Sally Obermeder is best known for her reporter role on Channel 7’s Today Tonight (Australia). She lives in Bondi with her husband and baby daughter Annabelle.

Never Stop Believing

Heartache, Hope and Some Very High Heels

By Sally Obermeder

Allen & Unwin

Copyright © 2013 Sally Obermeder
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-74331-219-3

Contents

Foreword by Larry Emdur,
1. Before and after,
2. Something has to give,
3. A kickstart,
4. Metamorphosis,
5. Living within our means,
6. Luck is when …,
7. Persistence pays off,
8. A star act,
9. Razzle dazzle,
10. Fashion Week,
11. IVF: the next step,
12. A message from a superstar,
13. The ultimate phone call Sally’s parents,
14. Pregnant and loving it Camilla Crotty,
15. Zara HQ,
16. The news is out,
17. LA with Enrique,
18. Baby prep,
19. Sucker punch,
20. Welcome to the world, Annabelle Marcus Obermeder,
21. The honeymoon is over Lucie McGeoch,
22. Survivor: chemo,
23. Those tresses,
24. Falling apart Lizzie Pettit, Tracy Watson and Julia Bradbury,
25. Thank goodness for Annabelle Maha Koraiem,
26. It takes a village Adene Cassidy,
27. Fundraiser Sarah Stinson,
28. Surgery Samantha Armytage,
29. Radiation,
30. A new me Matt White,
31. A recovering perfectionist,
Acknowledgements,

CHAPTER 1

Before and after

When I woke up on 13 October 2011 I felt like my life was just about perfect. I had a great husband and a great job, my gorgeous Bondi apartment had just been renovated, and we’d recently turned our second bedroom into a nursery. After years of trying, and failing, to get pregnant, we’d succeeded through IVF — on our very first cycle. I’d had a wonderful year at work, filled with great stories and amazing travel, and I was really excited about the series of ‘Celebrity Mum’ TV segments I was going to do while on maternity leave. I was 41 weeks pregnant, I had my hospital bag packed and ready to go, and I could not wait to give birth. Any day now I was finally going to meet my baby and begin the next wonderful phase of my life: becoming a mother. I didn’t think things could get any better.

I can still remember exactly what I wore that day: a fitted electric blue dress with ruching on the side and metallic silver sandals, and I had my hair in a topknot. If you asked me what I wore yesterday, I wouldn’t know. But everything about that day is etched in my memory. Because that was the day I left the house happy, full of new life, hope and joy, and came home with a death sentence.

* * *

I’d worked happily right through my pregnancy, doing stories for Today Tonight and Sydney Weekender and attending events that sometimes saw me working fifteen-hour days. Now I was on maternity leave, and it was finally time for me to relax, enjoy a bit of me-time and prepare myself for the birth of my baby.

I spent the first few days of my maternity leave doing some of those enjoyable little jobs I needed to get done before my baby arrived, including some pampering and then a quick shopping trip to stock up on my favourite illuminating moisturiser. It has always been my secret weapon against jet lag and late nights because it gives my skin that fresh, glowing, ‘alive’ look, even when I’m not feeling my best. I wished it came in 1-kg buckets given the sleepless nights I suspected lay ahead.

But I wasn’t frightened about what lay ahead. I was loving the anticipation, looking forward to the new experiences, and desperate for my bubba to hurry up and come! It felt like the beginning of a whole new phase of my life, and I was revelling in it.

Four days into my maternity leave, I went to my 41-week appointment with my obstetrician, Dr Stephen Morris. I arrived in his office feeling happy and confident. He did all the usual checks and we talked. Bubba was overdue — did I want to induce? I knew I wanted to have as natural a birth as possible, so I told Stephen I was happy to wait and let bubba come when he or she was ready. We agreed that since we were both doing well, we’d wait and see what happened. The appointment over, I got up, got dressed, and headed for the door — and then I remembered something.

Two weeks earlier I’d felt a minor shooting pain in my right breast. It came and then it went, and at first I thought nothing of it. But it didn’t seem to go away. Every couple of days I’d feel this random pain — it was minor, but noticeable. When I investigated I found a lump, but because I was so pregnant, both my breasts felt quite lumpy. I dismissed it as nothing more than my body preparing for breastfeeding. I’d forgotten to mention it at my 39-week appointment and again at my 40-week appointment because it really didn’t seem that serious. Now, at my 41-week appointment, I hesitated, standing at the door with my handbag over my shoulder thinking, Don’t bother saying it now, your appointment’s over, it’s probably nothing, he’s got other people waiting.

For some reason I did mention it. I turned back. ‘Sorry, there is just one more thing,’ I said. ‘I’ve been getting this funny little pain in my breast. I think I might have some kind of blocked milk duct.’ That was the explanation I’d come up with. ‘But it’s not really bothering me, we can worry about it later.’

‘No,’ Stephen said, ‘we’d better have a look at it now.’

So I hopped back up on the table and he felt my breast, and then said, ‘Let’s just send you for an ultrasound in the morning and get it checked out. Lex will book you an appointment.’

‘Okay,’ I said, and skipped out of there none the wiser.

Later, Stephen told me he’d known what it was as soon as he felt it. Now, I know his thoroughness and care saved my life. But that day, nothing in his words or his expression warned me that anything was wrong.

Lex, a beautiful kind woman who is the nurse at Dr Morris’s office, rang the Sydney Breast Clinic for me and was told they didn’t have any appointments available for two weeks.

‘Really, it’s fine, I can go later,’ I said. I figured I could go after the birth. I had a happy picture in my mind of myself pushing the pram into town, taking my baby with me while I had my ultrasound, then having lunch with my sister or my mum, making an outing of it. Isn’t that what new mums did? I’d seen them as I drove to work. They all looked so happy and cheery, pushing prams and drinking coffee and laughing. And I was about to join them.

But Lex insisted. ‘No, no, we need a spot tomorrow.’

They gave me an appointment at 9.30 am the next day and I went home without a worry in my head. I thought, wasn’t it nice that they were all going to so much trouble to clear up my silly little problem before the baby came? It never occurred to me for one second that it might be anything serious.

* * *

The next morning, on 13 October, I bounced out of bed early — I still had a whole lot of things I wanted to get done and the baby could come at any time. I hadn’t finalised my tax return and when my baby arrived I wanted to be 100 per cent focused on motherhood — not counting receipts and adding up deductions. I went into my friend’s office in Bondi Junction and did a whole lot of photocopying, put together all my tax records, and mailed them off to my accountant, then even had time to buy some last-minute baby clothes before my appointment at the Sydney Breast Clinic.

When I got there the waiting room was packed, but I was taken through for my ultrasound quite quickly. After it was finished, the technician told me to sit down and wait for the results. I was happy to wait: I’d brought one of my many baby books with me — strategies for getting your baby to sleep. So, I settled in to read.

After a while the lady came back. ‘We’d like to do another ultrasound, if that’s alright?’

We did another one.

‘Can you do a mammogram too?’ the technician asked.

‘Yes, of course.’

I had the mammogram, and because my breasts were so huge from the pregnancy it was really quite painful. I remember joking with the technician that a mammogram machine was definitely invented by a man. What guy would readily agree to have his testicles slammed between two bits of steel? So why is it okay for women to have our breasts squashed between two plates like a pancake? And a thin pancake at that. Not a fluffy number. If men had to have mammograms, they would definitely invent something else damn quick.

Then it was back to more waiting.

By this time the morning was over, but they still weren’t finished with me.

‘Go and have some lunch, but come back straight away because we might need to do a biopsy.’

I’d planned to have lunch with my sister, Maha, that day, so I rang her and said, ‘Sorry, I can’t make lunch, I’ve got to have more tests. I’ll ring you when I’m done.’

You’d think alarm bells would have been ringing. But they weren’t. Seven or eight years earlier I’d sat in that very same clinic, and had the very same ultrasounds and mammograms. They’d found a cyst in my breast, drained it, and that was that. Problem solved.

I went off and grabbed a quick lunch by myself, and when I came back they performed a fine-needle biopsy, and then another one.

While I was waiting to hear how that test had gone, an email came through from my agent. I’d been working on an idea for a book, and now a publisher wanted to commission it. I had a book deal!

I rang my husband, Marcus, straight away to tell him the good news. I was over the moon. A few hours earlier, I couldn’t have imagined my life getting any better, but it just had. An author. I would be an author! Oh. My. God. Amazing. And I’d done it while I was pregnant. It’s not often I tell myself I’ve done a good job, or feel good about something I’ve accomplished. But at that moment I remember sinking into the chair and grinning like an idiot to myself. I’ve done it, I thought. I’ve actually done it! I tried not to make eye contact with anyone else in the waiting room because I didn’t think I’d be able to do the polite head nod and look away. My smile was plastered on my face. I felt giddy with joy.

I was still smiling when the nurse came back and told me they were going to do a core biopsy.

A core biopsy is much deeper than a fine-needle biopsy so it’s quite painful. They told me I was going to need an anaesthetic. I didn’t want one. I wasn’t a super-purist about my pregnancy but I’d been careful about what I put in my body — I hadn’t even taken paracetamol — so I certainly didn’t want to have an anaesthetic when I could be giving birth any day. But the nurse said, ‘I’m sorry, you’re going to need one.’

So I went in to have the core biopsy. First there were two people in the room, and then another came in, and another.

When you have a bit of a public profile, you sometimes get special treatment: people in shops or restaurants make a fuss because they’ve seen you on TV or in the social pages. But now I began to realise that these nurses and technicians and doctors weren’t fussing over me because I was on TV. And it wasn’t because I was very very pregnant either.

I began to get a little weepy, and one of the nurses asked me if I was alright.

‘It’s four o’clock, I’ve been here all day, I’m getting a bit tired,’ I said tearfully.

‘Do you want us to get Marcus for you? We can get him to come over straight away.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that would be good.’

It didn’t occur to me that there might be a reason why he needed to be there with me. I thought they were just being helpful and kind.

The test finished, they showed me into a doctor’s office to wait for Marcus and get the results. I’d had my little cry and was back to feeling relaxed again. I jumped onto my Blackberry and started sending work emails. (Even though I’d officially finished work, I was trying to line up a Sarah Jessica Parker interview.) They’d sent a nurse in to sit with me, and she kept trying to engage me in conversation, asking me questions like ‘How long have you been married?’ and ‘Do you know whether you’re having a boy or a girl?’ She was lovely, but I just wished she’d let me get on with my work. I may have been a whole five days into my maternity leave, but I hadn’t quite given up my workaholic habits yet — and didn’t have time for small talk. I had SJP to lock down before my baby arrived!

At last Marcus arrived, and I could see how relieved everyone was. That’s weird, I thought. He sat down beside me and took my hand. He didn’t say anything. Later, he told me that as soon as they called him, he knew it was bad. The nurse knew, the doctor knew, my obstetrician knew, my husband knew. It seemed as if everyone in the room knew. Except me.

The doctor came in, and there was really very little preamble to what she had to tell us.

‘Well, Sally,’ she said. ‘We’ve done all the tests and we’ve had a look at the results, and I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but you’ve got breast cancer.’

* * *

They say that your life changes forever when you’re diagnosed with cancer. There’s your life before, and your life after.

Cancer shows you things you cannot imagine you’d ever have to experience:

The grief, the fear.

Seeing your husband and parents crying at the thought of losing you.

Confronting the possibility that your baby might grow up without you.

The fear of losing everything you’ve worked for, hoped for, dreamed for.

And you’re sicker than you’ve ever been in your life: a sickness that affects your entire body — even your elbows, even your feet — and goes on for weeks and months and doesn’t end.

But you discover other things too: your strength. Your endurance. The pleasure of finding things to laugh about even in the darkest of times. The true force of friendship. The power of love.

* * *

This is the story of how I transformed my life.

How I gave up money, status and a safe career at the age of thirty to pursue my dream job in television.

How I struggled to fall pregnant, and was saved from making the worst decision of my life by Angelina Jolie.

And what happened when cancer threatened to take away everything that mattered to me most.

This is the story of how a celebrity-obsessed girl from the suburbs worked her way to her dream job, with nothing to back her up but a lot of self-belief, hard work, a truly amazing husband, and some very high heels.

CHAPTER 2

Something has to give

I think my TV obsession began with Barbie.

When I was a little girl, the only Barbie I wanted was called ‘Lights, Camera, Action Barbie’. She came with a toy camera and one of those big Hollywood lights on a stand, and she was the first Barbie to have a huge diamond ring on her finger. She was more expensive than all the other Barbies, and for about six months I used to go into Venture, a discount department store that was around in the early 80s, every Saturday and stand there and gaze at her. I was so in love with the fanciness and the glamour of it all — I wanted that Barbie more than anything in the world. Eventually Mum and Dad gave in and bought her for me — and I loved her.

Growing up, I always wanted to be on TV. I didn’t really know how I was going to pull it off. I’m tone-deaf and have two left feet, so Young Talent Time was out. But I still dreamed. Sometimes I liked to pretend I was a newsreader. In high school my trick for learning slabs of boring information for exams was to learn them as if they were the news and I was presenting them: ‘Today in the human body …’

I was a teenager when MTV finally launched in Australia in 1987, and I couldn’t get enough of it. It began as a music show, hosted by Richard Wilkins, that aired late on Friday and Saturday nights on Channel 9.

I idolised Richard Wilkins. He always looked like he was having so much fun. He was friends with all these amazing, talented, famous people, and he got to spend his time talking to them and hanging out with them. I just couldn’t believe that someone actually got paid to do that. It looked like the most exciting job in the world.

From the outside, TV looks so glamorous. It seems really fancy and everyone’s pretty and perfect. I longed to be part of that world. But when I finished school and it was time to choose a career, being Richard Wilkins did not seem like an option my parents would approve of.

For some people their choice of career is clear: they’re really good at science or maths, or they want to be a doctor, or an actress, or a plumber. But I had never really excelled at anything academically, and the things I was interested in just didn’t seem like careers.

My interests were television, entertainment, celebrities and magazines. Even from a young age I’d spent all my pocket-money on magazines. I used to pore over them, studying the fashion pictures, trying to work out how they made it come together. When I finished school I didn’t know that being a stylist was a job. I dreamed of choosing clothes and putting them on models and putting fashion on the page. Creating the illusion. Helping to build those beautiful worlds. Today, everybody knows what a stylist is — TV has taken us behind the scenes of all the glamour industries, from fashion to modelling to magazines and beyond. But when I was growing up, nobody knew those jobs existed, or at least I didn’t.

Mum and Dad are both accountants, and to them, back then, those kinds of careers — talking to celebrities or styling magazine shoots — sounded ridiculous. They didn’t even sound like jobs. So they firmly but gently steered me in a different direction. They warned me that pursuing a career like that would mean I’d be poor and struggling my entire life, and suggested choosing something more stable. Something like law. Or accounting.

I looked at some more stable professions. I did work experience with a dentist, and that seemed like quite a good job, but I really wanted to be able to talk to people, and of course you can’t chat to someone who’s got a mouthful of instruments, so that wasn’t for me. Then I did work experience with my mum, who worked for a trustee firm, and I decided I quite liked the whole corporate thing: getting dressed up in a suit and going into the city. I started a Commerce degree, with two majors: accounting and marketing.

(Continues…)Excerpted from Never Stop Believing by Sally Obermeder. Copyright © 2013 Sally Obermeder. Excerpted by permission of Allen & Unwin.
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