Cancer on Five Dollars a Day* *(chemo not included): How Humor Got Me through the Toughest Journey of My Life (4 page)

“This is really fucked,” I say.

“Well, yeah. But the good news is—”

“I know. See that nurse out there? You’re banging her.”

Dr. Mehldau laughs, shakes his head. I wink at my parents.

“Old joke,” I say. “But if you haven’t heard it, it’s new.”

“The good news is,” Dr. Mehldau repeats, “I’m being conservative. I have to be. But if you’re stage three, which I’m convinced you are, with the treatment here and your attitude, well, I just have a good feeling.”

I swallow, look over at my parents. My mother is wiping her eyes with a tissue. My father is nodding as if he’s
davening.

“What we’re gonna do now is a bone marrow biopsy to rule out stage four. Either way, count on starting treatment Wednesday.”

“Is there a stage five?” my dad asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “A studio development deal.”

“So Wednesday,” Dr. Mehldau says and pats the blanket next to my leg. “Okay?”

I nod, peek at my parents again. I feel dazed, a fighter who’s been sucker-punched and who’s just crawled back to his corner. But somehow, like Rocky, the fighter knows that this is
it,
the fight of his life, and I feel an energy shift—call it my survival instinct or my will—and I say to Dr. Mehldau, “You said I have six to eight months if the treatment doesn’t work and 51 percent of going two years without it coming back, right?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like those two options.”

“I know, but—”

“No.”
I say this too loudly so I lower my voice and say just above a whisper, “There’s another option. A third option. And that is that it never comes back.”

Dr. Mehldau shifts his weight, and in a whisper echoing mine says, “There is a possibility of that, yes.”

“Then that’s my choice,” I say. “I’m going with number three.”

I lock my eyes into his. And instead of lowering his eyes or turning away, he fastens his stare on mine. He is not playing a game and he’s not patronizing me. We’re in this together. That I know, suddenly and profoundly.

“Then number three it is,” he says.

I’m not ready to die. Period.

To begin with, I cannot imagine a future without me in it. Can’t do it. There is no such place. Sorry. I’m still here, in every picture. I look like shit, but I’m here. And I’m gonna keep making people laugh even if I have to stand at the microphone with a quill of IVs poking out of me. I don’t care. I’m not going down without a laugh.

I feel like I’m on speed. My life is whirring by. Every second is accelerated. I’m breathless. Gotta slow down. Can’t. I feel like I’m riding on a bullet train, my face pressed against the window, the world outside racing past, a blur. Cancer, it seems, fucks you up
fast.

They talk about the five stages of cancer, same as the five stages of grief. Well, it’s really six. Because the first one is shock. The other five are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Trust me. Each stage is a bitch. What’s an even bigger bitch is that they’re not necessarily in order and they can overlap. Now, I do have a leg up because being in show business, I’ve already been through all five stages pretty much on a daily basis. Except for anger. Even when I was at my lowest point, I never went there. I just felt that being pissed off would only muddy my already muddy waters. In other words, what good would it do?

Still in the hospital on D-Day (Diagnosis Day) I have not one but
two
visits from clergymen. The first one is a rabbi. Surprisingly young, thin, pasty-skinned, his too-big yarmulke swimming on him. Looks like he’s trying to balance a plate on his head. Very sympathetic eyes.

“How are you?” he says.

“Been better.”

He shrugs. Rabbis shrug all the time. Must be part of their yeshiva training. “I can imagine. Well, I
can’t
imagine, but I can try.” Shrug, shrug.

“The hardest part is accepting that they’re talking about
me,
” I say. “I keep thinking they’re talking about some other guy. I can’t have cancer.”

“That’s human nature,” the rabbi says shrugging once, twice. Looks like he’s doing some weird penguin dance. He raises a bony finger toward the ceiling. “Your vacuum cleaner breaks, you accept it. A lightbulb burns out, you toss it away, get another one. But when it’s us? When we face the Angel of Death? Difficult to accept. Also, we know instinctively that when a lightbulb burns out, the electricity doesn’t die.”

I smile gravely as if he’s just handed me the secret of life. Actually, I don’t know what the hell’s he’s talking about. Lightbulbs? Vacuum cleaners? Does this guy run an appliance store on the side? And if he’s so smart, why can’t he find a yarmulke that fits?

“Thank you, Rabbi,” I say.

“Anytime.” He pats my hand like I’m his
bubbie.
“Do you pray?”

“Sometimes. Usually when I want something really bad.” I want to say like a Porsche or a blow job but I hold back. Instead I ask him, “Why? Do you think praying really helps?”

“I don’t know. But what’s the downside?” The rabbi grins, shrugs like a maniac, and leaves.

About an hour later, a chaplain shows up. This guy’s decked out in an Armani suit, a string tie, cowboy boots, and has really good hair, black, wavy, and lacquered like he’s up for a remake of
Dallas.

“Mind if I drop in for a visit?”

“Not at all. Come on in.”

He flashes a smile as wide as a keyboard. “How are you?”

“Well, you know.”

He nods. He plows his fingers through his hairdo. His hair barely moves. Incredible. Maybe the thing is a hair hat. “Do you go to church?”

“Actually I’m Jewish, so, no, not that much.”

“Sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you by coming in here.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not offended at all. I’ve got cancer. This is not the time for me to play favorites. If Jesus is the main guy, then I’m on his side. I’ve even dabbled with Buddhism. Because at this point, I’m betting win, place, and show.”

The chaplain laughs.

“I’m serious,” I say. “I do not want to get up there and have Jesus say, ‘I’m gonna sit you down right now and show you how many times people asked you to accept me as your savior and you blew them off. Not so fast with the answers now, are you? You sit over there until the Rapture’s done and then we’ll get back to you.’ Uh-uh. You get the word that you have cancer, you want to cover your bases.”

“I hear you. Well, listen, if there’s anything you need. Anything you want to discuss. We can talk, I have literature—”

That’s when I notice the small rectangular bulge in his shirt pocket. Nice. The chaplain’s a Marlboro man.

“There is something you can do for me.”

“Certainly. What is it?”

“Can I bum a cigarette off you?”

The chaplain lowers his chin to his chest and eyes the pack of smokes in his pocket. He raises his eyebrows, as if asking himself, “Hey, how did a pack of cigarettes get into my pocket?” then smiles at me conspiratorially.

“Okay. Sure.” He whips the Marlboros out of his pocket and taps out a cigarette. I snap it away by the filter.

“Thanks, man.”

Chappy smiles, a manly smile, a cowpoke smile. He’d tip his hat if he had one. Then he aims his finger at me. “We’ll talk.”

I’m tempted to say, “Praise, Jesus,” but he’s gone. I study the cigarette in my hand. Cancer stick. That’s what they call these things. I don’t care. I’m dying for a cigarette.

Here’s the stupid part.

I don’t smoke.

I can’t explain it. Maybe I want to tempt Fate. Maybe I want to laugh in cancer’s face. I have no idea. I palm the cigarette, pop it into my shirt pocket for later. Maybe I’ll smoke it while I polish off a fifth of gin.

Yeah. You got it. I don’t drink, either.

The nurse means well.

“We’ll see you Wednesday in the infusion center for your first chemo session,” she says “Right now, I’m sure you want to go home.”

Sounds innocent enough.

I do. I do want to go home.

I’m just not exactly sure where
home
is.

Is home where your heart is?

Or where your family is?

To explain: I’m in love with and am currently living with Melissa. I also love my kids and my parents, still care for Vicki, and I’m currently living with cancer.

What am I going to do?

And then a miracle happens. Or at least something I never expected.

Vicki, who is legally my wife but, as we both know, was about to become my ex-wife, makes an offer that qualifies her for sainthood.

She offers to take care of me. She invites me to her home in Arizona where I can be close to Mayo, my parents, and our children. She volunteers to be my nurse and my caregiver. A remarkable offer. An incredible act of kindness.

“Robert, I know where your heart is,” she says. “I know it’s in L.A. But this isn’t about that. It’s about saving your life.”

I start to protest. She gently cuts me off.

“We’ve been through this before, with Derek,” she says. “I know what to do. I’m willing to do it again. No strings attached. When you’re well, you can move on. I mean it. Think about it.”

I do think about it. I agonize over it.

The truth is, everything Vicki’s said is right. She nursed Derek and she knows cancer. She knows the questions to ask the doctors, what medications I’ll need, the doses, the times, the combinations. She was amazing with Derek. He was diagnosed when he was three years old. The doctors gave him six months to live. He lived for eight years. It was largely due to his indomitable spirit and Vicki’s inexhaustible care. As a caregiver, she’s the best there is. Nobody touches her.

I also want to be close to our kids. I want to spend as much time as possible with Jessica, Aliyah, and Jacob. In another extraordinary act of kindness, Jessica has said that she will leave college for a semester so she can help take care of me.

I want to be near her and Aliyah and Jacob so I can see them whenever I can. I want to know them and I want them to know me, even if we have only a few more months together.

And I want to be near my parents. They are survivors in the truest sense. They will fight with me, next to me, support me in any and every way they can. I know there is a long, rough road ahead and I will need constant care and supervision.

I don’t want to sound patronizing or diminishing, but I just can’t lay all of this on Melissa. As much as I love her and as much as I love
us,
I can’t do that to her. I can’t put her through that. It’s not fair to her. This is not what she signed up for. She’s twenty-six years old. She really does have her whole life ahead of her. As opposed to me. I may have six months ahead of me. Do I seriously want to die in her apartment in West Hollywood, her burden? As much as it’s killing me, I have to end it with her. For her own good. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking of my own good, too.

I make my decision. I will accept Vicki’s offer. I’ll double-check first to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating and then I’ll take her up on it. It is an amazing offer. And it feels like my only choice.

So tomorrow I will fly to L.A. and end it with Melissa. I will break up with the love of my life.

No wonder I need a smoke.

I stand outside Vicki’s house, in the backyard, soaking up the panoramic view of the mountains and desert. Nice house, too. Roomy, comfortable, well furnished.

Something’s wrong with this picture.

The divorce settlement (Divorce number one, was it? Who remembers?) bought her a beautiful home in a desert paradise.

My lawyer managed to scrape up enough of the leftover crumbs so I could afford to rent a one-bedroom rat hole on the fringe of Hollywood. Let’s clear up something right now. Cancer is a shafting, but, it’s a cakewalk compared to divorce.

As the sun starts to dip behind the last mountain peak, the desert sky turns bright orange, and shafts of maroon and silver light stab the desert floor as if through a giant kaleidoscope. The effect is dazzling, hallucinogenic, nature’s nightly light show.

As I watch the sun park itself for the night, I wonder how many more Arizona sunsets I’ll see, and I light up the Marlboro. I take a long, deep drag. Within half a second, I choke on the smoke and start coughing nonstop. My throat is on
fire.
I can barely catch my breath, I’m coughing so much. Finally, I exhale slowly, somehow stifle the coughing, and compose myself. I flip the cigarette over and stare at the burning end. I shake my head. What the hell am I doing? I’m a moron. I’m insane. I have to cut this shit out.

I take another drag.

My throat is
ablaze.
It feels like I’ve jammed a white-hot poker into my neck. Suddenly, a wave of nausea rises up into the back of my mouth. I take one step and my knees wobble. Man, am I dizzy. The desert is spinning. Lights. Dazzling. Dizzy. The sky is
whirling
around me.