Cancer on Five Dollars a Day* *(chemo not included): How Humor Got Me through the Toughest Journey of My Life (5 page)

What am I doing? The lymphoma’s not enough? I have to start inhaling smoke, too? Is this some sort of reverse psychology or distraction technique? Take my mind off the cancer by smoking a cigarette? Yeah. Great. Makes a lot of sense. That’s one thing about cancer. You don’t think straight.

Cancer. I have cancer. People die from cancer. My son Derek died from cancer. My grandmother died from it. You know what?
All
of my relatives have died from cancer. This is no bullshit.

I’m dead. I’m really dead. And when you’re dead, you’re fucking
dead.
Like really
really
dead. Not like in all those dopey movies where people actually see dead people. Forget that. Like at the end of
Ghost
when Patrick Swayze says to Demi Moore, “I love you,” and she says, “Ditto.”

I wouldn’t go,
Ditto.
I’d go,
I thought you were dead! Why am I seeing you? If you’re dead, and I’m seeing you, that means I’m dead, too! Holy shit!

My thoughts are racing. My nose starts to tingle and I’m sweating, dripping sweat, the sweat is leaking out of me, and as the desert turns dark, I feel a shadow creeping toward me, and my hands begin to tremble, and I’m cold, freezing again, and here they come, the shakes, and I realize that suddenly I’m scared, scared shitless, scared that I’m going to die without spending enough time with my kids, and that I will never have the life I’ve dreamed about with Melissa, and I just feel fucked, and I find myself inside dialing Dr. Mehldau’s private number, the phone soaked with my sweat. He answers on the third ring.

“It’s Robert. I’m sorry to bother you at home—”

“Robert, what’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter? I have cancer. I’m really anxious. Really scared. I’m sweating and I’m shaking. I’m freaking out. I need a Valium or a Xanax.”

“Absolutely not.”

This I don’t expect. I shift the phone to my other ear. Clear my throat. “Um. What?”

“No,” Dr. Mehldau says.

“Maybe I’m not making myself clear. I’m teetering here. I’m really feeling fucked up and really,
really
scared.”

Dr. Mehldau pauses for a millisecond. He speaks slowly, with infinite patience and calm. “I hear you. I do.”

“I don’t want a whole bottle. I just want one. To get me through the night.” I close my eyes, willing the world to stop spinning.

“Why do you want a Valium?” he asks.

“I told you. I’m having an anxiety attack.”

“Robert, considering what I told you this afternoon, it’s normal to have an anxiety attack. If you weren’t feeling incredibly anxious and scared, I’d be worried about you.”

“You would?”

“Yeah. I’d think there was something wrong with you. I’d think you didn’t care. I’d be concerned that you heard what I said and that you thought of it as a death sentence. I’d be worried that you’d given up.”

“So the fact that I’m freaking out is a good thing?”

“Well, kind of, yeah.”

“Uh-huh.” Now I pause. “I’m talking about one pill—”

“Look, if you were gonna fight Mike Tyson for the heavyweight championship of the world, what would you do?”

“Try to make it to the bathroom without having an accident in public.”

“Seriously, what would you do?”

I rub my left eye, which is now throbbing. “I don’t know.”

Mehldau pushes on. “You’d hire a trainer and a corner

man, wouldn’t you? And a nutritionist, and a sparring partner, and you’d do road work every day, and you’d get videotapes of him fighting and you’d study him. You’d do everything you could to prepare so that when you stepped into the ring for the fight of your life, you’d know all his strengths and weaknesses. Would you do all that?” He holds for a beat. “Or would you take a Valium?”

“No,” I say. “I would do all that.”

“Well, hang up with me, and go on the Internet and start reading all about non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. And when you’re at Mayo, go to the library and do research. Find ways to help you get through it. Read other people’s stories. Find out how you’re gonna beat it. Become an expert.”

I murmur, “Knowledge is power, right?”

“Exactly,” Dr. Mehldau says.

I feel my breathing slow down. My hands have stopped trembling and my body temperature has returned to normal. I no longer feel as if I’m trapped inside an ice chest. A sense of calm washes over me. I know what I have to do. Dr. Mehldau has not only relaxed me, he has given me a game plan.

Since my cancer is aggressive, I have to be aggressive, too. In order to fight, I have to know
what
I’m fighting. I have never been a passive person and I’m not going to start now. I refuse to lay back and let the cancer take over. I’m going after it. That will be my new purpose.

Talk about life throwing you a curve ball. Yesterday I fantasized that in six months I’d be known as Robert Schimmel, sitcom star. Today I’m fantasizing that in six months I’ll be alive. Amazing how fantasies change. Wasn’t long ago that my fantasies involved me and two women in cheerleader outfits.

“Robert?” Dr. Mehldau says.

“Huh?”

“You there?”

“Yeah. I was just thinking about what you were saying. I’m taking it in. The news today? Blindsided me a little bit.”

“I know. Look, I can give you a Valium tonight, but tomorrow morning when you wake up, you’re still gonna have cancer and you won’t have any Valium. And instead of dealing with your disease, you’re avoiding it. You have cancer, Robert. You have to embrace it. That’s how you deal with it. Sounds weird, but it’s true.”

I don’t say anything. I hold the phone close, cradle the receiver.

“You okay, Robert?”

“Yeah. Considering.”

“I know. Listen, I’m here. You can call me anytime. I mean that.”

“Thank you. Hey, Dr. Mehldau?”

“Yes?”

“Will you be my corner man?”

I can feel his smile through the phone.

9:35 a.m. Leaving Arizona, heading to L.A. aboard Southwest Airlines. The desert below is the color of rust. My mission in L.A. consists of two brutal tasks.

One: inform my manager that I have cancer and that I have to walk away from my own television show, the career opportunity of a lifetime. No problem. Only waited twentyfive years for this. My manager has stuck with me through the worst bullshit you can imagine. Guy’s a saint. This news should send him screaming right into the street.

Two: tell Melissa that I’m breaking up with her and that I’m never going to see her again.

The only good thing about Number Two is that it makes Number One seem like a piece of cake.

The flight from Phoenix to L.A. takes a little more than an hour, but it feels like a day and a half. The landing is rocky. I barely notice. Funny how things that used to make me crazy suddenly don’t even make a dent. Like turbulence on a plane. So the plane bounces a little because one of the flight attendants is blowing the pilot. Who cares? I stayed up until three in the morning poring over information about non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma on the Web. Tons of stuff to learn. Of course, I was fascinated by those who didn’t make it.

Jackie Kennedy Onassis, for one, died from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Doesn’t matter how rich or famous you are, cancer is an equal opportunity shit sandwich.

First stop, my manager Lee’s office. The receptionist smiles, asks, “How’s it going, Robert?” I resist the urge to launch into the events of the past twenty-four hours. Nothing gained by making other people uncomfortable, so I mutter, “Fine, great,” and try to smile. Thankfully, Lee appears right away and steers me down the hall into his office. He closes the door. I’ve already given him the headlines on the phone. I fill him in on the details. He listens quietly, making a tent with his fin-gers. We’ve been through a lot of crap together, but this latest pile towers over everything else.

“Obviously, I can’t do the show, Lee. I know how hard you’ve worked for this. I’m really sorry.”

He blinks with a mixture of surprise and sadness. “Robert, the show doesn’t matter. This is about your health. It’s about getting well. I don’t care about the show.”

I know this is show business, the loneliest and most vicious business in the world, but Lee’s reaction touches me. He is a genuinely kind and supportive person. A
mensch.

“What happens now?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “A holding pattern. The network will have to put on something else. I mean, the show is called
Schimmel.
It’s all about
you.
They can’t retool it.”

“What if they try to replace me with somebody else?”

“Like who? There’s nobody else like you.”

“I don’t know. You know how they think. They’ll go with Erik Estrada.”

Lee smiles, shakes his head, then blows out a sigh that could pass as a moan. “What a difference a day makes. Yesterday, June 4th, you had the world by the balls. HBO special, CD deal, sitcom on the air. The hat trick. Twenty-fours later, June 5th, the bomb drops. Boom.”

“Yeah. The Schimmel Touch,” I say. “The Midas Touch in reverse. Everything I touch turns to shit.”

Lee stands up, shakes his head, not disagreeing. He allows a small, ironic smile.

“I’m sorry, Lee,” I say again. “I know this is a kick in the nuts.”

“Robert, your job now is to get better, period,” Lee says.

“We’ll have other chances. You’re a fighter. It’s gonna be all right.”

We hug. A long, silent embrace. More than manager and client who are fond of each other. More than two close friends who’ve shared the same foxhole and fought the show business wars shoulder to shoulder. More like two brothers.

And then, as we cling to each other, Lee murmurs in a soft, low voice, “Just take care of yourself, Robert.”

Now for the hard part.

Breaking up with Melissa.

I’ve figured out what I’m going to say. Practiced it. Got it down.

I’m gonna tell her I’m gay.

Ah, she’ll never buy it. Plus I think she’ll want to try to cure me. I need to slow down. Think this through. And with my life currently whizzing by me at the speed of light, I desperately need to keep everything from careening out of control and crashing. But for some reason this conversation is one I can’t plan. Every time I try to write my “goodbye, Melissa” speech in my mind, my brain locks. Refuses to allow the words to form. Won’t let me go there.

I believe in signs. Symbols. Should’ve seen the signs at all three of my weddings with Vicki. The signs weren’t exactly subtle. I’m talking about huge neon yellow caution signs flashing right in my eyes, blinding me. Somehow I didn’t notice them.

Wedding number one. A justice of the peace presides, a nervous woman in a powder blue suit. She speed-reads our vows through thick half-glasses, her face tight, her lips barely moving. She finishes, breaking some kind of land speed record for completing the marriage vows.

“Congratulations,” she says, packing up her purse. “You can kiss each other, whatever.”

“Would you mind signing the marriage license?” I ask her.

“Can’t,” she says. “I’m late. I was supposed to be in the courtroom down the hall. I’m getting a divorce. I hope you guys have better luck than I did.”

I’d call that a sign. Missed it. A few months later we had that one annulled.

Wedding number two. Las Vegas. We go for
kitsch
. We hit a wedding chapel and are hitched by an Elvis impersonator. Lot of “Love Me Tender” references flying around, but I should’ve known that this was a sign that we’d be impersonating a marriage. Couple years later, “Heartbreak Hotel.” Divorce.

Wedding number three is the biggie. A sign here about as obvious as the burning bush, only, again, I don’t see it.

This time we’re married by a rabbi. The ceremony is trucking along smoothly, no glitches. Everything’s cool until the rabbi, a world-class shrugger, tells me to break the glass, which is the final leg of the wedding ceremony, right before we kiss to seal the deal. I stomp on the hidden shot glass, a tiny mound swathed in a cloth napkin. Only the glass won’t break. I slam my foot down a second time. The glass feels like a lump of concrete under the heel of my leather shoe. Now I lift my knee as high as I can to crush the thing a third time as if I’m making wine. Nothing. By now, the wedding guests are laughing.

“What happens if I can’t break the glass?” I ask the rabbi.

He shrugs in concern. “You
must
break the glass. According to tradition, smashing the glass symbolizes destroying any bad luck that’s surrounding your marriage. You want to get rid of the Evil Eyes, don’t you?”

I whisper, “You say Evil Eyes. I call them my in-laws.” Big-time rabbinical shrug, stifling a laugh this time. After a jab in my side from Vicki’s elbow, I say loud enough to get a laugh, “Rabbi, you wouldn’t happen to have some dynamite, would you?”

I manage to crunch the glass on my fourth try. Everybody applauds, mostly from relief.