The most important lessons I’ve ever learnt were in the days around 9/11

The profound impact of the tragedy in New York is clear but there was also the personal loss of a friend thanks to cancer, writes Janet Street-Porter

As for the impact on society, since that day in 2001 politicians have continued to wage a fruitless war on terrorism in countries far from their own (AFP/Getty)

Twenty years ago, I sat marooned in a hotel room in Los Angeles watching scenes of utter panic and devastation unfold on every television channel. In a room upstairs one of my best friends was dying of cancer.

I don’t think I’ve learned anything more important in life than what I experienced in a few days in September 2001.

Witnessing my friend’s final days back then means I have no fear of dying. The end of life is just another moment in time, but for the survivors of the attack on the World Trade Centre, the long-term impact on their health has been profound. Cancers and respiratory diseases continue to cause early death and physical impairment.

As for the impact on society, since that day in 2001, politicians have continued to wage a fruitless “war” on terrorism in countries far from their own. The west has tried and failed to impose its notion of order on Afghanistan, but the Taliban won. Today, the women of Afghanistan can no longer work in decent jobs, play sport, enjoy the life they had previously. I think about that every day. The west let them down. Because men (and it is mostly men) abandoned the struggle to engage and talk with our enemies, extremists whose values we found so distasteful. The fundamentalists have taken control. We gave up and walked away.

And, in 2021– 20 years after 9/11 – listening and learning from others is increasingly marginalised. The growth of cancel culture and the scarcity of robust debate means we increasingly live in a polarised society where we shout our opinions and refuse to engage with differing views. The extreme right stormed the Capitol, the Donald Trump zealots and conspiracy theorists still refuse to countenance the fact he lost the 2020 presidential election. Dangerous days.

As for another war – the battle to overcome cancer in all its devastating forms – Covid disruption meant a third fewer cases were detected early, at stage one, from March to June 2020 compared to the same period the year before. Thousands more people could die unnecessarily.

Is that a “war” we’ll ever win? And what about dementia? That’s a “war” where victory seems a very distant prospect.

Back to the reason for my trip to Los Angeles in 2001. From the minute I first visited in the early 1970s I'd fallen in love with the place. My first husband was a photographer, and we arrived at the end of an epic journey across America via back roads, dilapidated drive-ins, cheap motels and diners. We ended up living in an artist's studio in Venice. It was not then the fashionable beach resort it is today, but a haven for the poor, alongside a community of artists and writers.

It soon became obvious that an inability to drive was a fundamental disadvantage, and on my next visit, I spent five consecutive days having driving lessons, mugging up for the written test by staying up all night swotting and drinking tequila. Astonishingly I passed by one point. Armed with my new licence I went to “Rent a Wreck” and was soon posing about in a shocking pink Mustang convertible, cruising through the sleazier parts of Hollywood and being asked if I was available for sexual services. It was that kind of car.

Decades later I would drive for hours drinking in the heady cocktail of smoggy air, ridiculously luxuriant foliage and bizarre street life. I spent holidays hanging out, playing a bit of tennis at rich friends’ houses. But the reason for this trip in September 2001 was not to socialise.

It was to say farewell (and we’ll meet again) to my dear friend Steve Fargnoli who’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer two years earlier. He’d been a highly successful rock manager – of Prince, for the decade of his most prolific and productive period, and Sinead O’Connor. Anyone who could deal with those two needed patience, intelligence and wit. Steve had all three.

I say “needed” because, by the time I arrived in Los Angeles on 7 September 2001, he was supposed to be dead. In his suite in a luxury hotel in Westwood (where they filmed scenes for Pretty Woman by the outdoor pool) Steve lay on a huge bed refusing to die, surrounded by ex-girlfriends, acquaintances, people from 18 to 60. This motley group (and a dog) were the support network, stroking Steve with wet towels, and holding him down when he tried to run for the exit. This gang were past crying. We were watching an epic battle, between a man who refusing to die and a body which was switching off.

I loathe cancer – it has taken so many of my dearest friends. It is like a form of physical terrorism – relentless, silent, never leaving when you think it has given up its plan to invade your body, but returning in a new and more insidious guise, removing all your dignity in the process. When my friend Lucy was dying, dosed to the eyebrows on morphine, I dressed her in Chanel, put on her best jewellery, full make-up and bright red lipstick. She wanted to go to a bar for a bloody mary. We got as far as the hospital lift before her husband stopped us. I never forgave him.

I don’t fear death. But death by cancer is so cruel. Steve spent his whole life at the centre of the party, issuing orders and having fun. And that’s how I wanted him to die. I didn’t want to see someone just slipping away. I wanted to say goodbye sitting alongside him on the bed ranting (albeit unintelligibly), watching TV and planning more boat trips, more parties, more tours to set up and more records to promote.

We had our social club, “Desperate and Dateless”, which met for dinner and clubbing. I was between husbands; my friend Sharon was never going to find “Mr Perfect” and the final member, Mark, had just come to work in the UK. Steve orchestrated weekends, one of which ended up in a disco in a village hall in County Cork. He invented the world’s most lethal cocktail, doctor death, a mixture of Stoli on the rocks with apple schnapps. Three of those and you were ready for anything.

In September 2001, “Desperate and Dateless” came to say goodbye to Steve. Two of us were still not married. But what times we had together.

On the day three planes hit the Pentagon and the World Trade Centre, Steve would enter a new, highly active verbose phase of dying, refusing to sit still, attempting to get out of bed and get dressed in order to fly to Nice, get his boat and sail to Antibes. I told him all the airports were closed and the phone lines were down and – not surprisingly – he didn't believe me.

Steve was on another journey, not one he chose. The events of the last few days were surreal enough without morphine impacting on your perception.

To most young Americans back then, war was something you went somewhere else to do. On 11 September 2001 it arrived at the very centre of their everyday world. The sense of shock was profound. Their lives (and ours) would never be the same again.

The day before I arrived, Steve was sitting up in bed when an earthquake (four on the Richter scale) shook the whole building. It seemed to be an omen. Looking back, I can see that his journey towards death was as eventful as his life, with comedy and tragedy all mixed up.

Party on, baby, as they say. Keep talking or face the consequences.

Parts of this column originally appeared in 2001