My Journey with Farrah - Alana Stewart [35]
I was determined not to get angry or stressed. Just detach and let it go. If we miss the plane, we’ll get another one, I suppose—we’ll just have a lot of pissed-off doctors on the other end. Not to mention the travel agent, who’s changed this reservation about ten times now. It’s Farrah’s surgery, and if she misses it, it’s her problem. Those rationalizations all sounded good, and I actually meant them until about 2:45 when we still weren’t anywhere near leaving. Also, it was a Wednesday, and my astrologer had said, “Under no circumstances can you fly on Thursday.”
By 3:00, I had started to panic a little, but I was determined not to show it. The last time we went, the exact same thing happened. I didn’t speak to Farrah all the way to the airport I was so pissed. I decided to go downstairs and wait in the car, where I could do some deep breathing.
I don’t know why it’s always like this. No matter how many days in advance she has to pack, Farrah still ends up late, with everything all over the place. Everyone is in a panic but her. It’s as if she has no concept of time. She finally arrived downstairs, perfectly cool. I don’t know how. No one else was. I’d spoken to the airport greeter three times, and he kept telling me that if we got there later than 3:15 our luggage might not make it on the plane. Okay, that’s a deal blower for me. If my luggage doesn’t go, neither do I!
Long story short, we made it in the nick of time, with Benny, her houseman, driving like he was in the Indy 500. Farrah was calm and chatty.
“Well, once I’m in the car,” she said, “it’s out of my control. And besides, they always wait.”
“Well, missy, one day they won’t!” I retorted snippily, while quietly praying that, as much as I’d like to teach her a lesson, it wouldn’t be today.
The Lufthansa people were waiting for us, of course, and we breezed through, except for the annoying paparazzi, who followed us all the way to the gate. I was filming them filming her. It was quite a commotion. I was surprised the airport police didn’t arrest the whole lot of them.
The flight was really pleasant. We ate mounds of caviar on the plane, which more than made up for the leathery chicken and mediocre dessert. Farrah fell asleep, as she always does in anything that moves, and slept the entire trip. I took an Ativan and slept for four hours, which for me is a record.
May 29, 2008
We arrived in Frankfurt this morning, dropped our bags off at the Villa Kennedy, and went straight to see Dr. Vogl. He did an MRI and then talked with us.
“There are four new tumors,” he said with a blank expression. “I will do the perfusion in the morning.”
We went back to the hotel, had relaxing “anti–jet lag” massages, and then got ready to go downstairs and meet Dr. Vogl and his wife in the bar for a drink. I went downstairs first, since Farrah was, not surprisingly, running late. I have to cut her some slack on the lateness, she’s been going through such a difficult time. Dr. Vogl was alone, and he and I had a chance to talk. I asked him how he felt it was going.
“You’re her best friend, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. I could sense something was coming.
“I’m concerned by what I saw on the scan. She has more than four new tumors, but I don’t want her to know. She will lose hope.”
I was shocked. He hadn’t been completely truthful with her. “So what will you do?” I asked.
“Continue the perfusions, but more often,” he said. “I’m concerned there’s a seedbed somewhere else and they’re coming from there.”
“Has the original site been checked lately?” I asked.
“I’m going to do that tomorrow,” he answered.
“So what does this mean? If you had to estimate, how long do you think she has?” I held my breath as I waited for his answer.
He thought. “Maybe three years…maybe five.”
“But can’t Dr. Jacob come up with something that will kill the seed ones, the ones in her blood?” I asked.
“It’s possible,” he answered. “This is what she must try to do.”
I was afraid of the answer but had to ask: “Do people