My Journey with Farrah - Alana Stewart [8]
I know it’s upsetting to her on many levels. First of all, her family and her friends read this garbage, and although most of us know it’s not true, it still scares a lot of people who perhaps don’t know how the tabloids lie and exaggerate.
“Can you ever hear me saying those words?” she fumed. “I get all these letters from people who are also battling cancer, and they’re upset because they think I’m giving up. That’s not encouraging them to keep fighting when they hear something like that. Don’t these tabloids realize it’s not just me they’re hurting?”
Farrah can never figure out where they get these stories, since sometimes there are some accurate details involved. Someone has to be leaking information. But this headline goes way beyond an issue of privacy. It’s becoming very clear to Farrah—and to me—that her cancer battle is not just about her anymore. People have always looked up to her—she’s the golden girl, an American icon, the picture of beauty and vitality. But now they’re looking to her for another reason: hope. And she’ll be damned if she’s going to let anyone—especially some vicious, lying tabloid—steal that hope away.
Christmas 2006
Farrah finally finished her last week of radiation and chemo right after Thanksgiving. The holidays and several delays had made it run longer than planned. She was too sick to celebrate Thanksgiving, but we were hoping by Christmas she would feel more like herself. We have this tradition of making pies and cornbread stuffing on Christmas Eve.
But the radiation and chemo have taken a terrible toll on her. I had my usual Christmas dinner with my kids and a few close friends, but in the end she wasn’t up to it. I promised her I’d make extra food and send some over, which I did. I always make the same down-home Texas Christmas dinner that my grandmother cooked when I was growing up—the food that Farrah and I both love. Farrah and I were very specific about our Texas food and how it had to be cooked: turkey with cornbread stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, creamed peas, brussels sprouts, giblet gravy, and, of course, our favorite pecan pie and coconut meringue pie.
The new year is approaching, and I always feel like it brings new hope—like you can wash away the past and start fresh. Farrah has high hopes for a full recovery, as the doctors have promised. I have high hopes that all of this will seem like a bad dream one day soon and our lives will be back to normal.
“Don’t worry, honey,” I told her. “Next year we’ll be back in the kitchen, cooking up a storm together.”
February 2, 2007
I feel like the dark clouds have finally lifted. Farrah called me today: the doctors have declared her cancer free. Apparently the radiation and all that pain were worth it. We screamed our heads off on the phone—such joy! Such relief! The nightmare is finally behind her. Life can get back to normal.
There are so many things she’s missed the last few months. We planned to have lunch and go shopping as soon as she was a little stronger—a girls’ day out and a celebration of life.
May 14, 2007
The last few months have been a relief—until today. Farrah’s life was finally back to normal. She was getting back into her art (she’s an amazing painter and sculptor), she was spending time with her loved ones, and she was making plans for the future.
And then today she went back to UCLA for her checkup. Everyone, including the doctors, was in shock: the cancer is back. It’s the word she most dreaded hearing: recurrence. Ryan was supposed to take her in to meet with her doctors to hear what they felt the next step should be, but his car wouldn’t start. So she grabbed her little handheld camera to help her remember all the information they were certain to throw at her, and took off to face it all by herself.
Her doctors want her to do this radical surgery that is horribly invasive and would mean part of her intestines would be removed and she’d have to wear a