Radner - Its Always Something

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Copyright 1989 by Gilda Radner

Foreword copyright 2009 by Alan Zweibel

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster Paperbacks Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

This Simon & Schuster trade paperback edition May 2009

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows: Radner, Gilda

Its always something.

1. Radner, Gilda. 2. ComediansUnited StatesBiography. 3. CancerPatientsBiography. I. Title.

PN2287.R218A31989792.7'028'092 [B]89-6303

ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-4886-0 (Print)

ISBN-10: 1-4391-4886-4

ISBN-13: 978-1-5011-2663-5 (eBook)

My thanks to my literary agent, Esther Newberg, for her feisty belief in me; to Susan Kamil, for opening the door into the world of publication; to Hillary Johnson, for listening to my tale over many lunches, while stirring her tea and my mind; to Rachel McCallister, for protecting me from enquiring claws; and to Bob Bender, my gentle and splendid editor.

Thanks to Bonnie Sue Smith and Anne Leffingwell, my West and East Coast typists; and finally, to Grace Ayrsman, who kept my desk and my soul in order.

To my dear husband, Gene Wilder

W e had so much fun.

Gilda and I were hired to be a part of a new show, to be called Saturday Night Live, and the time we spent together was dedicated to comedy. Writing jokes and creating characters. And boy, it was fun. The mid-70s. Two kids roaming the streets of New York at a time when everyone seemed to be our age. Fellow boomers who shared our life experiences during the same cultural revolution. Wed take subways and long walks and even longer dinners where wed bring legal pads and try our best to make each other laugh. And if we did, we wrote it down. And if it made our SNL colleagues laugh, Lorne Michaels put it on television. The success of the show put us in the company of famous people and allowed us to enter rooms where parties were taking place. We took none of it too seriouslyit was a ride we tried to enjoy without losing our sense of wonder.

Then adulthood set in. Grown-up things like marriages and mortgages and careers that no longer involved each other put our friendship to a test across a country that now separated us. She in Los Angeles and I in New York in a pre-Internet world where handwritten letters and late-night phone calls did their best to keep us connected. But inevitably we drifted apart.

When I co-created a television show in 1986 that required me to move to California, I called Gilda. In an attempt to revive a dormant relationship, I would ask her out; shed accept, and then break the date at the last minute. Time and again this happened and I got angry. She explained that she was sick. That her mind wanted to do things that her body no longer allowed her to do. The doctors called it Epstein-Barr virus and said it would have to run its course. When it was correctly diagnosed as ovarian cancer, a heroic Gilda emerged. She used her fame to shine a light on her sickness and show the world that you can lead a quality life by dealing with it head-on. She looked it straight in the eye and dared it to get the better of her. To prove her point, she went to Lakers basketball games, appeared on the cover of Life magazine, and made cancer jokes on Its Garry Shandlings Show.

Her illness drew us closer. My job was to make her laugh. To take her mind off what was happening to her. Yet one night, during a quiet walk along a California beach, she told me she would have preferred to be a ballerina; that comedy was about what was wrong with the worldpeople laughed because something was too big, or too small, or too much, or not enough. Quirks and exaggerations were the essence of parody. Irony and discomfort the grist for humor. But ballet was about harmony. Poetry in controlled motion. A finely tuned, musically carried body at peace with all that surrounds it.

Gildas contribution straddles both worlds. Her comedy still makes people laugh whether shes loud as Roseanne Roseannadanna or running around like the little girl with whom she was always in touch. At the same time, her pleas for early detection, urgings to celebrate all of lifes delicious ambiguities, and legacy of Gildas Club help people find the ballet in their own lives. I think she would be pleased.

Alan Zweibel

New York, N.Y.

May 2009

I started out to write a book called A Portrait of the Artist as a Housewife. I wanted to write a collection of stories, poems, and vignettes about things like my toaster oven and my relationships with plumbers, mailmen and delivery people. But life dealt me a much more complicated story. On October 21, 1986, I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Suddenly I had to spend all my time getting well. I was fighting for my life against cancer, a more lethal foe than even the interior decorator. The book has turned out a bit differently from what I had intended. Its a book about illness, doctors and hospitals; about friends and family; about beliefs and hopes. Its about my life, especially about the last two years. And I hope it will help others who live in the world of medication and uncertainty.

These are my experiences, of course, and they may not necessarily be what happens to other cancer patients. All the medical explanations in the book are my own, as I understand them. Cancer is probably the most unfunny thing in the world, but Im a comedienne, and even cancer couldnt stop me from seeing humor in what I went through. So Im sharing with you what I call a seriously funny book, one that confirms my fathers favorite expression about life, Its always something.

A man traveling across a field encountered a tiger. He fled, the tiger after him. Coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine and swung himself down over the edge. The tiger sniffed at him from above. Trembling, the man looked down to where, far below, another tiger was waiting to eat him. Only the vine sustained him.

Two mice, one white and one black, little by little started to gnaw away the vine. The man saw a luscious strawberry near him. Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other.

How sweet it tasted!

Zen Flesh, Zen Bones: A Collection of Zen and Pre-Zen Writings, Compiled by Paul Reps