My Journey with Farrah Read online

  “What? Where did you hear that?”

  “I read it on the Internet.”

  I was furious. “Of course not, that’s ridiculous. It’s just that bullshit stuff they always print about her.” The tabloids have been writing garbage about Farrah for as long as I’ve known her, but this rumor was too upsetting. I called Farrah just to make sure. I waited a rather long time for her to come to the phone, and I suddenly had a sinking feeling in my gut.

  When she picked up, I said, “Honey, it’s Alana. Listen, Kimberly just told me she read something about you on the Internet. It’s not true, is it?”

  There was a long pause as I held my breath.

  “It’s true,” she said softly. “It happened so quickly.” Then she started to cry. She was trying to be brave, but with me, she could let it all out.

  I was afraid to ask, but I had to: “Honey, what do the doctors say?”

  Her voice took on a stronger, more optimistic tone. “The doctors tell me they have great success with this kind of tumor, but it’s very aggressive, and they have to start chemo and radiation right away.” No time to breathe or even to digest this horrible news; no time to waste. Is that how it works? One day you’re fine, the next day you’re fighting for your life? On top of it all, she told me she has a 50/50 chance of losing her hair. But I guess hair becomes secondary with what she’s going through. Still, the hair, her hair.

  “I’m supposed to stay another week, but I’ll come back right away,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

  After I hung up, I lay awake for hours with thoughts swirling around in my mind. How did this happen? Why? She’s been through so much—her son Redmond’s struggles with drugs the last few years, her mom dying recently, Ryan’s battle with leukemia. It doesn’t seem fair. I’ve been worried about her for a long time. She’s had so much stress in her life lately and she always takes care of everyone else at the expense of herself. She spent months in Texas at her mother’s bedside, neglecting her own health. Time and time again I’ve seen her ignore her own symptoms when someone she loves needs her.

  I don’t want to watch my best friend go through this. I want to cry but I can’t seem to. I feel numb and scared. But this isn’t about me. I have to do whatever I can to help her.

  October 10, 2006

  It’s 6:30 A.M. and I got home from Germany the day before yesterday. I can’t sleep; I keep thinking about Farrah. Tina [Sinatra] and I spoke to her on a three-way call yesterday for a long time. She has started her chemo and radiation. She sounded a little weak, but calm and strong and accepting of what she has to go through.

  “The doctors told me it’s not going to be easy,” Farrah said. “They told me, ‘You’re going to come to a time halfway through this treatment when you want to quit. But you have to keep going.’” I know Farrah and her will and determination. She won’t quit, no matter what. She wants to beat this.

  Tina and I are going to see her tomorrow and I asked her what I could bring. “Your minestrone soup,” she said. So when we hung up, I drove to Whole Foods to get the vegetables for her favorite soup.

  I used to have this belief that people who were famous or bigger than life were immune from these kind of things, but I’ve watched too many people who I thought were invincible, who seemingly had it all, experience life’s hardships and tragedies just like everyone else. No one is immune from life, not even an icon like Farrah, the golden girl of the seventies. Any one of us can get a phone call that changes our life in a flash. So many things can happen, to anyone, any time. Just writing about it I feel frozen with fear. I want some guarantee from God, from the universe, that Farrah will be okay, that I’ll be safe, that the people I love will be safe. But there are no guarantees.

  My friend Lesley says we have to stay in the present, live every moment fully and enjoy it, and surrender the future to God. But focusing on the here and now is hard to do at times. I feel like I have to wear a helmet and live in a crash position for fear of life’s next blow. That’s how I’ve been going through life, constantly anxious about what’s coming next, what unforeseen struggle will make things difficult all over again. Sometimes I want to go back and live at the clinic in Germany—I felt so safe there. But then I remind myself, that’s where I found out about Farrah’s cancer. Even the comfort of that place has been tainted by the power of uncertainty now.

  God, help me here. I’m struggling with trying to understand all this. I want my friend to be okay. I don’t want to see her go through this painful experience and yet I can’t stop it, just like I can’t prevent my children from suffering. I don’t know the answer, God. Maybe I just have to surrender it to you and trust that she will be okay, that my kids are safe and protected, that I am as well. Let me feel your loving presence, God, wherever you are, whatever you are.

  Thank you, God.

  Amen

  October 12, 2006

  Tina and I went to see Farrah yesterday afternoon. I made the minestrone soup and her favorite ginger cookies, and Tina brought her a giant, I mean giant, teddy bear. It was bigger than both of us. It barely fit into my car. Tina Sinatra is one of my oldest and very best friends and the godmother of my children. I don’t remember exactly when she and Farrah met, but we all became very close, the three of us, almost instantly. She was devastated when she heard about Farrah’s cancer. Her other very close friend Suzanne Pleshette was battling lung cancer, as well as our mutual friend Freddie Fields. She had already experienced firsthand the ravages of cancer. And now Farrah, too…

  When we arrived at Farrah’s apartment, Tina and I went into her bedroom with the bear and waited for her to come out of the bathroom. When she walked out, we couldn’t believe it. She looked radiant, a vision all in pink. Her skin was glowing and her hair fell in soft waves around her face. You wouldn’t have thought anything was wrong with her if it weren’t for the IV coming out of her arm and the attached chemo pack, which administers the chemo twenty-four hours a day.

  Farrah was so happy we came. We ended up having a lot of laughs, all piled on the bed with that gigantic bear. We took silly pictures and gobbled up the ginger cookies…and then, of course, we finally got around to the elephant in the room. She told us in great detail about her cancer treatment. I tried to smile, to put on a stoic face, to act normal, but I still couldn’t quite believe that my best friend had cancer. I just wanted to make it all go away for her; the pain, the discomfort, the fear she must be feeling. She’s strong, but I know she has to be scared. If it were me, I would never be this brave. I’d be out of my mind with fear. But maybe once the shock has worn off, you’re too busy walking through it to be afraid?

  I went to a little Kabbalah memorial for Evelyn Ostin this morning. Evelyn was the wife of Mo Ostin, who was head of Warner Bros. Records for many years—and she was one of the most beloved women in town. I studied Kabbalah in a group that met at her house every week. It was the one-year anniversary of her death, and Rabbi Eitan Yardeni, who taught our Kabbalah classes, gave a very inspiring talk about gratitude and how important it is to feel fortunate in your life instead of feeling like a victim. It felt like he was speaking directly to me; it struck a nerve. “Focus on giving back to the world instead of focusing on yourself,” he said.

  Eitan said that our energy attracts situations into our lives and that the biggest disease we all have is selfishness. He said that “getting” will never make us feel fortunate, no matter how much we get, but that a spirit of gratitude will shift our energy and help us “get out of ourselves” and think about others more.

  This is my biggest roadblock. I’m always in my head, focused on me or my kids, my personal world. I worry about the future—my future—and that worry can begin to consume me. I know I have to expand and get outside myself and find where I can really contribute my time and energy to help others. If I could just focus my brain! It always seems to be all over the place, like a wild horse that needs to be corralled.

  October 13, 2006

  I went with Farrah t
o UCLA for her radiation and to get the line for the chemo removed. She’d been up all night, terribly sick and in pain. They had told her this would be the worst day, but she’d had no idea it would be this bad. At least she won’t have any more chemo until the last week of radiation, so she has a four-week reprieve. I never realized that radiation causes so much pain; I thought it was the lesser of the two evils (chemo being the worst). I’ve never been this close to anyone who was going through cancer. It’s such a hideous process—painful, debilitating, and unrelenting.

  By the time we got back to Farrah’s house, she was exhausted, but still managed to laugh and make a joke or two. Then she got serious and thanked me for taking her. “Sorry to have taken up so much of your time,” she said.

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “I wanted to do it.”

  I realized she’s so much like me. I always worry that I’m putting friends out if they go out of their way for me. Farrah’s always there for everyone else—whether it’s her family, her friends, or people she’s working with. Now she needs to let people be there for her.

  October 16, 2006

  Farrah called from the hospital. They had to admit her because she had two blood clots from the IV line they had put into her arm. God, I can’t believe my friend has to go through all this. It’s ridiculous that the treatment itself is causing more problems for her. It makes me so angry.

  November 2, 2006

  Farrah has about three more weeks of radiation left. The doctors warned her that she might want to quit because it gets so difficult, but quit is not a word in Farrah’s vocabulary. She always seems to think people are exaggerating—that things can’t ever be as bad as they’d have you believe. She’s much more of an optimist than I am.

  But she wasn’t prepared for this; neither of us was. The radiation is brutal and torturous. They keep increasing the dose until she’s up to about twenty-five minutes. That’s shocking to me. Our friend, who had lung cancer, was getting six minutes at the peak of his treatment. The side effects are painful and debilitating. Sometimes all she can do is sob because it’s so excruciating. And there’s no end in sight. Three more weeks of this.

  Every day I call to check on her and see if I can do anything for her, but after she gets her treatment (which she does every day), she just wants to sleep. I always offer to take her, but Ryan or her assistant, Mike, usually goes with her. Ever since her cancer was announced, the paparazzi have been stalking her. The doctor’s office organized a way to get her into the building where she has her radiation. They go through the underground parking garage to a special door where they’re met by Sheldon, from Dr. Gitnick’s office, who escorts them to the radiation room. This usually gives those vultures the slip.

  But one day, after she’d finished the radiation, she came out the door, and there sat an SUV with four paparazzi inside, videoing her and taking photos. Poor Sheldon watched frozen in surprise and disbelief as she walked right up and confronted them. She was exhausted and in pain, but her outrage gave her the strength to fight back.

  “What is wrong with you people? Don’t you have any respect for someone going through cancer treatment?” she asked angrily.

  But the cameras kept clicking away; she was giving them quite a show. Then she tried to grab the guy’s camera away from him and they struggled. “I couldn’t get him to let go, so I swear, I punched him right in the arm as hard as I could!” she told me later. She took great pleasure in telling me the story. I know that if she’d had a knife on her, she would have slit his tires.

  That’s my feisty Texas friend!

  “You go, girl!” I cheered as she told me the story. “The only thing I’m worried about is that the guy will slap you with an assault charge!”

  “I don’t care!” she said defiantly. “Let him. That’ll look great. Harassing a woman when she’s coming out of radiation. I’d love to see that one go to court!”

  We laughed. Nothing—not paparazzi, not pain, not the promise of a long road ahead—was going to knock Farrah down.

  November 7, 2006

  When I picked up the phone this morning, it was Farrah. For a minute I didn’t recognize her voice: she was crying and her voice sounded tiny and weak.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” I asked, my heart jumping into my throat.

  “I just feel so weak and so sick, and I’m in so much pain. I don’t know how I can make it to radiation.”

  “I’m coming over right now,” I said. I’d never heard her sound quite like this before—and it scared me. I was used to Farrah being strong. I knew that at this moment I had to be strong for her. I needed to be there for her just as I knew she would be there for me if the tables were turned.

  “No, it’s okay,” she sobbed. “You don’t have to. Mike can take me.” Just like Farrah: she never wants to cause anyone any inconvenience.

  “I’ll be right there,” I insisted. Fortunately, I can be stubborn, too. I threw on my clothes and drove as fast as I could to her apartment. I went upstairs and into her bedroom, where she was trying to pull on her Uggs. She was in so much pain from where the damned radiation had burned her that she could hardly walk. Her assistant, Mike, helped me get her down to her car. I got into the backseat with her, and he drove to the secret underground entrance, which was obviously no longer secret.

  Sheldon, from the doctor’s office, was waiting with a wheelchair. I looked around, making sure there were no paparazzi lurking about. The coast was clear. We went straight to the radiation room, where she lay down on the table for the treatment. It took about twenty minutes. Afterward we took her in the wheelchair back to the car and home, where I helped her back into bed. She winced with every step, but at least it was over. She’d made it for today.

  “Just look at this,” she said with a sigh, showing me the skin on the inside of her legs and her buttocks where they had radiated. I was shocked. It was bright red and blistered to the point that it was peeling off. It looked like a second-degree burn, and it was so excruciatingly painful, she could barely lie down. She’d been given salve and medication, but it wasn’t even making a dent in the pain. It seems barbaric that this supposed cure is so ravaging.

  I hope the doctors are right, that this will cure her cancer. After all this, they’d better be.

  December 6, 2006

  The tabloids are out of control. They print anything they want, even if there’s not a shred of truth to it. The National Enquirer has not let up on Farrah since she was diagnosed with cancer.

  “You won’t believe this headline,” Farrah called to inform me today. She was furious. They had gone too far this time. It read, “Farrah Says: ‘I Want to Die!’”

  I know it’s upsetting to her on many levels. First of all, her family and her friends read this garbage, and although most of us know it’s not true, it still scares a lot of people who perhaps don’t know how the tabloids lie and exaggerate.

  “Can you ever hear me saying those words?” she fumed. “I get all these letters from people who are also battling cancer, and they’re upset because they think I’m giving up. That’s not encouraging them to keep fighting when they hear something like that. Don’t these tabloids realize it’s not just me they’re hurting?”

  Farrah can never figure out where they get these stories, since sometimes there are some accurate details involved. Someone has to be leaking information. But this headline goes way beyond an issue of privacy. It’s becoming very clear to Farrah—and to me—that her cancer battle is not just about her anymore. People have always looked up to her—she’s the golden girl, an American icon, the picture of beauty and vitality. But now they’re looking to her for another reason: hope. And she’ll be damned if she’s going to let anyone—especially some vicious, lying tabloid—steal that hope away.

  Christmas 2006

  Farrah finally finished her last week of radiation and chemo right after Thanksgiving. The holidays and several delays had made it run longer than planned. She was too sick to celebrate Thanksgiv
ing, but we were hoping by Christmas she would feel more like herself. We have this tradition of making pies and cornbread stuffing on Christmas Eve.

  But the radiation and chemo have taken a terrible toll on her. I had my usual Christmas dinner with my kids and a few close friends, but in the end she wasn’t up to it. I promised her I’d make extra food and send some over, which I did. I always make the same down-home Texas Christmas dinner that my grandmother cooked when I was growing up—the food that Farrah and I both love. Farrah and I were very specific about our Texas food and how it had to be cooked: turkey with cornbread stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, creamed peas, brussels sprouts, giblet gravy, and, of course, our favorite pecan pie and coconut meringue pie.

  The new year is approaching, and I always feel like it brings new hope—like you can wash away the past and start fresh. Farrah has high hopes for a full recovery, as the doctors have promised. I have high hopes that all of this will seem like a bad dream one day soon and our lives will be back to normal.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” I told her. “Next year we’ll be back in the kitchen, cooking up a storm together.”

  February 2, 2007

  I feel like the dark clouds have finally lifted. Farrah called me today: the doctors have declared her cancer free. Apparently the radiation and all that pain were worth it. We screamed our heads off on the phone—such joy! Such relief! The nightmare is finally behind her. Life can get back to normal.

  There are so many things she’s missed the last few months. We planned to have lunch and go shopping as soon as she was a little stronger—a girls’ day out and a celebration of life.

  May 14, 2007

  The last few months have been a relief—until today. Farrah’s life was finally back to normal. She was getting back into her art (she’s an amazing painter and sculptor), she was spending time with her loved ones, and she was making plans for the future.

  And then today she went back to UCLA for her checkup. Everyone, including the doctors, was in shock: the cancer is back. It’s the word she most dreaded hearing: recurrence. Ryan was supposed to take her in to meet with her doctors to hear what they felt the next step should be, but his car wouldn’t start. So she grabbed her little handheld camera to help her remember all the information they were certain to throw at her, and took off to face it all by herself.