Then, in May 1984, a doctor found a lump under her right armpit and ordered a biopsy. The diagnosis: malignant breast cancer. Because the disease had spread to the surrounding lymph nodes, Ireland had to have a radical mastectomy followed by six months of chemotherapy. It was a painful and frightening ordeal, yet one about which Ireland, now 50, says, "I wouldn't change anything, I wouldn't have missed that time." It led to her recently published book, Life Wish (Little, Brown, $17.95), and to a reassessment of her life. Ireland talked with correspondent Eleanor Hoover about the impact her cancer has had on her family and career.
It's hard to believe it was only two and a half years ago that I had my mastectomy. I have changed so much since then. It was in the midst of all that fear of death that I became so aware of life. Of course, that didn't happen right away.
It was my gynecologist, Dr. Ray Weston, who found the lump. I didn't routinely examine myself. I had suffered from mastitis for years and lumps were nothing new to me, so I left that to the doctors. About six months earlier, however, a lump in my right breast had become painful and it worried me. Dr. Weston ordered a mammogram but nothing showed up. I had another checkup several months later and again everything seemed normal.
Meanwhile, I was exhausted. I remember saying to Charlie, "I think I'm terribly ill," but since the doctors couldn't find anything, I told myself it was just me. I translated the fatigue into laziness, so I kept pushing myself harder. Of course, by the time they actually discovered it, the cancer had grown and spread. I don't blame the doctors. I just should have gone back to them and insisted. I should have said, "Look, I'm tired, I'm in pain. Something is definitely wrong."
Dr. Weston wanted me to go into the hospital immediately for a biopsy, but I negotiated for the next morning. At home that night I somehow knew I had cancer. I was so sure that I wrote a goodbye letter to my 12-year-old daughter, Zuleika, telling her not to be sad for long. After the biopsy it was Charlie who told me it was malignant. Our relationship has always been based on honesty. He calls me a straight shooter. I cried and cried. Charlie was in shock and so was I. It had all happened so quickly.
I knew in many ways I was lucky. We knew what it was and that it could be treated. I had a marvelous oncologist, Dr. Michael Van Scoy Mosher, whom I trusted, a wonderful family that rallied around me, a loving husband. Also there was the fact that we could afford the treatment. Cancer can be a devastation financially.
At the time, though, all that didn't help much. Even in my circumstances I felt very alone, very isolated and absolutely terrified. The scariest thing was knowing that the statistics were against me. They had found cancer in too many lymph nodes for me to have a good prognosis.
Surgery took place in June 1984. Afterward, there was this strange, empty feeling on my right side. A few days later the doctor changed the dressing. I didn't want to see myself. I was scared. But finally I looked down. Where my breast had been was a flat surface with a scar running just below my armpit across what would have been the middle of my breast. Charlie looked at it too. We had both thought it was going to be a lot worse.
In the beginning there was a certain amount of shame attached to having lost my breast. When I was with people, their eyes would immediately stray to my chest. But I never really thought that I would be less attractive. I thought I was going to die, and when you're afraid of that, you're not going to worry about your cleavage.
After eight days in the hospital I went home. Things were the same but different. I had cancer. I found I was very needy and very scared. Charlie found it difficult to accept that my life was in danger. Since I am younger, I guess he thought I would always be there. He was very supportive; our love life never suffered. But I wanted to be babied, like in the movies. I had to learn to accept that Charlie couldn't do that. There were people who said, "Don't worry, Charlie will get you through it." What did they think, that Charlie would pull out a machine gun and go rat-a-tat-tat at the cancer cells? Nobody gets you through anything but yourself.
I was scheduled to start chemotherapy two months later. I was to have one treatment every three weeks for six months. I dreaded it. I was afraid that with my history of allergies, I might have a reaction and die on the spot. But there was never any question about my having it. It's the best thing they've got right now.
I don't think I was ever more terrified in my life than I was then, alone with Charlie in that treatment room for my first session, holding his hand and wearing a big ice helmet on my head to try to prevent my hair from falling out. A lot of it fell out anyway. It was a shock. I bought a wig but never wore it. After the chemotherapy ended it grew back as thick as before. The first treatment was over in 10 minutes, and I felt so relieved I even ate a light dinner. I took my antinausea pills, but when I woke up the next day I felt miserable and vomited. I resolved that next time I would take nothing for the nausea, and that helped, although I later developed sores in my mouth and throat. It was almost impossible to eat or drink.
Meanwhile, I wanted to begin to fight back. I decided to let the AMA take care of the physical side of the illness, while I took responsibility for the psychological side. I was desperate and tried all sorts of things. I took long walks, did the I-Ching, astrology. I even wore wooden bracelets so I could knock on them [for good luck]. I had sessions with Sue Colin, a very talented holistic therapist, three times a week. She told me about the therapeutic value of quartz crystals. A crystal is capable of holding and storing electrical currents. I would hold them in my hands and meditate and try to draw their energy into me.
The two things that were to prove most effective, however, were writing my book and meeting Dr. Carl Simonton, a famous cancer doctor and holistic practitioner based in Los Angeles. The book began as a series of notes to myself. I loved the writing. It was a great catharsis. Charlie gave me a free rein, but he didn't read the book; he didn't want to influence me in any way. Now he says he doesn't want to read it because he doesn't want to go through all that again, which I can respect.
Meeting Simonton was a turning point. He has had remarkable success teaching patients to meditate and visualize their cancer cells being destroyed by their white blood cells. He was very blunt with me. He said, in effect, "Jill, if you don't change, you're going to die." I had known for some time about the holistic concept of a "cancer personality," those people who lead such stress-filled lives and handle it so poorly it makes them vulnerable to illness. My gynecologist and oncologist had talked to me about it. They picked up on it from my medical history. As a child I was very accident-prone—car accidents, running accidents, skating accidents, riding accidents—and later I had had miscarriages and all kinds of illnesses. Before I got sick I had been working nonstop for years. I co-produced films and starred with Charlie in 15 of his. There were also the seven children, managing our homes, the horse business. In the year before I got ill, my son Paul had been hospitalized with kidney stones, we adopted our daughter, plus I was recovering from two consecutive leg breaks, one of which refused to heal for over a year.
Nevertheless, it was difficult to acknowledge at first. I thought, "Nobody understands me. I have to do these things—all these chores and obligations." But my son Paul corrected me. He said, "Mother, you're not listening. What they're saying is that you don't have to." It wasn't until I began to change, to slow down, to do things for me, to take a day off and stay in bed because I felt sick, that I realized what I was doing to myself.
Dr. Simonton was the first person to give me the courage to hope. He told me, "The cancer cell is a very weak cell that takes very little to kill. Its power is in the rapidity of its growth." I would tell myself this as I meditated three times a day, visualizing my white blood cells tearing at the cancer cells like piranhas in a feeding frenzy.
After I came off chemotherapy, the producers asked me to co-star with Charlie in Assassination. I wasn't sure I had the strength. Then I wondered, did I look all right? Could I carry it off? I hadn't acted in four years. But I decided to go for it. What better validation for what I had been through than to be there on the screen so that people might say, even 10 years from now, "She did that after her mastectomy."
I feel fine now. I am hoping for remission, but in the meantime I live each day staying in the moment. I find I need a lot of solitude, so I give that to myself. We bought a beach house, where I retreat with my dog, Cassie, when I need to be alone. I write and we take walks. What I think it all gets down to is honoring myself more. You have choices for every hour of the day. Before, I did mostly what I thought I should do. Now I pay more attention to what I want to do. I don't put things off. That's all it's about—taking care of yourself. It's the best thing you can do for anybody you love.
- Contributors:
- Eleanor Hoover.
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