Everybody's Got Something (14 page)

M
omma died on Thursday, August 30. Her homegoing celebration was the following Wednesday, September 5. By the time I returned home on Thursday, September 6, I was exhausted. But I was also aware that on some level, I had to put my grieving on hold. My doctors had explained to me that the transplant battle was as much a mental battle as a physical one. There was no way that I could begin to process the full force of losing my beloved mother and be strong enough, focused enough, to go through the transplant process as well. My siblings insisted that in her passing Momma had given me an incredible gift. Dorothy said, “Mom is where she is so she can do even more for you.”

As we began to ready for my transplant, there was yet another loss to endure. I had to say good-bye to my Jack Russell terrier, KJ, who had been my constant companion, my baby, for more than fifteen years. It was necessary that my home be completely sterile when I returned from the hospital after my transplant. Sergio thought it best that KJ not be there during my post-transplant recovery. It would be too easy for her to track in germs from her walks.

From the Memorial Sloan-Kettering advisement for allogeneic transplant patients:

Friends in the city offered to take KJ, but I knew it would be too tempting for me to want to see her. Jo and Kim live in Maine, where KJ would have plenty of space to roam. KJ adores Jo and Kim and is always happy to see them. They have huge Great Danes that are so gentle and loving.

We called it Camp KJ and tried to make light of the situation, but the day I handed KJ over to Jo and Kim was indescribably sad. I let her sleep with me in my bed the night before she left. All I could do was cry and hug her.

From the Memorial Sloan-Kettering advisement for allogeneic transplant patients:

I’m normally one to follow the rules, but not this time. Amber and I found a midway point to hand over KJ so Jo and Kim wouldn’t have to drive all the way from Maine. We met by the water in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, for an early dinner. I didn’t have much of an appetite, knowing that KJ was waiting in the car.

It took me a while to actually hand over KJ in the parking lot. I kept checking and double-checking her sleepaway kit, making sure she had all her favorite toys and her bed. It was like Jo and Kim were taking temporary custody of my four-legged, furry child. People recognized me in the parking lot and wanted autographs and pictures. Many had been following my journey and knew my transplant was near. They were so encouraging and uplifting but I was a mess. I kept saying, “I’m so sorry, KJ.” But as we drove off, I knew she was going to be well taken care of. I didn’t have to worry about her, and I could concentrate solely on getting well—and getting her back. Sergio told me that at one hundred days, I could have her home with me. That became a big goal. Anyone who has loved a pet like I love KJ understands. They love you unconditionally and ask for so little in return.

After we dropped KJ off, I realized that the last time I would have seen most of my friends and colleagues was at Momma’s funeral. It was Sunday, September 9, and the following day I would check into the hospital for ten days of chemo, followed by my transplant and then isolation. I decided on the spur of the moment to have a party.

Amber and I threw the party together quickly, and the apartment began to fill up. Josh Elliott and George Stephanopoulos were there. Josh, remembering how much I loved walking down to the corner store as a kid, brought me a six-pack of RC Cola. That six-pack is still sitting on my kitchen counter; every time I see it, I smile. What a gift it is to have friends who really know you. What a gift you give someone when you listen with your whole head and your whole heart. That story of me and my RC could have gone in one ear and out another. But Josh was, and is, so fully present when we spend time together. If you’re reading this book and wondering, “What can I do for someone I know who’s going through his or her something?” Know that your gesture doesn’t have to be grand. Be present. Listen.

My transplant specialist, Dr. Sergio Giralt, urges his patients to Keep It Boring. He means that everything should just tick along without anything interesting happening. In the world of transplants, interesting is rarely good. But that night at my apartment, looking out onto the Hudson River, with New Jersey and my fond memories of my father’s family—my Jersey relatives, I call them—twinkling in the distance, we absolutely did not keep it boring. We caused a ruckus. It was a
rager
. People were doing shots and telling jokes, dancing and crawling all over the couch, you would’ve thought it was a frat party, not a party in the home of a distinguished (wink!) television journalist.

It got so late that I had to start kicking people out. “This is great,” I kept saying. “But I am going into the hospital tomorrow. I should probably try to get a couple of hours of sleep.” Josh was one of the last to go. I swear he is like a teenage boy. He is a bottomless pit. After the caterers left, I found Josh in my kitchen, rummaging through the fridge, looking for leftovers. Hilarious.

Throwing that party was the best way to head off to the hospital. I know there are some people who would save the celebration for the other end, when the transplant is over and the numbers are up. I always believe better days are coming, but I’m not going to wait to embrace the perfectly imperfect moment that is now. That night of our party I felt it so strongly in my bones: “I’m still here and I want to live. I want to show the people who love me that this is a chapter I’m about to go through; it is not the end of the book.” Was it going to be any better if I had spent that night in the apartment crying alone or with Amber? That party gave me strength before embarking on ten consecutive days of chemo: It reminded me that despite the devastating loss of my mother, I was still alive and I had so many people who wanted me to live.

I was going to shave my hair completely before I went into the hospital. Then I decided to have the party, and I knew George would bring his two young daughters. And I thought, “You know, I don’t need to be completely bald with these young girls here.” And even though they’re really cool girls, Elliott and Harper, I wanted to spare them a little. So I asked Petula to just cut it short, kind of like a buzz cut. I called it my Halle Berry.

When I checked into the hospital, Petula came to cut my hair all off because it still wasn’t short enough. Dr. Giralt said, “You don’t want to wake up with clumps of hair falling out.” And there was going to be a time when my platelets would be so low that they couldn’t shave it, for risk of infection. So Petula came to the hospital and I said, “Really, we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Having my hair shaved again was such a difficult moment for me. It felt so unfair to have to go down this road again. I had agreed to let ABC tape various moments of my journey for a future
20/20
special, but I also was firm that I wouldn’t decide until well after the transplant what I wanted to share on air.

The special has since aired, and for all the moments of vulnerability, there’s only one moment that makes me flinch—seeing myself having my hair shaved—because I can see on the screen how angry I was. I’m not that kind of person. I’m never that harsh. But when I was speaking, it was as if I were speaking to the disease and I kept saying, “I’m in control. I’m in control. I will decide when my hair comes off. Not you.”

I might not have liked how I looked at that moment or the venom in my voice, but what I was feeling was real. I am not Saint Robin. I have good days and bad days. Triumphant moments and moments that make me weep like a baby who just wants to be held by her momma. Petula shaving my hair before I endured chemo, again, was one of those weeping moments. Just pure vulnerability.

I know I’m not alone in how punishing it felt to lose my hair. There are studies that show that many women find losing their hair more painful than losing a breast. It’s not all vanity. Hair is how we express ourselves. Our hair frames us. I was drawn to the song India Arie wrote for Melissa Etheridge after she had chemo and would appear on stage with a bald head. And I used that as my anthem:

And I’m like, that’s right, that’s who I am. The inspiration she provided me on my breast cancer journey led to me getting in touch with India Arie for a
GMA
segment on alternate careers for the show. We all took tests and I was assessed as having strong potential as a stand-up comedian. I love to joke around, and one of my catchphrases, as
GMA
viewers know, is the Dr. Evil/Austin Powers quote, “Magma!” The tests also said that I had the potential to be a good songwriter. I decided to try the latter, and India Arie helped me write a song, “A Beautiful Day”:

There was only one moment when I threw my weight around. I had a room picked out, but I was admitted into the hospital later than expected (because of Mom’s funeral), so they gave me a different room. But I needed that window. I knew how my spirit would have crumpled without a view. I know that it’s not always possible in a hospital, given cost issues and insurance drama. But as patients, we often put up with what we don’t want because we don’t want to be a bother. I’m telling you as someone who has faced a life-threatening illness, not once, but twice: Be a bother. Or better yet, find a family member or a friend who’s good at that stuff, and let her or him be a bother on your behalf. Remember, there are no bonus points for being mild and meek when you’re fighting for your life.

I think I was still feeling the party spirit because I remember, early in the chemo pre-treatment, setting up a contraband drawer in my room. I asked my friends to sneak in a Gray’s Papaya hot dog. Boy did I pay the price for that hot dog. But half the fun was sneaking it in and half the fun was how good it tasted.

It was so soon after my mother’s funeral, yet I had to shift my focus entirely to ten days of punishing chemotherapy that would prepare my body for the transplant that, the good Lord willing, would save my life.

Amber did a brilliant job of rallying my friends to keep my spirits and energy up. As she tells it: