by Susan Lucci
My father recovered very well from this surgery. It was a good thing that he had been so active, as he was extremely physically fit for a man of his age. Even in his eighties, he was built like a much younger man.
The doctors sent him home with a lot of different medications. My father went from taking nothing before his surgery to taking lots of pills every day. Very late one night, he awoke and was completely disoriented. He got up out of bed and fell. He was taken back to the hospital, where they intubated him. That was not a pleasant experience. My mother spoke to the physician on duty to see if they could figure out what had happened. They soon realized that there were specific instructions on my father’s medical records to avoid giving him a certain medication. Somehow, those directions slipped through the cracks and he had been given that medication.
During that same night, my father had another adverse reaction to the medication he was on. This time when they intubated him, something happened to his vocal cords and he was no longer able to speak. We were told he might not be able to talk again. I think my father was terribly demoralized after that. I could see him losing his spirit. When I spoke to his doctor about his prognosis, he said they might be able to repair the damage if my father could get stronger. It was a catch-22 for my dad because he was on oxygen and just couldn’t eat well enough to fortify himself. He didn’t have the wherewithal to get stronger.
Throughout this time, Helmut and I had been involved in a massive remodeling job on our home in Garden City. We were essentially doubling its size. Helmut and I were living in our apartment in New York City while he recovered from his cancer and while our house remained in shambles for almost two years. It seemed as if everything around me was falling apart. The two most important men in my life were struggling and I didn’t know what else I could do to help them. I prayed to God to let my husband be well and to help my father to heal.
I wanted my house back the way it was because I thought that everything else would go back to being the same, too. My home became a metaphor for the great big mess that was happening all around me. I did my best to take each day one at a time, but it was very difficult.
After my dad’s surgery, he was taken to a nursing home to recover and gain his strength so he could ultimately go in for the reparative surgery he needed. Unfortunately, he wasn’t eating well, so his condition continued to deteriorate. I was touched to see my mother take such good care of my dad. She brushed his teeth, washed his hair, and kept him shaved and clean. My father was a proud man. We all knew how much he hated not being able to care for himself. My mother tended to my father like she was a teenager. She moved with such grace and never-ending stamina as she constantly checked his oxygen tank, monitors, and charts between visits from the doctors and nurses on staff. It was wonderfully comforting to see my mother being so attentive and nurturing when my father absolutely needed it the most—especially because I had never really seen her in that role. My father had been her rock, and now she had to be his.
She did everything she could to keep my dad comfortable, despite the obvious fact that he was miserable. My father was the kind of man who would have given you the shirt off his back. He was always so protective. He always held my arm when we crossed a street together. Always, even as an adult. It was really hard to see him so vulnerable. I flew down to Florida as many weekends as I possibly could to be with him and to make sure my mother was taking care of herself, too. Although my father wasn’t able to articulate what it meant to him, I could see in his eyes and in his face that he was so happy to have my mother and me there together. I wished so much that I could help him more. The main reason my father could no longer eat well was that his teeth began to bother him to the point where he was in a lot of pain and discomfort. I hadn’t been told until my father got sick that he had suffered some type of infection while serving in the South Pacific during the war. The solution the doctors came up with at the time was to pull out all of his teeth and put in dentures. When my father began losing weight from his illness, the dentures became loose and terribly uncomfortable. He couldn’t speak, and now he couldn’t eat. One weekend, while I was visiting my dad, I asked one of the nurses if she could let me speak to the hospital chef. Since I had experience making my children’s baby food, I had the idea that the chef might be able to blend some tasty and nutritious meals for my father so he could better manage his eating. I explained the problem to the chef, who was extremely open to my idea, but the facility manager said she couldn’t commit to helping my dad until she could file the proper paperwork with the hospital administrators. She thought this procedural formality might take a couple of days. Well, I didn’t think my father would last that long if he couldn’t eat. So I did the next best thing. I had a tray of his favorite cannoli and an assortment of other Italian pastries hand-delivered from Carmine’s in nearby West Palm Beach. I figured the creamy filling inside the pastries would be easy for him to eat—and I knew he’d enjoy it—and I thought the staff would, too.
At the time I don’t believe any of us realized how quickly he would deteriorate. I was working in New York, but was monitoring the situation every single day. Liza was busy working at a new job in Los Angeles. It never occurred to me to tell her to come be by her grandfather’s side. I honestly believed he would recover and come home. Andreas was very close to his grandfather, so he wanted to fly to Florida to be with him. My father had spent a lot of wonderful time with Andreas over the years. They both shared a love of golf. There were many times when my father went to the driving range with Andreas, watched him practice, and played in the many tournaments he competed in. My father was an early riser, so he frequently picked Andreas up in the mornings to take him to a diner for breakfast before heading out to the golf course together. I know it meant so much to him to have Andreas by his side during his illness, even if he couldn’t tell him so.
My father passed away at five-thirty in the evening on November 22, 2002. My mother had gone home to get some things done and was on her way back to the hospital. It was devastating for all of us that no one was with him when he died. In a way, it was very much like my father to go when no one was around so he could protect us from having to suffer through his dying.
I saw my father be so good to my mother for my entire life, and now my mother was in that role for him. She was so hands-on good to him during his last days. Any insignificant differences we had with each other melted away. There was no meaning in petty grudges or family squabbles. None of that seemed important anymore. My father could sense this. I know he could and I am certain he had tremendous joy in his heart because he regained that twinkle in his eyes that I recognized from when I was a little girl. He had watched our family coming together during those last weeks. Knowing he felt that way before he died filled my heart with happiness, even if my heart was slowly breaking each day as he slipped away.
After receiving word that my father had passed, Andreas and I flew to Florida on the very first flight the next morning.
When we arrived in Palm Beach, we helped my mother make the proper arrangements. My mother asked me if I would give the eulogy. I wasn’t prepared to speak at the funeral. Although I was very glad to have the opportunity to tell everybody how wonderful my dad was, it was also very difficult for me, as I was extremely distraught and very emotional. I was having a hard time comprehending that my father was really gone. I couldn’t believe that it happened so fast. Three months had passed from diagnosis to his death. As I look back, maybe this was a blessing in disguise, but at the time it all felt unreal and like there hadn’t been enough time to prepare, to heal, to fix, or to say good-bye.
After my father passed away, I worried about my mother being all alone. My mother and father had each other for so many years. She didn’t know any other way of life except being with my dad. There is never enough time on this earth with your loved ones and never a good time to watch them go. My natural progression was to begin thinking about what my life would be like if I ever lost Helmut. I foun
d myself going into an imagined mourning for when he’s not there anymore. I started playing a terrible game of “what if?” and “when?” that took me several years to stop doing. Imagining my life without Helmut was the worst feeling I have ever had. The hardest thing about loving someone is how vulnerable it makes you.
I miss my father so much.
I could see that my mother was really lost without my father. There have been many times when I’ve called out to ask him to look after her, and while he’s at it, to put in a few good words for my children and grandchildren, too, because he was such a good man that I am sure my father has God’s ear. My mother has been such a trouper. Somehow, she managed to pick herself up by the bootstraps and continue on with her life. I have no idea how she does that, but I have seen it happen over and over again.
I don’t think I ever realized just how capable and able my mother could be. Although it has been several years since my father passed away, I am sure there isn’t a single day that goes by when my mother doesn’t miss him. I know I do. After a decent period of time had passed, I began encouraging my mother to start accepting invitations from her friends to go out and do things. She has terrific friends in her life in Palm Beach. Although I offered to bring her up to New York to be closer to us, she wouldn’t hear of it. She likes her life in Florida. She likes living so independently. I totally understood what she meant and why that was so important to her. She hasn’t let her loss break her spirit.
CHAPTER 12
Celebrations
Thirteen has always been my lucky number. Helmut and I were married on September 13; my mother and father were married on October 13; my daughter, Liza, was born thirteen days late; and Andreas thirteen days early. All of these life-altering events made it hard to ignore the significance of the number thirteen in my life.
As our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary was fast approaching in September of 1994, Helmut and I wanted to do something very special to celebrate. But, as we discovered after we married, September is a challenging time of year to get away. Our kids were going back to school, I was busy at work, and there were lots of demands that found us postponing a celebration for this milestone anniversary.
In an effort to make some time to spend with the family, I decided to take a week off around Thanksgiving. Helmut and I thought it might be a good time to take the kids to Austria and visit his family. I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate our anniversary than a family vacation.
We arrived in Vienna on a Saturday night. The next morning, Helmut arranged through a friend of his for us to go to the Hofburgkapelle, the emperor’s private chapel, to hear the Vienna Boys Choir perform. I hadn’t realized the Vienna Boys Choir was a five-hundred-year-old institution. They sing at high mass on Sunday in the chapel. It was breathtaking. The boys sounded like angels. Literally every note I heard gave me goose bumps.
It had been a very rainy and dreary day. When we left the chapel, we dashed across the street and stopped into a café for some coffee. Liza, Andreas, Helmut’s brother Gunther and sister-in-law Erna were with us, too. About twenty minutes after we all sat down, Gunther turned to Helmut and asked if he had seen the package he had been carrying. He was speaking in German, so I was doing my best to understand. Helmut told him he didn’t notice a package. Gunther asked Erna, who also said she didn’t know anything about it.
“I must have left it in the chapel,” Gunther said.
We finished our coffee and walked back across the street to see if we could locate the missing article. By the time we got to the chapel, however, everything was closed up tight. There was a big Gothic-looking door and beside it was a tiny bell. Helmut pushed the button, hoping someone would come to answer, but no one did.
Helmut then turned to Andreas, who was carrying two oversize umbrellas, and said, “Use those to knock on the door.” Hearing that loud pounding, the altar woman we had seen arranging flowers earlier opened the door, but only a tiny little crack.
Gunther explained the situation, again speaking in German. The woman nodded her head and motioned for us to come in and look around for the missing package. She opened the door just wide enough for us to walk through. Once we were all inside, she slammed it shut behind us. From that particular entrance, the only way to get into the chapel was to walk down the long center aisle. As we started to make our way, I noticed that all of the lights were turned on. I looked up and saw the most beautiful arrangements of flowers on the altar. I didn’t think anything of it because we were, after all, inside the emperor’s private chapel, in Vienna. This was obviously how they always keep the church—beautiful and spectacular!
Helmut took me by the arm and began walking me down the aisle. That’s when I noticed that he had the biggest smile painted on his face. And, as I looked to my right, so did Liza and Andreas. And then I saw Gunther and Erna smiling, too, and suddenly I heard a soloist singing “Ave Maria” from the balcony. As we continued walking down the aisle, I looked up and saw the archbishop of Vienna walking toward us.
He very pleasantly took Helmut and me by the hands, looked right into my eyes, and began to speak very slowly in German so I could understand him.
“Do you want to marry this man again?” he asked.
By this time tears of joy were streaming down my cheeks. Helmut had arranged all of this through his great friend Klaus Zyla, who is a former Austrian diplomat. Klaus was able to help Helmut arrange it so we could renew our vows in his home country and in front of our children, who were with us to witness this very intimate and romantic moment. Everyone was in on it except for me—even the altar woman who answered the door! She deserved an Academy Award for that performance…or at the very least an Emmy!
After the ceremony, the woman collected all of the flowers on the altar and placed them in my arms. I was told it was an Austrian tradition to have the bride walk through the streets with her wedding flowers, so that was exactly what we did. Helmut and Gunther had arranged for us to have a beautiful Sunday dinner at a very special restaurant, which we had all to ourselves. It was spectacular.
I have always believed in celebrating as much as you can, because let’s face it, life can sometimes be hard and unexpected things can happen. That’s why celebrations are very big in our family. We don’t take a single moment together for granted. The demands of my professional life have been enormous, which means I often end up spending many more hours of my day with my colleagues than with the people in my personal life, including my family. If I ever let myself get caught up in that whirlwind, I feared I would lose my focus on what really matters most in life because every moment of every day could easily be filled with phone calls, meetings, and work, and under those circumstances I might wake up one day and realize I had no life.
As I mentioned earlier, when All My Children was extended to its one-hour format, my work obligations grew exponentially. It wasn’t so much the added thirty minutes of showtime that took me away from home more often and for longer periods each day as it was the extra hours of preparation and our new shooting schedule. Around the time that Liza was three years old, I was sometimes working for twelve to eighteen hours a day, five days a week. Being away from her that much made me very sad. There were too many days when I wasn’t there as she woke up in the morning or I wasn’t home by the time she went to bed at night. That was killing me. No matter what time I came home, though, I always made it my first priority to go into her room to see her, stroke her hair, and listen to her breathe.
Before I was able to negotiate a clause in my contract that allowed me to take my children’s birthdays off, I would have to be on set if my schedule called for me to be there, whether it was Liza’s birthday or not. Because I was determined to mark those special days in special ways even if I did have to work, I came up with something that has become a favorite tradition in our home—the birthday breakfast. At the very least, I made sure I would be in the house in the morning so I could make her a special morning meal. There would always be a large bouque
t of streaming balloons tied to the birthday girl’s chair and some wrapped presents waiting for her on the table. The most important thing was to spend some special time with Liza so she knew I wasn’t abandoning her or placing greater value on work than on her.
Those birthday breakfasts must have had a lasting impact, because to this day, Liza still celebrates all of the wonderful occasions in her life by starting the morning off with a special family breakfast. So even though I couldn’t always be there exactly as I wished in the early years, something good came out of making the time to be with my daughter.
Many years later, Liza wrote a poem for her honors English class that spoke about all of the times I came home and snuck into her room while she was sleeping. I was stunned to read her incredible words because I never knew that she was aware I was there. Her poem spoke to all of those nights I didn’t take a hotel room or stay in New York City when it might have been easier for me to do so. We never had an apartment in the city while the children were young because we didn’t want to be tempted not to come home. I wanted to see my children, even if they didn’t see me. I would always be there when they woke up in the morning or had a nightmare in the middle of the night. Knowing this made me feel good, but it also meant that my children grew up with a sense of security that they were always my number one priority.
* * *
My Mother
She rises like an early bird
And flutters down the stairs like a ballerina
To catch just a glimpse of the morning sun
Rising like a budding flower
As she inaudibly flies back up the stairs
The radiant light of the budding sun
Bursts through the windows and illuminates
The domain like a temple
She then proceeds to put on her clothing
Her chestnut hair shines in the light, like a star