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fusely. He suggested I eat some pure protein—chicken or fish—

right away, then nothing but water until after the test.

As I hung up, relieved but anxious about what lay ahead, Ramon asked, “Fran, have you ever jumped out of a plane with a parachute?”

Tearfully I said, “No, Ramon, I never went skydiving. I’m not a thrill seeker in that way.” And then I really began to bawl. He quickly realized this wasn’t the time to talk about daredevil sports.

“What’s the matter, something wrong?” he asked gently.

I could barely get the words out as I said, “My test didn’t come back so good. The doctors need me to take more. I have to go today.”

Ramon put down his mop and said to me, as if he really knew,

“Fran, there is nothing wrong with you. I can tell in your eyes, you are healthy!” Then he picked up the mop and walked away. Softly, I said, “Thank you, Ramon.”

Both Elaine and Rachel said they wanted to be with me for the PET scan. Wednesday at four-thirty was the time; Nuclear Medicine was the place. John would arrive a bit later after a meeting he had. Camelia would pick me up and drive me to the hospital. Kathy would stay with Esther.

I must say, I was blessed to find myself surrounded by all these very wise and loving women. Each had known what it was to live life, as well as to feel pain and heartache. With them I can speak freely about hormones, cancer, and growing older. Without inhibition or embarrassment I can talk about my estrogen patch, gray hair, or wrinkles. They helped ease me into my new reality as painlessly and shamelessly as possible, pointing out the bumps in the road so I might fall fewer times and trip less.

More and more I believe in a master plan and the subtle maneuvers from the angels above.

When Camelia came to pick me up for the PET scan, I kept pro-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 230

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crastinating. I didn’t want to go back to the hospital. I was afraid to take that test, afraid of what it might tell me. So while she sat with her car keys in hand, waiting, I felt the sudden need to prepare Kathryn a big bowl of spaghetti. I didn’t want to believe this was anything more than a false alarm, but a tiny voice inside me feared the worst. I remember thinking, Is this how it’s going to be for me? In-termittent blocks of remission followed by one cancer after another?

When we finally arrived at the hospital, the two of us navigated our way through the corridors to the dreaded door marked NUCLEAR MEDICINE. I was so grateful to Tom for squeezing me in that I’d brought him a box of chocolates. When Elaine and Rachel arrived, the whole atmosphere of the waiting room lifted. In two minutes we’d taken over and rearranged the whole lobby. Everyone was thirsty and I immediately began doling out cups from the water cooler. Always the hostess with the mostess.

Rachel helped me fill out the forms. It’s so weird checking off the YES box for cancer, hysterectomy, appendectomy, and thyroidi-tis. I looked at her and said, “Can you believe this is me?” One of the questions they asked was whether I might be pregnant. My answer was no. By the time we got down to COMMENTS, all I could write was “Tom is nice.”

It was Tom who took me to get the injection of the radioactive sugar solution. Rachel came along for support and also to use the bathroom. The framed posters, paintings, and photographs that lined the walls were the only memorable landmarks in a maze of otherwise nondescript hallways and doors. Both she and I made a pit stop at what Tom described as the “cleaner” bathroom, and then continued on to the room where I’d get my injection.

Tom said that I’d have to wait at least another thirty minutes to allow the stuff to spread throughout my body. I jokingly said I was going to start a rock band and call it “Radioactive Girl.”

He also explained that a PET scan is particularly effective at 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 231

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photographing the lungs, since they normally won’t take in the sugar at all. So Rachel and I returned to the waiting room, where Elaine sat knitting and chatting with Camelia.

Finally, at around 6 P.M., they led me in for the PET scan. The room itself was on the small side, and they felt only one person should sit with me in there. The rest of the brood sat just outside the curtain in the hallway, well within earshot.

Elaine sat with me initially and gabbed about her grand-children while continuing to knit. She was a comforting presence as I hung on every word about little Ruby, the latest addition to the family. When John finally arrived, he took over for Elaine and filled me in on his meeting.

Through the curtain that divided us from Elaine, Rachel, and Camelia we collectively discussed where we should eat when this was done. After an hour of taking the photos, I got dressed and we all walked over to Ubon, a Japanese noodle house. I kept my cell phone on as I waited for the call from my surgeon, who promised to give me an initial evaluation of the PET scan from the head doctor of Nuclear Medicine.

There we all were, drinking sake and digging our chopsticks into noodles and sushi, when the phone rang. We all froze. I flipped open the receiver as everyone looked on. Doctor #9 was so great about calling as quickly as she did. It was eight o’clock at night, and she was still making calls on my behalf. I wondered how many hours out of each day she actually devoted to her private life, but was grateful for her commitment to her patients.

The first thing she said was, “There’s no sign of cancer anywhere,” and I instantly gave everyone at the table the thumbs-up.

In the morning she said she’d have a team of pulmonary (lung) specialists also look at the film, but that I should relax and enjoy my dinner.

When I hung up the phone, John, teary-eyed, thanked me for 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 232

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putting my thumb up so as not to prolong their agony. The first thing Elaine said was, “Call your folks and we’ll hear whatever you tell them!”

My mom had been extremely anxious all day over this whole thing. Each time we spoke she’d answer the phone before the first ring finished, and this time was no different. It was 11 P.M. in Florida. “Yeah, hello,” she answered, sounding a bit frantic—and rightfully so.

“It’s definitely not cancer, there’s no sign of cancer anywhere!”

I said, rushing to get all the words out.

“Our prayers have been answered, that’s all we wish for, that you should be well,” my mom exclaimed. She sent her love to everyone, told us to enjoy our dinner, and added, “Now we can go to sleep.” I was all aglow, both figuratively and literally. I raised my sake cup to my hero and heroines, and thanked them for their unending love and support.

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O c t o b e r 2 0 0 1

baseball play-offs were in full swing and John, along with some buddies of his, drove to San Francisco for the big Yankees versus Oakland A’s games. I, on the other hand, had been trying to finish this book all week, but had been distracted by re-modeling questions and plans for my November New York trip, so I was really looking forward to being left alone to catch up on the writing. It’s the rare occasion when the house is empty and quiet.

By Friday afternoon everyone was gone for the weekend. No hammering and banging coming from the upstairs, no housekeepers, no assistants, no nothing. Just me and Esther and the gentle sounds of ocean waves. I love the way the house looks when it’s all clean. White flowers in vases everywhere, shiny waxed floors, fresh towels, and crisp linens on the bed. There’s a serenity to my home.

It’s a truly special place and I cherish those peaceful moments when I can enjoy it on my own.

I knew that I needed an ending to the book. But how do you end a story about having cancer when you still have four more years of checkups to go? Every time I’d write something it became a chapter, but not the last chapter. I’d been racking my brain over this for weeks, knowing full well my deadline was fast approach-9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 234

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ing, but had no luck coming up with anything. This was to be the weekend, like it or not.

When I awoke on Saturday morning, I opened my bedroom door to gaze upon one of my favorite views in the house. As the sun sifted through the sheer curtains of my dining room, it cast a soft light on the table and the hydrangeas in my Lalique vase that has female nudes around it. The angel statues that stand atop my side-board were also beautifully lit and especially ethereal looking.

Esther awakened and greeted the rest of the house with me. I decided to not get dressed at all that day, but rather to walk freely about my home nude. Together, we went out on my deck and took in the stillness of the early-morning hour. The fog was thick and the ocean hardly visible. While Esther sniffed around, making her first discoveries of the day, I stretched toward the sky and inhaled the salt air. I decided not to answer the phones, but focus solely on writing the last chapter.

I reentered the house and went into my bath area. I love this room so much. I’d hung a magnificent chandelier from the center of the skylight. There’s an aquarium in this room that adds so much greenery and quiet beauty. I find the fish tranquil as they gracefully swim through the leaves. I changed my estrogen patch. I’m on a Saturday/Wednesday schedule. I don’t take the daily pill because I can’t get it in the amount that makes me feel the best (even-tempered), so I wear a patch and then cut a second patch into quarters, which gives me the perfect amount, and change it twice a week.

Melinda takes the pill version of the hormone replacement patch, but she feels good on one of the standard doses. I don’t.

They advise you to switch the spot where you place the patch each time you change it. I removed it from my left hip and put the new patch and a quarter on my right. I’ve found that eye-makeup remover gets off any residue adhesive from the old side, so I swabbed the area with a moistened cotton pad.

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I was trying to get back into shape, anticipating the upcoming trip to New York where I’d be honored with the Gilda Award at the Gilda’s Club Seventh Annual Comedy Gala fund-raiser. It seemed fitting I accept the honor since I’d spent so much time thinking about Gilda Radner during my search for a diagnosis. The award committee had chosen me the celebrity cancer survivor of the year. Hard to fathom, but nevertheless true.

As I walked past my mirrored closet doors I took in the shape of my body and I liked what I saw. My butt looked firm, my tummy looked flat, the exercise and dieting seemed to be paying off. I saw the little patch and a quarter pasted to my hip, but it didn’t bother me anymore. I remembered how in the beginning I’d cried to John about how much I hated it. It seemed like a brand to me, a reminder I had cancer. I didn’t want it on me, nor did I want the scar where they’d made the incision. Now the scar’s hardly noticeable, and the patch seems more like a medal for bravery.

It’s great being home alone. I never thought the day would come when I’d say that and mean it, but I do. I looked down at Esther and said to her, “Everyone loves you, but I get to keep you all of the time!” She’s just the dearest, sweetest thing, and I adore her. Getting another dog was definitely the right thing to do.

John called to let me know he arrived safely. I told him I planned to walk around the house naked all day. I love to be nude; it makes me feel so free. He said, “Take Esther’s collar off so she can be naked, too. She always likes it when the collar is off and she gets her neck scratched.” He’s a thoughtful “Poppy” and it fills my heart to witness how caring and tender he is with her. So I took off her collar and she did seem to be freer and lighter.

I no longer feel anxiety or any kind of weight on my shoulders.

It comes as a great relief that I’ve arrived at this place in my life. I walked through fire to confront my fears, and thank God, it wasn’t 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 236

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in vain. I now know who I am. I’m comfortable by myself. And that makes all the difference.

Now I’m a new person with a new man, a new dog, a new house, and a new life. There’s so much good that’s come out of the cancer. I feel such compassion for others’ pain. I have deeper friendships and more meaningful bonds with my parents, my sister, and John. I’ve formed new relationships I otherwise might never have had, and renewed old ones that might have remained estranged.

As I toasted a bagel and poured a mug of green tea, Esther ate her kibble. I then retreated to my rocker with my legal pad and pen. And as the waves crashed against the shoreline and the morning sun began to burn off the fog, I wondered how I could write the last chapter.

That’s when I realized I just did.

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“Hope” is the thing with feathers—

That perches in the soul—

And sings the tunes without the words—

And never stops—at all—

—Emily Dickinson

• Acknowledgments
  
• Prologue
  
• A Diagnosis June 12, 2000
  
• In the Beginning October 1997
  
• Dating May 1998
  
• The First Pilot for MTV July 1998
  
• Thanksgiving November 1998
  
• We�re Canceled January 1999
  
• Friends April 1999
  
• John June 1999
  
• The Progesterone Blues September 1999
  
• The Pill May 2000
  
• The Botero and the D&C June 6, 2000
  
• �It�s Cancer� June 12, 2000
  
• The First Night with Cancer June 13, 2000
  
• The Triple C Ranch June 16, 2000
  
• �Now I�m Concerned� June 19, 2000
  
• The Night Before June 20, 2000
  
• The Surgery June 21, 2000
  
• My Week in the Hospital June 22�June 25, 2000
  
• First Week Home June 25�July 2, 2000
  
• Fourth of July, 2000
  
• Sex July 6, 2000
  
• Radiation Treatment? July 9, 2000
  
• The House of Blues September 2000
  
• On Pins and Needles October 2000
  
• Melinda November 2000
  
• Chester Drescher December 2000
  
• New Year�s, 2001
  
• Paris Mid-January 2001
  
• Reunions February 2001
  
• Pet Love May 2001
  
• One Year Later June 2001
  
• Alone, but Not Lonely October 2001