by C McGivern
At first he lay unconscious and heavily sedated, but as he emerged from the anaesthetic the days became a living nightmare for the rare man concerned. Pilar was terrified by the sight of her heavily bandaged husband who was attached, completely unmoving, to various machines, “He was so pale, vulnerable, and helpless. His breathing was even more ragged than before. He appeared like a small child and there was nothing there that reminded me of my strong husband.”
When he finally opened dazed eyes he looked at her and smiled meltingly. She gave his hand a squeeze to reassure him, “Everything’s going to be alright, you’re going to be fine.” He started coughing and continued to do so for the next two days, and instead of being fine he sank steadily. Every time he moved he was in agony, “I was in intensive care and every time I coughed I thought I was going to die. I hadn’t expected to wake to so much pain.” The cough, worse than ever, tore his sutures, dislodged the drainage tubes and damaged the remaining, already badly injured lung sacs, which burst with the pressure. Air began leaking directly into his chest cavity then out into surrounding body tissue. His head, neck and torso began to swell up as large amounts of air filtered into the layers of his skin, blowing him up like a balloon. He was racked by pain and his neck became so swollen he could hardly breathe.
In one of his brief lucid moments he was told that his brother had also been diagnosed with lung cancer! Duke was devastated. He had long since forgiven Bobby for being the favorite son and as his success grew he had done everything he could for him, persuading people in the industry to give him work and continually bailing him out of financial difficulty. Bobby never had the same drive, steadfastness or determination as his brother, he had no desire to be a film maker either, but Duke loved him anyway and enjoyed having him around.
On September 22 Dr Jones attempted further surgery to repair what was left of Duke’s lung, his windpipe and to drain the life threatening oedema. He didn’t expect his patient to survive the ordeal. Although Duke hung on grimly he later admitted, “I was more scared the second time around. I was sure I wasn’t going to make it. I didn’t feel so uptight about having the cancer removed, but the operation for the oedema scared me. My windpipe was also twisted. When they had to operate to put things right and sew me up a second time… well, when I saw the look on Pilar’s face I figured, “Jeez, I must be just about all through.” I didn’t want to die, but what frightened me most was the idea of ending up a helpless invalid, the idea of having people start to feel sympathy for me rather than love… I couldn’t take that. You know, pity isn’t for me.”
John Ford flew in from Hawaii as soon as he heard how ill he was. He sat at Duke’s side for hours and told Pilar, “You know he is like a son to me, I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.” Duke was struggling to breathe and hardly had the energy to speak, but he was happy to lie quietly listening to Pappy talk about the old days, dreaming about the pictures they’d soon be making together, “Coach, I’ll be up and on my feet before you know it. I’ll never be ready for that rocking chair, they’re for the dying… as soon as I can get out of here I’ll be ready to work again.”
They never did make another film together, their days as director and star were over. Other things had changed too, but as Pilar watched them talking she little guessed the man she had loved and been married to for over ten years was lost. Duke hadn’t died perhaps but the man she had known had gone forever … “He’d reappear for weeks or months at a time, but he’d never be back to stay. The operations changed him forever.”
She called him remarkable, but he wasn’t superhuman, and at first he was scarcely managing to cling to life. Still, the image wasn’t false and Duke possessed many of the same qualities he so often portrayed on screen, his personal endurance proved steadfast and strong during those days and he held onto life with determination, refusing to give up. Eventually the swelling began to subside, he grew stronger and, inevitably, irritable, restless and fretful. Once he had been told the cancer had not spread to the lymph nodes, and had been contained within the tumor, he smiled and said he wanted to go home. He hated being in hospital, hated the lack of privacy and, above all, hated the feeling that he had lost control of his most powerful asset, his body. He hated being touched and prodded by a series of strangers, and particularly disliked being cared for by women other than his wife. He began resisting the doctors and sometimes even threw things at his nurses when they ventured into his room without his permission.
He demanded Pilar take over his care. When he emerged from heavy sedation after his second operation he was unprepared for the excruciating pain; he complained he felt as if he’d been cut in half. He couldn’t put on his tough act any longer and Pilar was the only person he trusted to see him in such a weakened state. He had always needed her comfort and now, following the trauma of near death and the pain that accompanied his survival, he demanded her full attention and refused to be helped by anyone else.
He was scared about what was happening to him, scared about his chances of a full recovery, and when he first caught a glimpse of his un-bandaged body he was horrified by the full extent of the damage. His worst fears were confirmed when he viewed the raw scar and the deep indentations down his left side where his ribs had once been. He doubted that he would ever work again in an industry that really only valued his powerful body and he needed Pilar’s constant reassurance that all would be well. He was modest about his accomplishments, but he had taken pride in his athletic ability. Now he felt robbed of every bit of strength and energy and he hated having to admit he needed help or care.
As soon as Pilar was satisfied that he was getting stronger and was going to survive after all, she felt an urgent need to spend more time at home with the children. Eight year old Aissa, who still followed her dad round the house because she couldn’t bear to be separated from him, was missing him badly. She knew he was ill and imagined the worst. The longer he stayed away the more upset she became, and the greater was Pilar’s need to spend some time with her. Each evening, as soon as Duke fell asleep, she raced home to report his progress to the kids. She had usually no sooner walked into the house than the phone rang and one of the nurses told her he was awake again and pleading for her.
He had only ever called her “Pilar,” he had never used pet names for her, but in hospital when he wanted her he asked for “Mom.” She took it as an indication of how weak, helpless and completely dependent on her he felt. He had always done everything for his family; she had never had to do anything except enjoy his company. He had provided everything in their lives; he had been the carer and the doer, always in control. Now suddenly Pilar found herself responsible for his well-being in a shocking role reversal.
They both found the situation difficult. He hated being dependent, and she was exhausted by his dependence. The only other time in his life he had ever needed anyone to care for him was, as a child, when he had longed for his mother. She had turned her back on him and he had learned to take care of himself. Fear of further rejection had left him unable to express his own needs, but now he found he had no choice and he was angry about it and embarrassed to be lying helplessly in bed. He was irritated when Pilar mentioned he was lucky to be alive. He didn’t feel lucky, he felt worse than he had before going into hospital. His cough was agony where it had only been troublesome before. He felt as if he were choking all the time and nothing eased his discomfort, no amount of pain killer seemed to help. On top of everything else, making him so very miserable was the constant demand his body made for another cigarette, he told a nurse, “It’s so hard. I feel like I’m being murdered.”
Signs of improvement came slowly. The intravenous drips were removed, he began eating solids, his color returned and he was finally allowed to sit up. He came back to life rapidly as soon as he could take short walks around the hospital. He was at last told he could go home to recuperate if he promised to take things easy and do nothing strenuous for at least six months.
The morning he was
discharged he insisted on dressing himself. It took a long time, and just that small act of independence and defiance frustrated him. He was shocked to discover his clothes didn’t fit and he worried that people would immediately notice how thin he had become. He buttoned his shirt to the throat to hide the dramatic weight loss. He was pushed into the elevator in a wheel chair but before reaching the ground floor he stood up, “I’m going out of here on my own two feet.” His determination didn’t surprise his wife but she winced as he pulled himself upright.
He knew the Press would be waiting for him and he dreaded that first meeting. He smiled broadly as the lift doors opened, “Nice of you fellas to pay me a visit.” He stood for some time, shaking hands and patiently answering a barrage of questions, “There’s nothing wrong with me that getting out of the hospital won’t cure. I haven’t had a heart attack, and I don’t have cancer. I just want to go home.” Pilar held his hand tightly, in awe at his power. Only minutes before he had hardly been able to catch his breath, now he stood on legs that trembled with the effort and she knew then just how good an actor he really was. He told the reporters he felt great before finally excusing himself to walk in best John Wayne style to his waiting car, he didn’t falter until he got inside. Then he lay back, moaning and asking for the oxygen mask that would never be far from his side again.
Once he got home he was angry and frustrated to find he was expected to go straight back to bed. He had anticipated that as soon as he arrived back in Encino his life would return to normal, that he would miraculously feel better, and be able to breathe freely again. He badly wanted to be up and doing things. When he walked through the door his children raced to hug him. The pain was unbearable and Pilar, watching him intently, knew he was struggling, “He wouldn’t stop for a minute, but I could see how fatigued he was. I made him go to bed and as soon as he put his head down he was sound asleep. Even though it was the last place he wanted to be, he was so tired that for those first days he spent his time just staring up at the ceiling, he didn’t have the strength to get up again.” If the kids were disappointed when he left them to stagger off to bed alone, he was devastated, he feared he would never be whole again, “I never got over the feeling that I was living on borrowed time after that.”
He had been shocked when he reached his room to find, not his own giant bed, but another hospital one, with two oxygen tanks standing next to it and he raged, “What’s all this crap doing in here? Where’s my own bed?” Pilar ran up after him to remind him he had to sleep in a sitting position, “You won’t be going back to your own bed for some time Duke.”
If he had nothing else he had enormous will power and slowly but surely he battled back from those early disappointments and eventually he was able to give more time to his children. His daughter, who was aware he’d had an operation, kept asking to see his scars. He promised to show her as soon as the bandages were removed and one night he shouted her to come to his room to see. The purple, vivid scar, running right around his body horrified her. She feared he was about to die after all, no one could survive being cut up like that, not even her dad.
Throughout 1964 the health of John Wayne became the hot topic in town and within six weeks of his operation he knew the rumors flying around were worse than the truth. He hadn’t told other family members the full extent of his illness, but he had already made the decision to confess everything to his fans; hiding the truth from them felt like betrayal. He wasn’t worried about how they would react to the news and he felt secure in their affection but he was terrified that the Hollywood producers would turn against him, afraid he would no longer be able to do the business. The moguls all knew he would die rather than let anyone down, but now he might just die on them. How could he ever deliver the goods again, how could they ever take another chance on him? Even he couldn’t provide guarantees, he didn’t know himself if he was going to survive. He looked so ill that the story about an old ankle injury just didn’t work and he hated the cover up. The lie had seemed small and insignificant to those who gave it out, but he knew it wouldn’t be to the Press once they uncovered it, “Maintaining lies consumes too much energy. I have none to waste.” He didn’t want the studio bosses to see him disabled but he didn’t want to be exposed as a liar either. His whole image was based on the assumption that he didn’t lie. He had to tell the truth to relieve his discomfort.
The LA Herald Examiner was the first with the news that John Wayne was recovering from the removal of a malignant chest tumor. Mel Shavelson who made Cast a Giant Shadow with him, remarked, “The important thing was whether the sheriff would survive the shot in the back. Cancer will never be the same after its encounter with Duke.”
Although he had finally got the truth off his chest, it didn’t mean he wanted the world to know every detail of his illness. When he first went home to his Encino estate he was still loudly declaring that he would allow no one but Pilar to touch him, he would have no nurses in his home. Being the man he was, the star he was, it was hardly surprising that he didn’t trust outsiders to look after him, if anything went wrong with his body the press would be like a pack of blood hounds, willing to pay a fortune for information, they would probably pay a fortune for a story anyway, whether there was any truth in it or not. He felt vulnerable and weak, and he only wanted people around him he could rely on. He didn’t want his every yelp of pain reported to the world. Pilar would keep his condition to herself, his doctors wouldn’t talk, but he trusted no one else. His body was a valuable property and he didn’t want anyone to know the extent of his scars, even though he had allowed his daughter to see them. He didn’t want the graphic details or photographs printed on a daily basis. He wanted to maintain some dignity.
He had been told to rest for six months. He was far too impatient to sit still that long, and his powers of recuperation proved remarkable. He lay in bed and lounged around the house, bored and restless, for three weeks before forcing himself to begin the endless pacing up and down as the craving for tobacco worsened. So far he hadn’t touched another cigarette. No one ever heard him complain, but Pilar once caught him in an unguarded moment staring down at his empty hand, “I feel like something’s missing,” he confessed. It was tough and he had nothing to distract him from the overpowering hunger, he was bored with television, bored with reading, bored by enforced inactivity. He could spare no more time recovering; he had to get back out there.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRUE GRIT ON THE ROAD TO DURANGO
“Get a good story out of doors, let in some fresh air and sunlight. Give the cameraman a chance to photograph something besides walls and doors.”
“I have to learn to live without a lung and the sooner I get back to work the better. The Sons of Katie Elder is a typical John Wayne Western, so you know I have to be in good health to do it. I didn’t get famous doing drawing room comedies.”
...He told Pilar he was flying to Durango, Mexico, on January 3 1965, to start filming The Sons of Katie Elder. Durango was, in every way, a setting fit for a traditional John Wayne western, a high desert 6,500 feet above sea level, with a backdrop of awesome mountains, a land torn apart by deep, dark ravines, each thickly wooded. He still had trouble breathing and yet he planned to go to make his first picture after the removal of his lung to a location where the air admittedly contained no smog but was thin, crisp and dry, and where people with two healthy lungs were shocked by the difficulty of inhaling oxygen. He told his wife, “Every time Pappy started another western they’d say, “There goes senile Ford, out west again.” I guess they’ll say the same thing about me now, but I don’t give a damn. I have to do this.”
He felt he had been sitting around too long, and despite Pilar begging him not to go and pleading with him to give himself more time, he was determined, “I have a point to prove… especially to myself. I need to get The Wound off my mind… .and I can’t stand being idle… I feel like I can’t afford to waste even a minute.” He told Pilar brusquely, “I’ve loafed around long
enough and I’m going to Durango.” He was still often exhausted and he frequently had to go to his room to gulp down oxygen from the green bottles he hid away there and he knew it was going to be really tough in Mexico. That was the whole point, if he could work and survive there he would be alright, he could carry on as though nothing had happened, he would be able to put The Wound out of his mind, it would be healed.
His doctors had told him he needed complete rest for at least six to twelve months, but the speed of his recovery amazed them and his family. Once he was up on his feet they all knew he would be impossible to hold back. He walked further and further every day and his muscle tone soon recovered with the exercise, his color improved and he regained his huge appetite. Life began to get back to normal and just three short weeks after escaping from the hospital he insisted on going sailing. He drank, fished a little and it was as he relaxed aboard the Wild Goose he first decided to go public about his illness. Those closest to him still advised him to keep it quiet, but on December 29 he called a press conference at his home.
He told the gathered reporters the full story and spared no detail. He had decided there was a good, strong image in showing that John Wayne had beaten cancer and coming clean also went some way to putting him back in control of his own life, “I wanted to tell the truth right from the start but all the statements were given out while I was doped up under sedation. By the time I got on my feet, the damage was done… My advisors all thought it would destroy me, but there’s a lot of good image in John Wayne licking cancer; and that’s what my doctors tell me… I had the big C, but I’ve beaten the son of a bitch. Maybe I can give some poor bastard a little hope by being honest. People should talk about it, but the trouble is they’re afraid of the word. I want people to know cancer can be licked… I guess I’m a lucky guy, I feel great now. On January 3, I’ll go to Durango, Mexico, to start The Sons of Katie Elder. It’s a typical John Wayne western, so you know I have to be in good health. I didn’t get famous doing drawing room comedies.” He went on, “My doctors tell me I was saved by early detection. Movie image or no movie image, I think I should tell my story so that other people won’t be afraid of cancer and will see a doctor so they can be saved by a check-up.”