Take Me Home From the Oscars: Arthritis, Television, Fashion, and Me Read online

  take me

  HOME

  from the

  OSCARS

  ALSO BY CHRISTINE SCHWAB

  A Grown-up Girl’s Guide to Style

  Quickstyle (published under the name Christine Kunzelman)

  take me

  HOME

  from the

  OSCARS

  Arthritis, Television, Fashion, and Me

  CHRISTINE SCHWAB

  Skyhorse Publishing

  Some names and identifying characteristics have been changed. Some sequences and details of events have been changed.

  Copyright © 2011 by Christine Schwab

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  www.skyhorsepublishing.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-61608-264-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  DEDICATION

  Twenty-one years ago, after seeing four doctors but getting no definite diagnosis, I was recommended to a “young, cutting-edge rheumatologist at UCLA”—his name was Kenneth Kalunian. Without hesitation he diagnosed me with rheumatoid arthritis, even though my tests were not conclusive. He led me through my medical journey with hope and the best possible care. He never once gave up on me or my disease. Whatever the problem was, he had an answer, a solution, a hope for the future. Without him this story would not have been possible. How do you say thank you to someone who gives you back your life?

  Dr. Ken Kalunian, this book is for you and all the people you help with your incredible medical care and your unwavering dedication to research.

  Dr. Ken Kalunian

  CONTENTS

  1. Nobody Walks Out of the Academy Awards

  2. Sneakers to the Rescue

  3. Gulping Tylenol

  4. No Time for Derailment

  5. Rockin’ to the Pointer Sisters

  6. Losing Control

  7. Playing with Fire

  8. Pepperoni Pizza at Cedars

  9. Running at Steroid Speed

  10. An ET Christmas

  11. Stable Until Ready

  12. Here Today, Gone Tomorrow

  13. Oprah, My Best Friend for a Day

  14. Rejected for the Rat Cage

  15. Just Do It…

  16. And the Results Are…

  17. The Robo Arm Makeover

  18. The Enbrel Honeymoon

  19. Nightly and Me

  20. Double-Dipping at UCLA

  21. This Grown-Up Girl’s Osteo Race

  22. A Makeover for Arthritis?

  23. The Future

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  by Deborah Norville

  How appropriate that Christine Schwab’s very personal book should reference the Oscars. If anyone deserves a gold statuette for “Best Actress,” it is she. For virtually all of the more than twenty years that I have known her, I did not know she was putting on an award-winning act. Smiling through the pain, improvising ways to accommodate physical limitations—and all the while terrified someone would discover her secret.

  When she wore sneakers with the laces undone, I figured it was just my oh-so-stylish fashionista friend once again at the vanguard of style trends. I thought nothing of the wrap coats. Hands in the pockets during a walking interview on camera? She’s just cool. I had no idea it was all part of an elaborate ruse Christine Schwab was orchestrating to keep her disease deeply hidden from everyone except her immediate family and her doctors.

  Incredibly, Christine’s “secret” was not a terminal illness or a highly contagious disease. It wasn’t connected with promiscuous behavior, illicit drugs, or over-indulgence of any sort. But as a television commentator whose beat was fashion, it may as well have been. Christine’s shame was she had RA, rheumatoid arthritis. Never mind that RA strikes women in their prime, usually between 30 and 50. Forget the fact that it’s an autoimmune disease that is not contagious. Most people don’t know and don’t care: they hear arthritis and they think “useless gnarled old person.” If Christine were to live to be one hundred, that description could never be applied to her.

  I will always remember the day I met Christine. How could I not? It was my wedding day and there were two radiant women at the reception. One, of course, was me, the bride—thrilled to have just said “I do” to my best friend and the man of my dreams. The other was this woman I’d never met—the beautiful woman who was glowing while we cut the cake. She was the guest of the man who discovered me when I was in college and gave me my first television opportunity. I knew when my friend Shelly Schwab asked if he could bring a date to our wedding, she must have been someone special. You know, the kind of date who’s got ‘long term potential.’ When I saw them together at the reception, I immediately thought, “I hope you were listening, because you are definitely going to be repeating the vows I just said.”

  In fact Shelly and Christine did get married and she and I soon became fast friends. Though she was based in Los Angeles and I was in New York, we saw one another frequently. She’d contribute fashion commentary and expertise to my television show or someone else’s or we’d grab lunch when she was in town for the fashion shows or a public appearance. Christine was everything I aspired to be: polished, put together, and endlessly positive. I lived through her exciting stories of life on Hollywood’s front lines with Shelly, who by now was a serious power player in the television business. When she wrote her wonderfully accessible books on everyday style, it encouraged me to try putting words down on paper. If there was a “Golden Girl,” it was Christine.

  But appearances deceive.

  Christine’s email telling me she’d written another book was no surprise. Of course she’d written another book—the woman’s a dynamo. I loved the title: Take Me Home From the Oscars. “Oh, goodie,” I thought! “A wonderfully dish-y book on life in Hollywood’s inner circle. Deals, dinner parties, what the stars are really like.” Her book will be an instant hit! I was honored when she asked if I would contribute a couple of words of support.

  When the manuscript arrived, the subtitle stopped me cold. Rheumatoid arthritis? Christine? It didn’t make sense. I began reading and my eyes and heart were opened. Of course I never knew. If all of us live in a youth-oriented society, Christine worked in a youth-obsessed industry. Only a handful of people reach Christine’s level of success in television. Given the fickleness of the business, even the slightest hint of something amiss, especially a chronic illness associated with disfigurement, would result in the phone going silent almost overnight. The demand for Christine’s expertise would dry up and all those years building a brand as a respected authority on fashion would be for naught.

  That’s why Christine asked me to write a few words for her book. She
knew I understood. I too had battled rheumatoid arthritis, not as a patient, but as the daughter of a woman who bravely battled the disease for more than half the time I had my mom. Diagnosed when I was ten, my mom died of complications of rheumatoid arthritis when I was twenty. My heart broke to think of the physical agony I knew Christine had experienced. I completely understood the fear that rode sidesaddle with her as she looked for medical help. Would the doctors find a treatment that helped? Would her career be over if her disease were “outed”? More chilling, the question she dared not let form: Would Shelly stand by her? It’s no secret that three out of four couples dealing with chronic illness get divorced.

  Someone once said, “To see your drama clearly is to be liberated from it.”

  With clarity of vision that can only come from deep introspection, Christine Schwab takes readers on a journey through a life that has certainly been dramatic. From her childhood bouncing among foster homes to the tough years as a young woman trying to make it, it’s easy to understand why Christine feared her happy-ever-after ending of the perfect mate and career success would be decimated by RA. Christine’s entire life had been punctuated by rejection. Perhaps that cycle hadn’t been broken after all?

  Ultimately the drama of Christine’s RA is liberating, both for her and for the reader. In exquisite prose, she explores the lasting impact of her life experiences and gently encourages us to do the same. Her odyssey through the mysteries of her disease is infuriating, bewildering, yet ultimately inspiring, as her perseverance in demanding the right care results in a treatment that’s put her disease in remission. We are all better advocates for ourselves and our families thanks to the lessons shared by Christine.

  Finally, Christine shares with us this realization. True love isn’t shattered by the vicissitudes of life but rather strengthened by it. St. Paul got it right in his letter to the Corinthians: “Love bearest all things.” Indeed, I suspect today if Christine Schwab says, “Take me home from the Oscars,” it’s not for any reason other than home with her very special husband is the only place she wants to be.

  Life in my world didn’t get any better than attending the Oscars . . . that is if you can stay for the show.

  1

  Nobody Walks Out of the

  Academy Awards

  MARCH 27, 1995

  “Welcome to the 67th Annual Academy Awards,” the handsome young valet attendant said as he opened the door of our black town car. As he reached in to help me out, I quickly slipped out of my sneakers and into heels. I stepped onto the red carpet, reached for my husband’s hand, and took my first deep breath of the fresh spring air that was alive with anticipation of the evening to come.

  Thousands of anxious, screaming fans overflowed from the temporary bleachers lining the Boulevard. The thunder of their cheers made the wooden structures sway. Hundreds of paparazzi crowded shoulder-to-shoulder, yelling celebrity names in hopes of getting that one perfect shot.

  Producers dressed in their black-on-black event outfits pushed through the crowds, talking on their headsets, confirming which stars had arrived and were ready for live television interviews. Publicists, their worker-bee status obvious from their nonjeweled business attire, scurried behind their celebrities, making sure every hair was in place, each piece of lint removed, before the red-carpet cameras rolled.

  The imposing Shrine Auditorium stood at the top of the staircase, waiting for the arrival of the biggest names in entertainment. I wore my new black taffeta Ralph Lauren dress and sheer coat with fabulous chandelier earrings that dusted my shoulders as I walked. Judging from the stares of the crowd, on the outside I looked Oscar worthy. On the inside, the pain pills that I had just managed to swallow as the limo pulled up to the Shrine were attempting to mask my secret inner battle. I had only one goal: Make it through the evening.

  It doesn’t get much better than the Academy Awards for those of us who work in entertainment, as both my husband and I did. Hollywood boasts dozens of awards shows, but being invited to the Academy Awards is considered the pinnacle of success. Shelly was president of television distribution at Universal Studios. I was a television style reporter, working on Entertainment Tonight, Oprah, NBC Nightly News, and Live with Regis and Kathie Lee. We had met eight years earlier at the Hollywood Television Executives luncheon at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, and married three years later, to the day. Life was paradise. Little did we know that over the next seven years a chronic disease would invade my body and try to take it all away from us.

  We were truly a power couple. Our social life involved premieres, screenings, political functions, charity events, and glamorous parties. Our business life involved power brokers and celebrities; Shelly worked in back of the camera, I was in front. Given my family roots, it was the least likely place for me to end up.

  On this warm March afternoon we walked up the red carpet at the Oscars with hundreds of A-listers. Waiting for the auditorium doors to open, Shelly chatted with Lucy Salhany, president of television at Fox, and David Geffen, who had recently launched DreamWorks with Steven Spielberg and Jeffrey Katzenberg. Geffen defied the traditional tuxedo with his trademark black T-shirt and suit. I remembered thinking he looked like a young man who had crashed the party. Because of the throbbing pain running uncontrollably through my body, I couldn’t concentrate on anything they were saying, but that was fine because spouses are almost invisible when executives are together. They didn’t notice me shift from foot to foot, trying to find some relief from the pressure of standing on my swollen feet, which by now were bulging out of my designer shoes. Today, because of the unusually hot weather, every woman’s feet were most likely hurting, but my pain was from rheumatoid arthritis, a disease that was taking over my body and, unfortunately, my life.

  The medical definition of rheumatoid arthritis is an autoimmune disease that causes chronic inflammation of the joints and also other organs. Autoimmune diseases are illnesses that occur when the body’s tissues are mistakenly attacked by their own immune system. The immune system contains a complex organization of cells and antibodies designed normally to seek and destroy invaders of the body, particularly infections. The definition that really hit home for me was simply when my doctor said that my immune system was attacking itself, actually eating away at my own bones and joints. Today that was exactly what it felt like. The gnawing made my insides scream with pain each time I made the slightest movement with my feet, or the smallest shift of a leg. A tiny step felt like bits of gravel were grinding against the bones in my feet. Even when I was standing completely still my body ached, but I had to keep my outside together.

  Shelly and I sought out a place in the shade even though the celebrity viewing was not as good.

  “Shelly, I’m melting,” I complained, dabbing at my forehead, trying not to disturb my makeup.

  “It’s not too bad. Maybe you’re just overheated,” he said, distracted by all the hoopla.

  “Maybe,” I replied. I didn’t want to let on that I was having one of my bad days. Lately there had been far too many bad days, and I had decided my husband ought not to have to deal with every one, especially at the Academy Awards.

  I continued shifting from one foot to the other, trying to alleviate the throbbing pain that pulsed its way up from my aching feet into my calves and thighs. I couldn’t find a comfortable position. Shelly put his arm around my waist to steady me. “Are you okay, Christine?”

  “I’ll be fine. I took another Percocet for the pain in the car, but it hasn’t kicked in.”

  Shelly lifted the hem of my long skirt. “Ah, your feet are swollen. You should have told me you were having a bad day. Let’s sit inside where it’s cooler.”

  “But we’ll miss everything,” I complained. “Nobody’s inside yet.”

  “No, you’re hurting. We’re going in,” he said, firmly taking my black-lace-gloved hand and supporting me as we entered the almost vacant theater. Frustrated, I looked around at all the empty seats. Nobody took a seat early. Nobody.


  “Great seats,” Shelly said as we sat down to the left of the stage. Seat fillers were busy removing life-sized pictures of the celebrities whose seats they would fill as stars were called to the stage. Stage managers and directors rushed up and down the aisles checking last-minute details. Tuxedoed cameramen positioned themselves around the aisles, trying to memorize the nominated celebrities’ seats so they wouldn’t miss any important shots.

  Shelly leaned over to give me a kiss. “It’s about twenty degrees cooler in here,” he said as his lips touched the salty taste of an escaped tear making its way down my cheek. “What’s this, you’re crying?” he whispered. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I answered, trying to sound calm.

  “Why don’t you slip off your shoes?”

  “I can’t. My feet are so swollen I won’t be able to get them back on.”

  I faced forward to prevent him from seeing another tear escape. The tears from pain mixed with frustration and embarrassment continued to roll down my face. I reached for my sunglasses before anyone could notice. The orchestra played the nominated songs as guests began to file in to their seats. Each time someone entered our aisle, we had to stand, fold our seats, and move back as far as possible to make way for the full dresses. Each time I stood the pain shot a little farther up my body. I tried, unsuccessfully, to get comfortable in my chair. Shelly grimaced at me, “Christine, you don’t look so good, are you going to be okay? This is a long show.

  “I’ll be . . .” and then I couldn’t talk. I could only dab at the tears. Excruciating pain pierced every crevice of my body. My feet throbbed, begging to be let out of my shoes. The swollen joints in my body felt as if they were trying to break through my skin to find more room. I couldn’t sit still. Just the brushing of Shelly’s coat sleeve against my arm hurt. Nobody cried at the Oscars unless it was during an acceptance speech.