By Myself and Then Some

by Lauren Bacall

  I started Designing Woman, coming home with my nightly reports. Our first day’s work was at the pool of the Beverly Hills Hotel, and Bogie brought the children to watch for a while. He stayed to one side – the still man photographed only Steve and Leslie with me. Greg and I had days of shooting on a sailboat – Bogie was there on the Santana and Greg and I went aboard for lunch. That movie was one of my happiest film experiences. It had one of my all-time favorite lines – ‘Open your eyes, Maxie, and go to sleep.’ It was also a godsend. Greg and I played characters very much in love, working in different worlds, fighting a lot. In one scene I was leaving him after a fight, running on a cobblestone street in spike-heeled shoes – and of course proceeded to fall and sprain my ankle. It was a romantic movie and I seemed to be constantly running toward Greg or away from him, so I had emotional and physical release to compensate for keeping everything inside at home.

  One afternoon I came home to find Bogie in a state of rage. Dorothy Kilgallen (one of Bogie’s least favorite columnists and Frank’s number-one hate – she was truly vicious) had printed in her column that Bogie had been moved to the eighth floor of Memorial Hospital, where he was fighting for his life. I wouldn’t have believed that even she could be so rotten. The press for the most part had made it a point not to mention anything about Bogie’s health since his surgery, except that he was on his way to recovery and would start The Good Shepherd soon. He was horribly upset. Why wouldn’t he over-react – who had more right? He’d been struggling for so many months to gain weight, to feel better, to function. The phone started ringing. Of course the fact that there was no Memorial Hospital in Los Angeles was only one minor inaccuracy! Bogie sent a wire to Kilgallen saying, among other things, ‘Unless you start checking the facts you’re apt to wind up on the nineteenth floor of Bellevue.’ His comments to the press were, ‘The fact that there’s no Memorial Hospital didn’t bother me so much, but that eighth floor was what got me sore. Pretty damn ominous.’ He was determined to straighten it out. He put in a call to the night editor of the Journal-American, Kilgallen’s paper – in a way, it was the old Bogie stirring things up, not letting the lie prevail, not letting the cheap gossip press – the leeches he loathed – get away with anything. Joe Hyams had called to check the story. Bogie in a fatigued and feeble voice said, ‘If you want to do me a last favor, come right over.’ Joe of course arrived immediately, to find Bogie slumped in his chair, waving a letter he had composed. Joe promised to print it word for word as he had written it. As Bogie started reading it aloud – ‘An open letter to the working press’ – the phone rang. I got it – it was the editor – Bogie took the phone and shouted into it, ‘Do I sound as if I’m fighting for my life? God damn it, don’t you check your stories? You just allow that bitch to print anything,’ and on and on he went – unrelenting, shouting, finally hanging up totally exhausted. As he pulled himself together and got his breath, I sweetened his drink, and after some forced conversation between Joe and me, he was able to go on with his letter.

  I have been greatly disturbed lately at the many unchecked and baseless rumors being tossed to the people regarding the state of my health. Just to set the record straight, as they say in Washington (and I have as much right as anybody in Washington has), a great deal of what has been printed has had nothing to do with the facts. It may even be necessary for me to send out a truth team to follow you around.

  I have read that both lungs have been removed; that I couldn’t live another half-hour; that I was fighting for my life in a hospital which doesn’t exist out here; that my heart has stopped and been replaced by an old gasoline pump from a defunct Standard Oil station. I have been on the way to practically every cemetery you can name from here to the Mississippi – including several where I am certain they only accept dogs. All the above upsets my friends, not to mention the insurance companies. So, as they also say in Washington, let’s get the facts to the American people – and here they are.

  I had a slight malignancy in my esophagus. So that some of you won’t have to go into the research department, it’s the pipe that runs from your throat to your stomach. The operation for the removal of the malignancy was successful, although it was touch and go for a while whether the malignancy or I would survive.

  As they also say in Washington, I’m a better man than I ever was – and all I need now is about thirty pounds in weight which I am sure some of you could spare. Possibly we could start something like a Weight Bank for Bogart and believe me I’m not particular which part of your anatomy it comes from.

  In closing, any time you want to run a little medical bulletin on me, just pick up the phone and, as they say in the Old Country – I’m in the book.

  Joe felt that he had been duped – Bogie was not drawing his last breath – but Bogie, as Joe was on his way to the car, pointed a finger at him: ‘You promised – you gave me your word,’ so Joe was forced to print it.

  Bogie never, from the beginning, believed in disguising the nature of his illness. ‘Why should I? It’s a respectable disease – nothing to be ashamed of, like something I might have had.’ ‘No worse than gallstones or appendicitis.’ ‘They’d all kill you if you didn’t catch them soon enough – the way people act, you’d think that cancer was as bad as VD.’

  Around that time Bogie started complaining about a pain in his left shoulder. He never mentioned anything unless it really hurt. It was treated rather as if it were a pulled muscle. I remember him reaching back and showing me the spot – my trying to massage it – his saying it felt better. From then on he talked about wanting to work more than anything else. ‘But I couldn’t do it thirty pounds underweight.’ He was deeply discouraged about not gaining weight. I kept repeating that he would – just give it time.

  The pain persisted. He went to see Dr Brandsma and came home with the diagnosis. It seemed to be a pinched nerve – in the healing process this often occurred. As it wouldn’t go away, both Dr Brandsma and Dr Flynn re-examined Bogie and gave him some pain-killing pills. His appetite lessened and he lost more weight – nothing drastic yet, but enough to cause concern. After a while the pills didn’t help. Bogie was resting upstairs one evening, and before they went up to see him they talked to me downstairs. They were afraid the cancer had returned.

  There was only one choice: nitrogen mustard. That treatment, while severe, if not killing, often arrested the spread of the disease. It would mean four or five days in the hospital. They would tell Bogie it was treatment for the scar tissue – more words that I didn’t really understand. He accepted what they said – no questions but obvious ones. ‘Will the treatment solve it?’ ‘Absolutely it should. It’s strong, but we’ve seen it work before.’ Then they explained in detail how scar tissue formed in an area after extensive surgery, very often crowding a nerve, pressing in on it, causing pain. There were no lies – they couldn’t lie to Bogie, they knew he’d know, so they skirted around the truth. It was announced to the press that Mr Bogart was entering St John’s for treatment of a nerve-pressure condition ‘due to excessive scar formation following previous surgery. Pills given to alleviate pain cause lack of appetite.’ It was also printed that he would check in with a chess book, some detective thrillers, a bottle of Scotch, and his portable chess set.

  The sun was shining brightly when we arrived. I carried his case – he walked, but with effort. That night he felt pretty good. They had given him some treatment, but the real thing would start the next day. Meanwhile they had alleviated the pain with special compresses, heat, and some intravenous medication to dissolve the scar tissue. He wasn’t happy to be in a hospital again, but the atmosphere of St John’s was fairly cheery and there was to be no surgery this time. Actually, I think it was a relief to him in a way to be able to stay in bed – not to carry on the pretense that everything was fine. He would be taken care of, not feel he was inconveniencing everyone at home; he hated to impose. Dr Flynn was at the hospital that evening and walked with me to my car as I left. He told me the chances
were good that the nitrogen mustard would work, and that in any case it was the only chance – the last chance.

  I was terribly depressed as I drove home. So little was known about cancer: there was surgery, there was X-ray, cobalt, nitrogen mustard – and that was it. I could feel the doctors’ frustration, though, as John Jones kept saying, ‘We must do everything we know how to do. As long as the patient’s alive there’s a chance. Research is being conducted all the time – one day suddenly there’ll be a cure, as with penicillin. One day there was no penicillin, the next day there was …’ But I was sick of talking to doctors – of listening to words and phrases I didn’t know the meaning of, of seeing no solution, of having hope become despair in a matter of hours, of being at the mercy of it all.

  Frank was constant with his phone calls and visits to Bogie – and it wasn’t easy for him. I don’t think he could bear to see Bogie that way or bear to face the possibility of his death. Yet he cheered Bogie up when he was with him – made him laugh – kept the ring-a-ding act in high gear for him. He did it all the only way he knew how, and he did it well.

  The five days Bogie was in the hospital he didn’t feel too bad – a little listless, and not eating. They plied him with liquids like grape juice, which he liked, and the sustagen malteds, but he had lost more weight. The night before I was to take him home I had a meeting with the doctors. They told me he would be weak but otherwise all right – they wouldn’t be able to give me a true prognosis on the nitrogen-mustard treatment for at least a week, probably more. They didn’t think I’d need a nurse unless I wanted one so I could get some sleep, but I knew Bogie would hate having a nurse around and as long as no medical attention was required I could handle it.

  The next day I got him into his clothes, although they hung on him. He was so happy to be going home. The nurse wheeled him almost to the car – he walked the rest of the way, apologizing for leaning on me. It was being in bed and not eating for five days. ‘Once you get home we’ll fatten you up, Baby. The pain in the shoulder is gone now – you’ll be fine. Besides, I love you to lean on me – it’s the first time in twelve years. Makes me feel needed.’ We got home and very slowly climbed the stairs. He would lie down until dinner and then come down to the Butternut Room, where we’d eat and watch television. I helped him into his pajamas. While he rested I did whatever I had to do – told the children to try to keep the noise down while Daddy was resting. They went in to see him before he came downstairs. It was almost enough for them to be in the room – they kissed him but didn’t climb on him or make any noise. At their dinnertime Bogie and I started downstairs – had a drink together. We had something on trays which I ate and Bogie didn’t. The children had gone to bed. Bogie and I were on the sofa in the Butternut Room, having coffee, watching the box. I was worried about how he felt, but I couldn’t ask: he hated that direct question beyond description. What could he answer anyway – lousy? He got up to go to the bathroom, which was no more than eight feet away – I tried not to watch him, not obviously at least. He looked strained. I heard the door open after a few minutes and as I turned to look at him he just disappeared. I jumped up – oh God! – I rushed over to him – he had fainted and was out cold. I screamed for the butler, told him to carry Mr Bogart upstairs to bed. I was hysterical. I rushed for the phone and could hardly dial Dr Brandsma’s number, my hand was shaking so. I screamed into the phone, ‘He fainted – why didn’t you tell me something like this could happen?’ I ran upstairs to see Bogie, who had come to – composed myself, saying, ‘It must be a reaction to all the medication you’ve had – don’t worry, darling.’ What could I say? He couldn’t understand what had happened – was worried, even frightened, though he never said he was either. I told him to try and sleep – that if he hadn’t come downstairs, it wouldn’t have happened. Anything to try to soothe him. I didn’t know what I was saying.

  Soon Dr Brandsma arrived. I waited downstairs while he examined Bogie. I was still a basket case, in a state of semi-trauma, and I clearly looked it, for when Brandsma came downstairs he took me by the arm and sat down on the sofa with me and proceeded to talk to me like a child. ‘Look, Betty, I’m sorrier than I can say that this happened. There was no way of our knowing. The effects of the nitrogen mustard are cumulative – they just knocked Bogie flat all at once. He should have come home with a nurse, but I was hoping we could get away without one.’ But why had it happened – would it happen again – what would it be like tomorrow – how could I prepare myself to take care of him? ‘We have to take it one day at a time. I think he should have a nurse, perhaps a male nurse, until the treatment wears off and he’s stronger. A male nurse could carry him down the stairs.’ My heart sank – Bogie would be upset by that. I said, ‘Let’s try it a day or two without one. The butler can carry him down. If I can’t manage, okay, but you’ll have to explain to Bogie that you feel it’s a good idea and why.’ I was looking for constant reassurance from Brandsma – any ray of light. I never thought in terms of this being the beginning of the end either – it was just another temporary crisis. After that experience I dealt with our life minute by minute. But I was scared.

  I made some ground rules. Whoever wanted to visit Bogie had to call and ask what would be the best time, and I didn’t want too many at once, no matter how close friends they were – it was too much of an effort in his present condition. His second day home Sam and Mildred Jaffe came over. Mildred hadn’t seen Bogie for a while and on entering the room I heard her gasp – she couldn’t help it, she was so shocked at the sight of that figure in the bed. Having seen him daily, I hadn’t realized how drastic the change had been. I glared at her, and as we were walking down the stairs after their visit, I told her, surprised at my fury and my ability to articulate it, that if she couldn’t control herself she must not come again – that the point of friends coming to visit was not to commiserate over his illness but to cheer him and get his mind off it. Of course she apologized profusely, hugged me, kissed me – she was like a mother to me. I loved her a great deal, but I was steely about this, determined that it must never happen again. Mildred said she could see him and contain herself, but only if there were other people in the room.

  After a few days I had to agree to a male nurse. Bogie was still weak – he got out of bed every day and walked across the room to sit on our chaise-longue, and he’d go to the bathroom, but it was better if someone was close by to help him if he needed it. The male nurse was young, strong, not entirely sensible, and had the personality of a flounder. One afternoon I walked into the bedroom to find Bogie very agitated. In raised voice to the nurse: ‘What do you mean, no improvement? What do you mean, my appetite stays the same – that there’s no weight gain? Of course there’s no weight gain. That takes time …’ and on and on. That nurse had shown him his own chart. I could have killed him – demanded to know why he’d shown it. ‘Well, he asked to see it.’ I wanted no one around who might make extra waves in Bogie’s life, so it was agreed that the nurse would be there no more.

  I had finished Designing Woman, and Written on the Wind had just opened in the East. As I said, it was a soap opera – Rock Hudson and I always knew that – but it turned out to be a very successful one. I remember Bogie stretched out on the chaise reading a review, me squatting alongside – and his saying, ‘I wouldn’t do too many of these.’ His standards were as high as ever.

  We were able to get the really good nurse Bogie had had in Good Samaritan. She made him feel very safe and was easy to get along with – did whatever was necessary for Bogie without making him feel a total invalid, and she had some wit, praise the Lord. The doctors came every day, Dr Brandsma literally morning and evening. We tried to have people for drinks upstairs in the bedroom, but Bogie wanted to be in the Butternut Room when his friends came. Swifty was one of the few who saw Bogie upstairs – he came before official drink time, armed with a story or joke to bring a smile to Bogie’s face. Bogie didn’t like being carried. At last it was worked out that we wo
uld put a chair in the dumbwaiter – an old-fashioned one that was very roomy. Aurelio removed one board to give him more headroom and we used a wheelchair. Downstairs he would transfer to his favorite orange chair and drink with his buddies. He could walk, but it was hard for him – he just was not strong, and there was no point in wearing himself out unnecessarily. It was a neat arrangement, though not a happy one. He looked so frail sitting in that dumbwaiter, and it was a dark, though short trip. It couldn’t have been anything but very unpleasant, but he wanted to do it – he insisted upon doing it. That cocktail hour became the high point of his day. Friends would phone to book themselves between five and seven and I’d try to keep it to two at a time. Niven often came directly from the studio in full make-up on his way home – the regulars could always come in, though they never came without calling. It became more and more apparent who was not a regular. Dick Brooks, for instance, a close friend who had almost been invented by Bogie as a character – Bogie had certainly influenced his life in every way – did not come for a long time. I was furious – and I voiced the fury once. Bogie’s comment was, ‘Well, don’t be too hard on him – some people just don’t like to be around sickness.’ Too damn bad, I thought. Dick could have swallowed his distaste in the name of friendship. I was fierce – I admit it. I had taken on some of Bogie’s color, gaining strength while protecting him. There was no way for me to understand or to forgive the ones who fell short of the mark. There was no way for me to forgive Dick. I think he finally did come once, but he was shamed into it – probably I put him on the defensive. But I didn’t care about him – I cared only about Bogie; I cared about his not being let down. Had positions been reversed, Bogie would have been there. And Swifty, who had a true phobia about sickness and cleanliness, rose above it out of friendship – out of his high regard for Bogie. Clearly it was the fact of Bogart – indomitable, indestructible, always-there Bogart – suddenly not having strength, physical strength. No one wanted to face that fact. And Bogie through those last weeks made an extraordinary, superhuman effort, keeping the talk going – he did much more than his doctors thought within the realm of human possibility.