Category Archives: Media

And then it all got kind of weird. There had been talk of Diane and I going to New York on Tuesday to be part of the audience for the live taping of the Dr. Oz Show. By Sunday night we hadn’t heard whether tickets were available, so Diane and I decided it wasn’t going to happen. There was no school on Monday in honor of Martin Luther King Day, and I took Pete and a friend of his to lunch and a film. Around 1:30 p.m., messages were left on my cell phone and our land line by a producer (not the same one I interviewed with). I didn’t listen to these messages until a little after 5 p.m.  What I heard was that the tapes were great, and they really wanted all three of us to be part of the live show. I called back, and was told, ‘oh hi Linnea, sorry, due to time constraints, we couldn’t reserve a place for you’. Um, okay, I responded, feeling a bit stunned.

I then called Diane, who had also left a message, and who relayed that both she and the other interviewee, Eileen, would be traveling to New York on the network’s dime and would be scripted into the show.

Talk about odd (wo)man out. Nonetheless, I said to Diane, well, that’s alright. However, her response was, ‘no, it’s not’ and I said, yeah you’re right. It’s kinda rude, and what about solidarity?

So I left a message on producer number two’s voice mail, expressing my misgivings about the propriety of this situation. I followed up with an email to producer number one, whom I’d felt such a connection with. As I described in brief what had transpired, I summed up my current emotional status in rather plain language; I said I felt hosed.

In the meantime, Diane (had my back, she did) called producer number two to say ‘hey, what’s up?’ That producer called me back, with all sorts of excuses, (time, budget, etc…) as well as the explanation that the first two out of the three of us to have called back were going to be on the show. But then why, I said, did you say in your message that you wanted all three of us? So, so sorry. Nothing personal. And that, in fact, the budget allowed for me to attend the show, but I would only be part of the audience. My response? No thanks, that would actually feel even worse than not going.

So then the first producer emails me back, very upset. This has all gone down without her knowledge. She is so sorry, and could she call me. I give her my number. She emails back that she’s been called into her boss’s office.

Some time later, she rings. Again, she apologizes (and I believe her, I feel she is truly a caring person). However, after talking with her boss, the bottom line is, there is no more room on the stage. Two experts, two guests (the other women), and Dr. Oz. Five max. But, I can come, and sit in the front row, and they might ask me one question.

I really like her. I do. We could be friends. So I tell her the truth: that I spent enough (humiliating) time in high school warming benches (I was the girl who tried out for everything but who also really sucked–probably key to my evolving tenacity), and that this felt like a consolation prize, and thanks for trying, but no thanks. And then I explained, that this wasn’t about personal glory. If I was going to be famous, I sure didn’t want it to be because I had lung cancer. That I agreed to do these media gigs in the first place, because I thought it was important, and the right thing to do. And that I was never compensated for my appearances (in fact, in order to make them happen, would rearrange my own schedule, often travel long distances, spend hours of my own (precious) time and even personal funds), but that the one thing I required in return was respect. And that had just been denied, this all felt really shitty, and I really wished the silly invitation to attend the show had never been extended in the first place.

It wasn’t her fault, (producer number one) and I continue to really like and respect her. And, without a doubt, the show went on without me.

Once, many moons ago, I  followed a boyfriend to New Haven, where he was in school. I supported myself as a clerk at Dress Barn and posing as a figure model in the art school at Yale. I also lived in an old victorian with six other people, all students. My room was in the attic, in what was once the servants’ quarters, and across the hall was a brilliant young man working toward his PHD in physics. We became good pals, and one day he invited me to share his dinner. I sat and chatted with him as he stirred olive oil and garlic into spaghetti, and then watched, amazed, as he dished the pasta onto only one plate and then began to eat it.

“But Jonathon”, I said, “you invited me to join you”. “Yes”, he responded,” but it turns out there is only enough for one”.

That is what my experience with the Dr. Oz show ultimately felt like. I had been invited for dinner, but upon arriving, had been told there was no room at the table for me, and that perhaps I would like to take a seat in the pantry.

I’m certain Diane and Eileen performed admirably on Tuesday, and hopefully the show will bring more attention to lung cancer. I hope it will ultimately be something I can feel good about. For the moment, it has left a bad taste in my mouth.

The moral of the story; if you agree to participate in any sort of media project, realize that, just as the second producer said to me, it’s not personal.

im·per·sonal (im pʉr′sə nəl)

First of all, snow. Snow, and more snow.

And it hasn’t been just the white stuff that’s been whirling around:  I’ve been on a bit of a spin cycle myself. On Friday a one man film crew was here for several hours to work on a possible project. I had the starring role; Buddy was the supporting actor. Mostly I talked, but I did a little fake painting and some snowshoeing as well. That’s where Buddy was the scene stealer; at one point even barreling into the poor camera man (because that’s what you do to make friends when you’re a dog).

Not sure what will come of it all, but it was a fun afternoon; the young man, Keith, is also a documentary filmmaker, and has a film out now called Boys Of Summer.

On Saturday morning I got up and made a pot of spaghetti, as Pete would be flying solo that day (well, with Buddy as his wingman). And then I headed out the door to Boston, where I was to be interviewed and filmed once more; this time for a segment on the Dr. Oz show about young, non-smoking women with lung cancer. I was happy to still make the age cut off.

I was also feeling pretty together and organized, arriving 45 minutes early, at least until I discovered that my mapquest directions were absolutely useless. Anyone who has ever driven in Boston knows that it can be very unforgiving when you don’t know where you are going. Poor or non-existent signage, lots and lots of one way streets (which present few opportunities to correct mistakes), and an almost total lack of a grid system.

I overshot the first phantom exit by several miles, and pulled off Storrow Drive and onto a side street with a Dunkin Donuts. Although no one behind the counter could help me, I knew that before long one of the patrons would prove useful. In fact, two burly gentleman drew me a detailed map on a napkin, only to ask what town I was trying to get to. “Oh no, that’s the other direction”, and then they made all sorts of suggestion which had nothing to do with my original map. So, I backtracked. And missed the phantom exit again. I left a message with the producer, telling her that I was going to be late, and then executed an illegal u-turn at a light. I merged off of Storrow as if I was going to MGH (at least I knew where that was). On Charles Street I parked (illegally) in front of a hydrant and ran into a florist (when I was in Stockholm, I learned that as a trick of their trade, florists know where everything is). The florist’s advice got me on the right track, but now all of my mapquest directions were in reverse, and I was being directed to turn down one way streets going the wrong direction.

I knew I was somewhere in the general vicinity of my destination, so I left my car in the first available parking garage. Now quite late, and flustered, I also left my gloves and my cell phone. Luckily, although the temperature was in the teens, the sun was shining and the streets were not wind tunnels. Again I relied on the goodness of the people of Boston to guide me. One young lady even walked two blocks with me.

I had also chosen the wrong footwear for a trek along the icy brick sidewalks. After precariously making my way to the correct address, I rang the bell only to discover it was the wrong street. I was still two blocks away. At this point, I really just wanted to lay down on the nearest snowbank and have myself a good cry.

When I finally got to the proper location, I was almost an hour late. And of course, they had been calling my cell phone, which was in my car. Oh me.

My friend Diane, who coincidently was also interviewed, answered the door. And then the cameraman and his son, both of whom I’ve worked with before, gave me a hug (the son, Cory, is a blossoming filmmaker as well; click here to go to his website). More introductions were made, a quick lunch was served, I caught my breath, and we were ready to roll.

It turned out to be a great experience. The producer asking the questions obviously cared a lot about the subject matter, having been touched personally by lung cancer on several fronts. The entire crew was wonderful. And when my segment concluded, the husband of the last woman to be interviewed gallantly walked me back to the garage (which turned out to be about eight blocks away).

But that’s not the end of the story. Tomorrow, part two.