Issue link: https://digital.copcomm.com/i/462877
61 WINTER 2015 / CINEMONTAGE PASSAGES Coppola, and Magic Journeys, a 3D attraction for the Kodak Pavilion at Disney's Epcot Center. Throughout his career, his friends and colleagues cherished his wit. A favorite Randy-ism: "The sooner you get behind, the more time you have to catch up." Randy is survived by his love Heidi Scharfe, ACE; his daughter Taylor, son-in-law Cesar and grandchildren Carmen and Kennedy. Please put on your favorite Hawaiian shirt, raise a glass and join the editing community in remembering a dear friend, Randy Roberts. - Carolyn Giardina REMEMBERING RANDY by Maysie Hoy, ACE I first met Randy Roberts through the different ACE functions. I didn't really know him, but he was always friendly to me and quick with some joke, followed by his unique laugh. It was a cross between a chuckle and a giggle. But I really got to know him when I was diagnosed with uterine cancer in February 2014. He was one of the first people that I told about my condition because three years earlier, he had shared his diagnosis of stomach cancer with me "Did you have any symptoms?" I asked. "Yeah, I probably did," he said. "But I thought it was heartburn and acid reflux from drinking too much red wine, so I kept eating Tums. When I finally went to the doctor I had lost three pints of blood and was diagnosed with Stage 4 stomach cancer. I just wanted to make it through to summer. "When you start chemo, make sure you schedule it on Thursday or Friday because the steroids they put in the chemo cocktail will make you feel like you've got a lot of energy but by Saturday it begins to wear off," he continued. "You're gonna feel like crap, but now you've got the whole weekend to recover." I took his advice and he became my guide. In June I started the first of six chemo sessions. They were going to be once every three weeks but by then Randy's treatments were once a week and I could see it was taking a toll on him. Yet, he remained upbeat. We'd go to lunch and he would call me three or four times a week asking, "How you doing? How's your appetite?" "I'm doing good, but food tastes like cardboard," I'd say. "That's the chemo screwing with your taste buds. I lost my appetite long time ago." "This is some diet we're on. And when I walk, my feet feel like they're asleep." "Yeah, another side effect they neglect to tell you. My feet feel like I'm wearing five pairs of socks. And one other thing — your body's going to feel like it got hit by a truck but don't worry, it'll go away with time." Finally, one day I said to him, "Randy, you're always calling me to see how I'm doing and you're in worst shape than I." "Well, I have to check on you 'cause I've been through it all," he responded. That was the kind of person he was: thoughtful and always putting others' needs before his own. It's strange how having the "C" word brings you closer to someone. When I lost all my hair, Randy'd jokingly say, "It could come back curly, you know." I know our phone calls helped each other get through the chemo. If I didn't hear from him within a day or two, I would call him and vice versa. Our conversations were filled with gallows humor, usually centering on jokes about death and funerals. How else do you get through something like cancer? You face it full on. Every Friday, I would go to my doctor's office for my weekly blood test and I could hear his laugh spilling into the waiting area. The infusion nurses loved him — not because he had introduced them to croinuts (a cross between a croissant and a doughnut; leave it to Randy to discover them) but because his jokes would disrupt the clinical quiet. He didn't care what the other chemo patients thought because, for him, laughter was the real medicine. I was in the doctor's office the day he got the results from his PET scan. He was happy and excited because he had gained ten pounds and his appetite had returned. I felt it was a sign of true friendship when he asked me to stay with him and his girlfriend Heidi to hear the results. He was sure he had kicked it. But it was not to be. Devastating to say the least. I don't know what any of us would have done if given that kind of news, but he faced it with courage. When he was in hospice, he said to me, "When I die, I bet no one will come to my memorial and talk about me." "That's not true." I said. "You've touched a lot of people along the way. Maybe we should have the memorial now while you're still kicking, so people can talk crap about you to your face. Besides, every editor in town will show up for a free drink." I think he would have been pleasantly surprised to see that more than 200 of his colleagues came out to roast him at his memorial on January 17. Knowing he had limited time left, he told me, "I just want to be around to see the birth of my second granddaughter." He did. His daughter Taylor and his granddaughters were what kept him going. How he adored them. But Heidi was his rock; she was by his side through every facet of his treatment. The last time I saw him was December 12, the Friday before he passed. I said to him, "Hey, Randy, my hair's growing back and it's not curly." I grabbed his hand and rubbed it on my fuzzy head and he let out his unique laugh. Randy fought courageously. He did so with grace, positivity and humor. He loved fine wine and good food. He was a mentor and was fiercely loyal to his crew. He loved life and lived it on his own terms. But most of all, he loved his family. He was a true inspiration. I am proud and humbled to have been his friend.