My Journey with Farrah - Alana Stewart [49]
Farrah and I went to Mimmo’s last night for dinner. I was afraid it would be too much for her, but she really wanted to go. Speaking of Mimmo, I was so pissed at him I barely spoke to him. He had called earlier and said there was a big soccer match on Sunday night, so he wouldn’t be able to take Farrah and me to dinner. It reminded me of Rod when we were married. Mimmo goes bicycling all day on Sunday whether I’m here or not, and when Rod and I were married, he played soccer all day every Sunday and then went to the pub with the boys afterward for hours. He’d always come home late for Sunday dinner, which by that time would be stone cold, but not as cold as me. It wouldn’t have been such a big deal except that Sunday was the only day he had to spend with me and the kids because he was in the studio all week.
It became a big issue in our marriage. Now, I look back and think, “Why did I let it bother me so much? Why didn’t I just let him do what made him happy and not take it so personally?” I always end up with men who are completely self-centered and then try to change them, and when I can’t, I get angry at them. I end up feeling, in some way, that they don’t care enough about me and are not making me a priority in their life. Since this has happened with every man in my life, I think I’d better look at myself and my part in it. Funny how history—or at least my history—repeats itself.
I really have to remember that things always work out for the best if you just let go and don’t try to control them or take them personally. God, do I need another thirty years in therapy to figure it all out? By then I’ll be ninety and too old to care.
June 23, 2008
Farrah was so sick last night, I was afraid she would go into one of those all-night marathons of vomiting. I’m not sure what the record is now. Ryan swears it was the night he went with her to Frankfurt for Dr. Vogl’s perfusion, and she threw up for six hours in the van all the way back to the clinic. I still think the record is that seventy-five times in twelve hours, again in Frankfurt.
There was only one nurse here last night. She doesn’t speak English very well and Dr. Jacob was away in Frankfurt. Farrah finally went to sleep, thank God. I slept in her room in case she got sick again.
Today was a brighter day. Now if we can just get our room situation sorted out. I’m starting to smell that musty odor in my new room, which is next to “the mold suite,” and in Farrah’s room as well. They may think I’m crazy, but I know mold when I smell it. Farrah said last night, in the midst of her pain, “We’ve got to get out of here. They’re trying to kill us.” Well, it is starting to feel that way!
And on top of everything else, I have to go to Stuttgart tomorrow for my PET scan. The doctor reads the results to me right afterward. What if they find something and I’m there alone? I know I have to think positively, but there’s been so much shocking, unexpected news on this trip that I’m a little gun-shy.
June 24, 2008
I’m on my way to Stuttgart for the PET scan. I can’t believe that June is almost over. I barely remember it. The surgeries, the doctors, the hospitals and clinics have all blended together into one dreary, wet, German blur. We’ve been hoping to get out and do some filming by the lake or in the mountains. There are so many beautiful places around here in Bavaria, but we haven’t been able to make it. We thought for sure we’d be going home this week, but Farrah doesn’t seem to be getting better fast enough.
Farrah would have come with me for the scan, but she’s just too sick. She had a terrible night. At midnight, just as I was going to sleep, the nurse called me to say that Farrah had started throwing up again and was in terrible pain. They gave her all the right things, but nothing was working. I’d taken an Ativan and could barely keep my eyes open, but I stayed in her room with her. I ended up sleeping there. Every time I’d drift off to sleep, I’d wake up a few minutes later when