My Journey with Farrah Page 3

  Her doctors want her to do this radical surgery that is horribly invasive and would mean part of her intestines would be removed and she’d have to wear a colostomy bag for the rest of her life. Understandably, she is not liking that prospect one bit. I arranged a conference call with her, me, and Dr. Ursula Jacob at the Leonardis Clinic in Germany. Farrah started to cry, and Dr. Jacob was sweet and reassuring.

  “Don’t cry, Farrah. You don’t have to do this radical surgery. There is a great surgeon here who has a different way of removing the tumor that won’t be as invasive and won’t result in a colostomy. Then we will give you a special antibody treatment and build up your immune system to prevent the cancer from coming back.”

  Farrah felt much better after speaking with her, but she was still confused. No wonder. The doctors in L.A. are being so adamant that theirs is the only way.

  “What should I do?” Farrah asked me, uncertainty in her voice. I understood; she was unsure about putting her life in the hands of some foreign doctors she had never met. Meanwhile, the doctors here were telling her that a very radical surgery was the only way to save her life. “I don’t know what to do,” she said.

  At this moment, I know, she was not thinking of only herself but also of her family: How could she put her poor daddy through this when he’d already lost Farrah’s sister Diane to cancer in 2001? And Ryan: He is so attached to her. He can’t bear to see her suffer. Whereas I can be numb and emotionally detached when I need to be, Ryan wears his heart on his sleeve. Then there’s her son, Redmond. “My sweet boy,” she calls him. She worries about him so. I know it’s her son she’s concerned about the most; she wants him to have his mother for a long, long time.

  I took a deep breath and thought hard before answering. Then I said, “Honey, if it were me or my kids, I’d be on the first plane to Germany.” I meant it. I truly believe they can help her there. From my stays at the clinic, I’ve seen how differently they treat cancer than in the States, and how effective their methods are. But I didn’t want to make the decision for her. I didn’t want to be responsible—God forbid I should convince her to do it and it ends up being a mistake.

  “But,” I added, “you have to make the decision yourself. Ask God to show you the answer.” After we hung up, I prayed for God to guide her in the right direction, whether it was treatment in America or in Germany. But in my heart, I felt strongly that she should choose the latter. I find myself praying a lot these days; in fact, I have for the last number of years. I’ve also pursued many spiritual teachings: Al-Anon, A Course in Miracles, Kabbalah, Science of Mind, and the writings of Marianne Williamson and Deepak Chopra. Pain, fear, and anxiety have made me dig deeper and keep searching for answers to give me more strength and comfort through difficult periods of my life.

  May 18, 2007

  My birthday. Bren and Mel Simon threw me a big birthday party at their home in Bel Air tonight. It’s been a hell of a week, and I wasn’t feeling very festive. Farrah told me she really wanted to come and celebrate with me, but she didn’t know if she was feeling up to it. Farrah is always wonderful at showing up for friends’ birthdays or special events. In the years since we’ve been close friends, I don’t think she’s ever missed one of my birthdays or vice versa, unless one of us was out of town.

  But this was different. The last thing she needed to do was to feel like she had to show up somewhere, especially with the whole world now knowing that her cancer had come back. People mean well, but the questions are so invasive, so draining: “How are you feeling? What do the doctors say? Are you okay?” I didn’t want her to be subjected to all that.

  “Please don’t even think about it,” I said. “As much as I love you, I never for a second thought you could make it. You’re going through way too much.”

  The party was fabulous in every way; their house was beautiful, the food was amazing, and everyone was having a great time. There were about sixty people seated in the party room downstairs, and dessert had just been served, when I looked up. There, walking into the room, were Farrah and Ryan, his arm protectively around her waist. This was the first time she’d been out to a party since she was diagnosed with cancer seven months ago. I was so shocked and so ecstatic to see them; I couldn’t believe it. Farrah looked stunningly beautiful, almost ethereal, in a pale silver chiffon top and flowing pants. She was glowing; nothing about her said “cancer victim.” The two of them could still stop traffic—forever the golden couple. The years hadn’t diminished their charisma one bit.

  I ran to Farrah and we hugged for a long time. Then she held out her arm and showed me the two beautiful matching bracelets she was wearing, one in platinum and one in rose gold. “I bought them today,” she said. “I just thought…why not? I might as well treat myself.” Then she took one off and gave it to me.

  “This is your birthday present. If I die, you can have the other one, too,” she joked, but I saw a hint of sadness behind her sweet smile.

  “And if I die first, you can have mine back,” I teased.

  Her gesture touched me deeply. This was so like Farrah, to be going through this horrendous, life-threatening ordeal and still thinking about a birthday present for me. No matter what she was going through, she always thought about others.

  Soon she was surrounded by everyone. It was always like that: people just flocked to her side. It didn’t matter if it was a fan or a studio head, they were all equally in awe of Farrah. I watched her laughing, hugging friends and acquaintances, holding court. I was in awe of her, too, tonight.

  Celebrations with Farrah were always a party.

  This photo was taken in 1988 on Farrah’s birthday at Trader Vic’s. We had a terrific time that night and drank a ton of Scorpions. But my memories of her are less about parties and more about the loyalty that she always showed to her friends.

  A few months after this photo was taken, she was in the middle of filming a TV miniseries with Ryan called Small Sacrifices when I had a problem. I needed a paying acting gig to get my Screen Actors Guild health insurance reactivated. Without even blinking, Farrah called the producer, our friend Suzanne de Passe, and they gave me a part. There was this small scene involving Neighbor Number One and Neighbor Number Two; they were supposed to bring some food over to Farrah’s character. Farrah made me Neighbor Number One. I just needed something with lines that would allow me to get my health insurance.

  Small Sacrifices was filming in Edmonton, Canada. I arrived on the set and went into hair and makeup, where Farrah had them put me in this horrible polyester blouse, which stuck to me for every minute I was in the 100-degree heat. They sprayed my hair brown and pulled it back in a bun. They were trying to unglam me. Farrah loved it!

  When I came out to film the scene, the director, a man named David Green, said to me, “Who are you, young lady?”

  “Neighbor Number One,” I answered.

  “No you’re not,” he said. “You’re Neighbor Number Two.”

  It turned out that he had hired someone else, and she had gotten my lines. Frantic, I found Farrah and reported that they’d cast someone else in my part. She immediately called Suzanne and straightened things out. I ended up playing Neighbor Number Two, but with a line written especially for me: “I brought you some potato salad…”

  I got to keep my health insurance because of that potato salad…and Farrah. We laughed about Neighbor Number One and the polyester blouse for years.

  TREATMENT IN GERMANY

  May 20, 2007

  I called Farrah to tell her I’m going to leave for the Leonardis Clinic on Friday. I’ve had this trip planned for some time, so Sean can get his second round of treatments for ADD. I was hoping she would want to come with me. But there’s a new development: the doctors at UCLA want to scan the rest of her body to see if the cancer has spread anywhere else. My heart stopped when she told me, but she was calm. The possibility of the cancer spreading beyond the tumor had never even occurred to me. She’s having the scan on Thursday.

 
; May 24, 2007

  The scan showed up something in her liver, but they have to do a biopsy tomorrow to find out if it’s malignant. This is a nightmare. She’s still calm but she’s scared. So am I.

  “I hate leaving on the day you’re doing this,” I said with a sigh.

  “Don’t worry,” she assured me. “You go ahead. I’ll call you as soon as I get the results. Who knows, I may be joining you.”

  May 26, 2007

  I arrived at the clinic today. Sean left two days before me so he’s already here. I immediately told Dr. Jacob about Farrah’s scan and the biopsy. By now, I knew, Farrah should have the results. Dr. Jacob told me she was certain it was cancer, and this was what she’d been afraid of from the outset: without the proper preventive treatment after the chemo and radiation, it will return.

  Sure enough, I spoke to Farrah that night and it was cancer; there were a number of malignant tumors in her liver.

  “It’s a very aggressive, rare form,” she said. Then that old determination fired up again. “I made up my mind. I’m coming to Germany. That’s it.” Then she asked tentatively, “Will you stay with me if I come?” I told her I would stay as long as she needed me.

  I was so thankful she was coming here; I just knew they could help her. I hung up, and the reality of what was happening sank in: Farrah has cancer, and now it’s metastasized to her liver. She could really die. I started crying. It was the first time I’d cried since she told me she had cancer. I let the tears run down my cheeks for several minutes. I let the pain and the fear wash over me. Enough, Alana. Be strong for her. Then that old familiar numb feeling came over me like a steel curtain drawn over my emotions. It’s the way I’ve always dealt with shock or sadness or loss since I was old enough to remember. It’s how I react when the pain is more than I can bear.

  I pulled myself together and spoke to Dr. Jacob about what they could do. After we’d talked, I put her in touch with Farrah’s doctor at UCLA so she could explain to him her ideas for treatment. She confirmed that this was a very serious, aggressive form of cancer and that the prognosis with standard chemo treatment would not be good. They had to figure out another way. While the oncologists at UCLA were still trying to come up with some choices, Farrah got on the plane with Ryan and her friend Joan Dangerfield. She came to Germany hoping she would find her miracle here.

  May 30, 2007

  Farrah—along with Ryan and Joan—arrived today. I threw my arms around her and we both held on to each other for dear life, but we didn’t have much time for catching up. Dr. Jacob arrived to meet Farrah for the first time. Farrah liked her immediately. It’s hard not to like her, although she doesn’t look anything like what one would expect of the head doctor of a German clinic. She’s a large, buxom woman with short blondish-brown hair, and warm, compassionate eyes. She has a very outgoing, enthusiastic personality, and she was anxious to go over her ideas for Farrah’s treatment plan, so we jumped right into it.

  Ryan, Farrah, Dr. Jacob, and I gathered in Farrah’s room, where Farrah handed me her little handheld camera and said, “Here. Will you film this so I can remember everything?”

  “I don’t know how to use this thing,” I protested. “I’m lucky if I can use an Instamatic.”

  “It’s so easy. You can do it. You’re artistic,” she joked. She showed me where the RECORD button was and basically how to point it in the right direction and I was off and running. She also took diligent notes and jotted down her questions. Neither one of us was going to miss a word.

  Dr. Jacob had a lot to say, including that the prognosis for Farrah’s kind of cancer at this stage was normally not good. Quiet tears slid down Farrah’s cheeks, and Ryan asked the doctor, “Are we too late?”

  “I’ll never lie to you, Farrah,” Dr. Jacob replied, “and I would be lying if I said I could guarantee you a cure…” We all held our breath. “But I have some ideas for a treatment plan and I think there is a very good possibility that it could work.” We breathed a sigh of relief; at least there was hope here in Germany.

  June 1, 2007

  Dr. Jacob didn’t waste a minute; it was all moving quickly. Today I went with Farrah (Ryan and Joan stayed behind because there was no room in the van) and one of Dr. Jacob’s team from the clinic to Frankfurt to meet Dr. Thomas Vogl, a much respected surgeon and radiologist and a professor at Goethe University. Farrah would be undergoing a procedure called chemo embolization, in which chemo is injected directly into the tumor to shrink it down to manageable size. It would later be removed by laser surgery. If there are multiple tumors in an organ, as there are in her liver, they use the same technique but “perfuse” the chemo throughout the organ—in essence, they bathe the liver in chemo. Although they’re starting to do it in the States in trials, Dr. Vogl has been doing these procedures for over fifteen years and is known to be the master of them.

  The waiting room and hallway outside his office were filled with people waiting to see him, but fortunately we were taken right in through a side door to where he was waiting for us. Dr. Vogl is a very tall, angular man with a balding head and glasses, attractive in a professorial sort of way. He is very precise, very detailed, and gets right to the point. I asked him if he would mind me filming the meeting, and I assumed that he would have a problem with it, but he was fine. These Germans are so different from doctors in the States! He explained briefly to Farrah what the procedure would be. She’d go right away for an MRI, come back to his office to go over the film, and then head straight into the operating room. Like I said, it all moves so quickly here.

  Once Farrah had the MRI, Dr. Vogl brought us back into the office and put the film on the screen so we could see exactly where the tumors in her liver were. There they were: the invaders making my friend so ill.

  We were escorted to the operating room, where Farrah put on a gown in a small adjoining cubicle and was taken by the nurse to the operating table. Of course, she was nervous. Who wouldn’t be? But she still seemed fearless. I would have been freaking out. Here she is in a strange country with a doctor she’s just met, getting ready to go through a procedure that she knows very little about. Her courage astounds me.

  Dr. Vogl gave me permission to film the entire procedure, which surprised me again. I put on a heavy lead apron that weighed a ton, because of the radiation that was emitted by the machines. Farrah had her rosary in her hand, clutching it to her heart, as they started the IV and pain medication. Dr. Vogl marched in and it began. They don’t put you completely out, for some reason we could never quite understand. “I like to talk to my patients—who else would I talk to?” Dr. Vogl explained with his dry wit. Farrah went along with it, trying to be strong; I would have demanded they knock me out.

  He gave her an injection of a local anesthetic in a very long needle, which, by Farrah’s reaction, must have been painful. Then he took a scalpel and made an incision in the artery in her right groin. Blood actually spurted up into the air like a fountain. Ordinarily I would have fainted at the sight of that, but somehow being behind the camera buffered the effect. He inserted a small wire tube into her artery and manipulated it with a small machine all the way into the liver. There were four monitors above her, showing what was happening inside her body. I’d never seen anything like this before and it was fascinating. Then he took the syringes of chemo and injected them into the tube, which took them directly to the liver. He did the same thing with the primary tumor in the anal area, and before we knew it, he was done.

  “That is it. It is over,” he said. Then he pulled off his gloves and mask, and went immediately to his next procedure. Apparently he does fifteen to eighteen of these a day.

  Farrah was sleeping lightly, so she wasn’t in any pain, which I was thankful for, and we were taken to a recovery room nearby where she would sleep for a few hours. After four hours, if there was no bleeding, she could leave for the clinic. Unbelievable how quickly and efficiently it all was done. Dr. Vogl came in briefly just before her recovery time was up, checked
her, said she was free to go, and told her he would see her again in three weeks.

  We got into the van to drive us the five hours back to the clinic. We’d made a bed for Farrah in the backseat because she was still pretty groggy. A couple of hours later, I was starving so we stopped at a German roadside place to get something to eat. Farrah popped up immediately and noticed there was a Whataburger inside. Who would have thought they’d have them in Germany? They’re a southern staple, and I know how much Farrah likes them, so of course she insisted on coming in and getting a giant hamburger, which she wolfed down, followed by her favorite drink, a Coca-Cola. She likes her Cokes with lots of ice; she likes everything with lots of ice, and believe me, it’s not easy to get ice in Germany.

  We got back to the clinic at about midnight. Farrah was walking without any problem, and not feeling bad at all. This wasn’t going to beat her. We Texas girls are tougher than that.

  June 3, 2007

  Farrah had her first antibody treatment today, which will fight the cancer and keep it from spreading during the procedure tomorrow. Ryan has been really sweet with her. Today, after the anti-allergy drip, she was so knocked out she just slept all day, and Ryan sat by her bedside, just watching her sleep. He wouldn’t budge an inch…just in case she opened her eyes. He wanted her to know he was there.

  June 4, 2007

  We’re here at the hospital in Bad Tölz, a little town about twenty-five minutes away from the clinic. Farrah’s gone into the operating room now with Dr. Jacob and the surgeon. They’re going to use this special ultrasound procedure to remove the primary tumor, unless it’s too deep in the muscle, in which case she will have to get a type of radiation that will go directly into the remains of the tumor and destroy it. She looked small and scared when she left the room on the gurney.