Carrie And Me: A Mother-Daughter Love Story Part 19

Aside from THAT, I will probably do another hootenanny the first week of November if I can work it out with the band. I can't wait to get back to singing and playing music. My breathing is so much better. Just the fact that I can open my mouth and make sounds come out is cause for celebration!

AND THAT is all the news that's fit to report. I can't thank you enough for your e-mails and prayers. I know that all of the good feelings out there have helped me to heal and begin being a "survivor before the fact." I will keep in touch as I can. These next two months may have me "down" for a while, so please understand if you don't hear back from me right away.

Trust me on this: I'm gonna be up and at 'em by the beginning of next year. There's so much more to see and do.

Much love always.

XOXO, C

From: Mama

To: Carrie

Sent: Monday, Oct. 6, 2001

Hi Baby, thanks for calling. It was so good to hear your voice sounding so strong! How terrific that you're sleeping, taking walks, taking baths, and (omiG.o.d!) eating ELK!!! This is just what the doctor(s) ordered. Okay, maybe the elk thing hadn't occurred to them, but I'm sure they'd approve.

Brian and I try not to watch too much of the news. It's so oppressive. Almost a month has gone by since 9-11, and all we can do is pray that Bush gets that sonofab.i.t.c.h, bin Laden.

It makes me so happy to know that you're there in your mountains, healing. I, too, wish you had a longer time to spend there. The important thing is that while you're there, you live in the present moment and not dwell on the clock or the calendar. Know that you are a huge chunk of my heart, and that I believe with all my soul you will be writing and directing and hootenanny-ing long after this trial becomes a dim memory.

I love you,

Mama

To: Mama

From: Carrie

Sent: Oct. 9, 2001

Thanks for all your encouragement, Mama. As for 9-11, I'm so glad I do not have a TV. I cannot wrap my head around it. It's just too horrible. I pray for the souls lost on that day and for their devastated loved ones.

In mid-October, Carrie returned to L.A. for her tests, and the doctors said the tumor hadn't gotten any smaller, which sent us all into a downward spiral. We still hoped that they might be able to shrink it some more in preparation for surgery. Carrie was able to spend some days at her little rental, but there were also days when she had to be readmitted to the hospital because of seizures.

Carrie was in and out of the hospital several times before it became evident that she would have to spend more time there.

She was admitted for the last time in November 2001. I remember tiptoeing into her room. She was asleep, and I sat on her bed and took her hand. She stirred and opened her eyes. She smiled.

"Hi, Mama."

"Hi, Baby." Looking around the room, I feebly joked, "So you couldn't wait to come back here again, huh?"

"I missed the food."

She sketched her heroes, Radi and Kimo, zapping Yuckie Chuckie (who resembled The Blob) with a ray gun, and taped her artwork on the wall of her hospital room so she could visualize the battle raging inside her. As the days went by, she would redraw this scene with Yuckie Chuckie getting smaller and smaller.

We were still working on Hollywood Arms. Carrie and I would kick around some thoughts for scenes to send to Hal Prince. I would take notes, type them out, and fax the new scenes to him in New York. It was the first time Carrie and I had worked in the same room. Until then I had been writing in Los Angeles and she had been writing in her Colorado cabin. And now, here we were, working together in her hospital room, with her in her bed, fighting this tumor. And in spite of it all, she was flush with fresh ideas for our project.

Brian and I were married November 21, 2001, with my girls' blessings.

On December 5 (Carrie's thirty-eighth birthday), I flew back east and attended casting auditions for Hollywood Arms with Hal. The brilliant Linda Lavin had already accepted the role of Nanny. Frank Wood was cast as Jody. Carrie had been in on these choices. She had loved all of Linda's work, and the two of us had seen Frank a couple of years before in his Tony-winning role in the Broadway production of Side Man.

We had both said, "That's our Jody!"

We had yet to find our Louise when the lovely Michele Pawk came in and read for us. The actors' union, Equity, allowed us to tape Michele so I could introduce the new Louise to Carrie. I flew back home and went immediately to the hospital to show Carrie the tape of Michele's audition. Carrie approved wholeheartedly.

She then gave me some wonderful news. "Mama! Guess what! I won the Women in Film award at the Latino Film Festival for my short movie Lunchtime Thomas!!!" She was the first non-Latino to ever win in that category. It was a very happy day. Jody picked up the award and presented it to Carrie a couple of days later, in her hospital room. Again, another happy day. We all visualized Yuckie Chuckie wasting away as Carrie happily polished off the large lunch on her plate, and kept it down!

By late December, Carrie was confined to her bed with an occasional outing in a wheelchair. The tumor in her lung had spread. She had developed some small tumors in her brain, which took away her ability to walk. Her spirits were still up, though, because there was the possibility of an operation to remove them. She was gung-ho and filled with hope. We all were.

The head nurse told me she had asked her one day how come she could smile so much, and Carrie had replied, "Every day I wake up and decide: 'Today I'm going to love my life.' "

"Mama, I want to give a party here in the room on New Year's Eve. You think the nursing staff would be okay with that?"

I checked with the head nurse at the desk and she said she'd be more than okay with it.

On New Year's Eve, Carrie gave a party in her room with her sisters and several friends in attendance. The fare was potluck, and balloons and confetti were the decorations. "Auld Lang Syne" was sung by all at the stroke of midnight, and n.o.body on the floor complained.

Several days later I was dealt a blow when the brain surgeon told me the operation wasn't going to take place. The tumors in Carrie's brain had spread. She would not be leaving the hospital.

Diary entry:

Jan. 3, 2002

Carrie doesn't know. I don't want her to know. She's still hoping the tumors will shrink. I can't lose my baby. Please no, please no, please NO! G.o.d, are you there?

By mid-January, Carrie had grown very weak. I knew she knew what was happening when she handed me a piece of paper with these lyrics written on it.

Dance, dance for me

Dance with the stars