My Journey with Farrah - Alana Stewart [11]
“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,