my situation. Then she began to interview Dr. Gail Roboz, the director of the leukemia program at New York–Presbyterian Hospital. Even though I wasn’t her patient, Dr. Roboz explained my condition better than anyone had at that point. There was something special about her that resonated and comforted me.

The nurse preparing me for chemo spoke highly of Dr. Roboz. Although she was at a different hospital, the nurse was very familiar with her work. Sensing my interest, she asked me if I wanted Dr. Roboz’s phone number. I think my response was: “Uh, yeah!” It was at that moment that I realized good doctors and nurses want only what’s best for the patient.

How many medical segments had I done on
GMA
? You hope that it helps people. You hear from the viewers that they were sitting at the breakfast table or ironing a shirt for work and they heard something on TV that saved their lives. Then it happened to me. Television, the medium in which I work and have dedicated my life to, helped me find a great doctor when I needed her most.

I called Dr. Roboz from the car on my way home. I thanked her for her professionalism in discussing my case. She knew I was seeing another doctor at another hospital and simply said I could consult with her any time. “I’d be happy to help in any capacity,” she said. She was obviously knowledgeable, but also upbeat and humorous. She was realistic about the odds, but she also made me believe that I could beat this.

Sally-Ann could tell how much better I felt after talking with Gail. I knew I wanted to switch doctors, but how? It was a real dilemma, because I’d just started my pre-treatment consisting of five consecutive days of chemo. As the nurses explained to me, this was a different kind of chemotherapy from the treatment I’d received before. It was as if my body was a pasture and this chemo targeted just the weeds. It wouldn’t affect the grass.

I needed two doctors to lead the team for my care. One would be an oncologist, someone who knew MDS inside and out and would guide me through the chemo and pre-treatment regimen that would prepare my body for the transplant. The second doctor would be a transplant specialist, someone who would supervise the care of both me and my donor, Sally-Ann, then lead me through the transplant and the critical period afterward when my body needed to rest, heal and, hopefully, accept Sally-Ann’s cells.

Instinctively, I knew I wanted Gail to take over as my oncologist, but I had already started my pre-transplant treatment at one hospital; could I possibly switch midtreatment? I know this sounds silly to say, but I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Maybe it’s the Southerner in me. Always trying my best to be polite and considerate of others’ feelings. Would it be rude to go with another doctor? Will people think I’m being a diva? That I don’t trust them? That I don’t believe in them?

Diane and Rich had already talked to numerous physicians across the country on my behalf. They found two doctors they were hoping I’d switch to but wanted it to be my decision. When I mentioned Gail Roboz to both of them they could barely contain their excitement. She had been their top choice, too! Rich made the initial call to my current doctor to explain my decision. The doctor could not have been more professional. He totally understood and just wanted me to be comfortable, and that was the only thing that mattered. I would complete my week of pre-treatment with him and then continue with Gail. No hard feelings.

Gail’s mother and father are both renowned doctors, and they can do the hula, too (I found that out when we happened to be vacationing in Hawaii at the same time). They are very cute. She didn’t tell them I was a patient, and she knew they watched
GMA
. So before Gail appeared with me on
GMA
she gave them a call. They said, “You weren’t going to tell us?” As doctors, both of them are very discreet, but Gail valued my privacy.

One of the things that Gail helped me get clear about was that although the chemo from my breast cancer treatment caused my MDS, there was no looking back and no reason to regret the choices I had made. There was no way that I would’ve or should’ve risked dying of breast cancer for a tiny risk that five years down the road I might develop a secondary disease that I couldn’t even spell. Gail said, “You treat the disease you have as aggressively as possible. And, by the way, if you ever read the package insert that comes with Tylenol, I’m not sure you’d ever take one again.” Her point being there are risks with everything.

Changing transplant specialists would be a little tricky. There are a number of excellent hospitals across the country specializing in stem cell transplants. I heard a lot about Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center in Seattle, M. D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston and Boston’s Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. Rich accompanied me to Dana-Farber for a visit. My dear friend Jel was in town and went with us, too. I was extremely impressed with Dr. Robert Soiffer and the nursing staff. I talked with other doctors, too, and I was impressed with how complimentary they were of one another. The stem cell transplant world is a tight, caring community. They are willing to share information with one another.

I was told repeatedly, “All things being equal, choose a place closest to home.” After being released from the hospital following the transplant I would still be required to stay close by for a few months. Was I willing to relocate to Seattle, Houston or Boston? Thankfully one of the best hospitals in the entire world was right across town: Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. Problem was I had already seen a transplant specialist there. Remember the doctor with the dire outlook? But Rich and Diane were very high on Dr. Sergio Giralt, the chief adult bone marrow transplant specialist at MSKCC. He trained and worked for many years at M. D. Anderson, which is known for its cutting-edge clinical trials. I could have the best of both worlds with Sergio.

We decided to meet off campus to discuss the possibility of switching to him. We had a glass of iced tea at a sandwich shop near MSKCC. He wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy at first, but there was something about him. Unlike the previous doctor, who was so negative, Dr. Giralt said, “It’s not going to be easy, and I don’t know all of the facts about your case, but you’re young and you’re strong, and I believe that we can beat this.”

He was so upbeat and so positive and so
we’re going to do this
. He wanted to be part of a team. Some doctors can be egocentric and they want to be God. They’re like Alec Baldwin in the movie
Malice
, in which he played a surgeon. “I don’t have a God complex,” he said. “I am God.” Dr. Giralt was just the opposite, very humble. He told me that he would be happy to be on my team, but I—as the patient—was the team captain. His humility and spirituality really meant a lot to me.

Again, Diane and Rich proved essential in helping me switch doctors. I was hesitant. I thought, “These are the ones I picked, I can’t change my mind now.” Rich and Diane both said, “Uh, yeah, you can.” Dr. Giralt told me to take my time and think about it. It was an important decision. I was still a few months away from my body even being ready for the transplant.

It turns out that transplant is such a cutting-edge field that doctors are less proprietary about patients and information. Dr. Giralt was very familiar with Gail and had no problem at all working with a doctor from a different hospital. I felt like I was ordering à la carte off the menu: transplant specialist from Memorial Sloan-Kettering, oncologist from New York–Presbyterian/Weill Cornell. Fortunately, both were covered in my medical plan.

I thought about it for a few days, talked it over with Amber and my family and decided: Why wouldn’t I want the head of transplants at MSKCC? Once again, Rich made the initial call to my current transplant specialist and it went okay. Just okay. So I wasn’t exactly surprised when this doctor called me. Let’s just leave it at this: We had an awkward exchange, which confirmed to me that I had made the right decision to go with Sergio.

I was having to deal with all of this as many TV news organizations and magazines were dissecting my decision to go public. Like I had a choice? Sure, I could have just disappeared from national TV for six months after being in people’s homes every morning for more than a decade. Come on. There’s an intimacy to morning television. Viewers are inviting you to the breakfast table and into their bedrooms. They feel like you’re a part of their families, and we feel the same way about them. What a privilege, and for that, I thank my lucky stars all the time.

The next day, I sat in my dressing room and had my hair done. Or as I like to say, “getting my hair did.” For some reason, Josh Elliott, our news anchor, gets a big kick out of this weekly ritual. One time he tweeted a photo of the two of us with my hair wrapped under a plastic cap. His followers thought it was a hoot. I loved it when a few black women joked with Josh, reminding him that:
You don’t mess with a sister on Hair Did Day!

Hair Did Day was always a good time for Sam Champion and me to grab some alone time, and I looked forward to when it was just the two of us, talking and catching up. The reaction to my announcement was so immediate: Every hour of the day, there were hundreds of e-mails, Facebook messages and tweets. It was as if a flash mob of viewers and
GMA
fans assembled out of nowhere and were singing and dancing their hearts out, letting me know that they had my back. Sam encouraged me to take it all in. He said: “The love you give all the time is rushing back to you.” He was so right. The love that I felt from what quickly became known as #TeamRobin gave me a strength that I’d never felt before. I want you, the readers and
GMA
viewers, to know that when I needed it most, you gave me courage and filled my tremling heart.

Y
ou might think that when you are preparing for something as big as a bone marrow transplant that time might slow down so you can sit with the enormity of all that has been placed on your plate and all that looms ahead. But here’s the thing about fighting for your life: You have to move like lightning.

It helped that as a college basketball player, I racked up career highs of more than a thousand points and a thousand rebounds. My teammate Bugs joked that she missed shots on purpose so I could grab the rebound. I prided myself on being a complete player, doing my best to excel on offense and defense. I’m comfortable with a lot of things coming at me at once, and while my athletic background did not prevent me from being diagnosed with cancer or MDS, it did give me the skills to fight whatever challenges I’ve had to face.

I worked hard as an athlete, and that gave me faith in my ability to handle any situation on the court, no matter how big or strong my opponent was. When fear knocks, let faith answer the door. Just imagine that for a moment. Fear knocks on your door, and when it opens faith is standing there. Trust me, fear will go looking for another door to knock on.

What I appreciated about my team of doctors is that we were all “eyes on the prize.” Is a cure on the table? Yes, it is. What do we need to do to get there? Well, we need to quickly and efficiently line up a donor; and we were so incredibly lucky and blessed to have sister Sally: a sibling donor who—thank the Lord—was not only wonderfully healthy but also willing. There is not a second of the day when I take Sally-Ann’s consent in this process for granted. She was in no way under any obligation to say yes. And if she had said no, for whatever reason, you wouldn’t have been reading about it in a book. There would have been no television footage of me saying, “Sister Sally was a perfect match, but she was too afraid of the process to go through with it.” I would’ve respected her choice and her privacy. I would have then done what many have to do: pray they can find a donor on the registry.

Believe me, in the time that I’ve spent on the battlefields of bone marrow transplant, I’ve heard of many men and women whose siblings and family members either wouldn’t get tested or wouldn’t go through with the process when it was discovered they were a match. Happens every day. Sally-Ann gave the transplant community a huge gift by being the public face on the donor side, by saying, “I will step up to the plate, I will see what my stem cells can do and I will testify to how relatively painless donating life-giving stem cells can be.” It has been my choice to make my mess my message. The same doesn’t necessarily extend to my family who I hold so dear. I am just blessed that my sister wanted to do this, and as a broadcast journalist herself, she knew the good it could do by letting the television cameras and press follow
her
journey, too. Her incredible TV station in New Orleans, WWL-TV, rallied around her. They gave her the time off of work to be there for me and with me. Her station did stories on the need for bone marrow donors and held bone marrow drives. My sister has unselfishly given to her beloved community. And when we needed that community the most, they came through for the Roberts family and countless others.

Once we found my match, the next thing the doctors said we needed to do was to put our finger in the dam and prevent my bone marrow from misbehaving or malfunctioning even more prior to the time that my body was ready to go forward with the transplant. That was why they initiated pre-treatment in June 2012, just weeks after my diagnosis.

I went into warrior mode. I knew a long medical leave was looming, so I wanted to work as much as possible while I still could. It also helped me emotionally to keep as normal a schedule as possible. That meant rise and shine at 3:45 a.m., to the studio by 5:00 a.m. After my signature drum roll we were off and running for two hours of
GMA
. I went to my normal after-show meetings munching on Greek yogurt sprinkled with almonds and cinnamon, then headed off to the hospital for a few hours of chemo. The first few days were okay, but by midweek the chemo began to take its toll. It began to get a little harder to eat, and I would begin to get weary. Fridays couldn’t get here fast enough. I spent the weekends in bed recuperating. Yes, long days but also happy days, because I wasn’t just living with the diagnosis; I was fighting. I had a game plan. I had hope. One of my rules to live by is: Focus on the solution, not the problem. And that was exactly what I was doing.

The amazing thing is that once I started to wear PICC covers on the show, people started sending fashionable ones to me. Who knew that these very medically necessary items came in jewel tones, leopard print and lace? I started wearing covers that color coordinated with my short-sleeved dresses, and the audience response was off the charts: Every day we got e-mails, tweets and Facebook messages from patients who also had PICC lines, family members, nurses, doctors and just regular viewers. Having the pre-treatment for the bone marrow transplant was no walk in the park, but the hundreds of PICC covers I was sent and the thousands of messages I received brightened my days.

I don’t know the name of the first viewer who sent me a designer PICC cover, they seemed to show up by the dozens—almost simultaneously—but I want to thank all of you who saw that line in my arm and sensed that this would be a gift that I would appreciate. Because I did. Those covers made me feel like a warrior, armed for battle. I remember the moment when we chose a leopard-print PICC cover to match my camel and black sleeveless dress. I looked in the mirror and thought, “
Roar!
” Those covers made me feel so strong. And even more, they gave thousands and thousands of patients out there an image that wasn’t of a weak person floundering in a hospital gown and hoping for a miracle in a sea of bad news. I know, because my team and I read every e-mail and every letter; those PICC covers made many a transplant patient feel like he or she was a warrior, too.

I wanted to be as strong as I could before the transplant. My doctors encouraged me to remain active. I’m not much of a runner, as I prefer to get my cardio done on a reclined bike, and I’ve enjoyed doing Pilates for several years now. There’s a great studio within walking distance of my apartment. Joie runs the place, and as soon as I walk through the door and see her smiling face I am at peace. Joie and I have a lot in common. She’s close to her siblings (one named Sally) and had to deal with aging parents as I did. I treasure our conversations about life. My instructors are young, vibrant and patient. I especially like working out on the reformer. The slow movement of the machine, the isolation of each muscle, reminded me that even when we are ill our bodies are incredible machines. When I leave the studio and Joie says, “See you next week,” we both reply in unison, “Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.”

Sally-Ann injected herself for five days with a drug to induce the production of stem cells. She stresses that she had no side effects and adds, “I am terribly afraid of needles, but it wasn’t a problem.” I was there with Sally-Ann every step of the way. Some days I couldn’t stop crying. I’m used to being the giver, and it was very hard but very enlightening for me to understand what it’s like to be on the receiving end.

I kept asking Sally-Ann if she was scared. She said she didn’t feel any fear. She always trusts that everything is going to work out as it should. Every afternoon, before we got out of the car at the treatment center, she started singing a hymn, “We need Thee. Oh, we need Thee.”

Sometimes I hear a hymn and I think, “Oh, that’s a sweet song.” Other times, I hear a hymn and then days or weeks later, it comes back to me—like a piece of musical comfort playing in my head. On July 13, 2012—Friday the thirteenth—Mom suffered a stroke at home. She had been on the phone talking with a friend. She was in bed and suddenly the room began to spin, her vision became distorted and she knew something was wrong. She had just gotten a new cell phone and was unfamiliar with how to use it. Phone records show she tried to dial Dorothy shortly before midnight but was unsuccessful. Mom told us she then decided to just lay there and let God take her home. She wouldn’t fight it. She woke up about 3 a.m. and was still here, so she decided to try calling Dorothy one more time. In complete darkness, completely disoriented, she was able to dial Dorothy’s number. God wasn’t ready to take her just yet. Dorothy called 911 and got to the house about the time the ambulance arrived. It was all of a sudden much more than a song:
We need Thee. Oh, we need Thee.

Amber and I were on Fire Island that weekend. I wanted to get some rest before beginning another week of pre-treatment on Monday. Cell service out there can be very spotty. I finally checked my messages late Saturday afternoon. There was a message from Sally-Ann saying I should call Dorothy, because Mom was in the hospital. Sally-Ann didn’t make it sound urgent; Mom had been hospitalized a lot that year. A couple of months earlier at her book party she had joked that after so many years of taking her medicine, she decided to stop, because apparently it wasn’t working.

I called Dorothy and she told me Mom had had a stroke. What?! I wanted to get off the island and fly right home to Mississippi, but Dorothy told me to wait. Mom had transient ischemic attacks, or TIAs, before; these are temporary mini strokes. But the doctors weren’t sure if this was the same thing. It seemed worse this time. Her vision was impaired, she couldn’t swallow and she had difficulty speaking.

Sunday morning, Mom was doing better, and she told my sisters and brother to get out of her hospital room and go to our church. I was incredibly relieved. It appeared Mom was going to rally yet again. My siblings insisted it was important for me to have my week of treatment and wait until the weekend to go home and see Mom.

That month, Ben Sherwood held a companywide bone marrow drive. Many of my colleagues showed up and got their cheeks swabbed. More than two hundred ABC staffers joined the registry. Another five hundred joined online. Within weeks, a few received calls that they were possible matches. I was so proud of my amazing team, and I said a silent prayer for every patient waiting to receive the news that I had gotten the day the phone rang and I learned that Sally-Ann was my match.

While Sally-Ann was taking trips to New York, preparing for her cells to be harvested, Dorothy was back home caring for Mother. After my week of treatment, I traveled to Mississippi every weekend to be with Mom. Again and again, Dorothy, Sally-Ann and I marveled at how upside down our world would have been if Dorothy, who lives just minutes away from Mom—as opposed to Sally-Ann, who lives in another state—had been my match.

Oh, my goodness, the chaos that would have ensued. Anyone who has ever cared for an aging parent knows the complexity of the arrangements. Mom’s health was failing, but she was still the boss. And let’s be clear, she was not an easy boss. She wanted to go home after being released from the hospital, but we as a family had thought, “Well, she needs to go to a rehab facility.” Earlier in the year, she had been to a wonderful nursing center that had a rehab unit, and we thought that after the stroke the nursing center would be the best place for her to return. She had such terrific results there before and loved the residents and staff. But this time, Mom wanted no part of that. This time she wanted to go directly home from the hospital.

It was helpful that we had discussions about this when Mom was healthier. I know it’s not easy to have end-of-life conversations with our parents. Momma had a way of finding the humor in it. She always thought she would pass away before my father. One day she asked me and my sisters to come by the house. She then instructed us to point out the pieces of furniture and family heirlooms we wanted when she died. When we asked her why in the world she was asking us to do this now, she replied: “I know your father. He can’t be alone. When I die he’ll be remarried within a year, and I don’t want her [his new wife] to get anything.”

Momma’s humor was also on display when Dorothy was selected to be the one to make decisions for her if she was incapacitated. Dorothy took that responsibility seriously and began to ask Momma questions. Did she want to be put on life support? No. What about CPR? Momma exclaimed: “Oh, mercy, give me a chance!”

On one particular day, Dorothy went to see her in the hospital, and knowing that there would definitely be some bullets aimed at the messenger, my sweet sister sent a social worker in there to tell Mom that the nursing center was what the siblings had decided: We didn’t want her to reside there permanently, just to continue her rehab until she was strong enough to go home. We asked the social worker to explain to our mother that she had stopped making progress in the hospital rehab and they were going to discharge her. A lot of people don’t know that a hospital won’t just keep you if they feel you are ready to do rehab outside of the hospital. But Mom saw right through the social worker, and she ordered her to send Dorothy in.