by Bryan Batt
Mom underwent a lengthy operation to remove nearly an entire lobe of her lung. Cracked open like an egg, the incision tore across her chest, reaching halfway to her spine. Awaiting an encouraging report from the doctor, her family and a multitude of friends endured hours in the waiting room. His news was unsettling at best. The procedure had been more invasive than he had originally thought it would need to be, and given her age and other medical conditions, the next few hours would be quite difficult.
Dread came over me. This might be it, I thought. Her body and spirit had endured so much over the years, and maybe now it was time. A gentle nurse escorted Jay and me to the recovery room, warning us that Mother would be unable to speak due to the breathing tube. It might be there for days, she explained somberly. It wasn’t a good sign. We prepared ourselves for the worst, anticipating the same kind of grim scene of pain and suffering that we witnessed on our way to recovery.
There she was. No makeup, no silk, no pearls—and no breathing tube. She smiled gently and wheezed, “Oh, my boys.”
Worried, I asked the attending nurse where the tube was, and she grinned as she replied, “Miss Gayle can breathe on her own already; you boys got one tough mama.”
She improved slowly, finally returning home after two weeks. On one of my many visits, I couldn’t help noticing a strange addition to the numerous framed photos of family and friends decorating her lacy feminine bedroom, which I had decorated. Scattered about were a rather odd and unfamiliar array of medals bearing the relief images of saints, as well as vials of water, statuettes of saints, a loaf of bread, and a silver goblet. This was out of character and seemed a tad fundamentalist, so I asked, “Mom, what is all this stuff? Is this holy water?”
“Pumpkin, that is Lourdes water that Aunt Carol brought, and it’s blessed and has healing powers, and that over there is the body and blood of Christ.”
A soft but solid “Amen, sister” was heard from Miss Yvonne, Mother’s Amazonian born-again and bejeweled sitter.
“Mother, who is this?” I asked, picking up a small medallion.
“That happens to be the blessed Father Silos. He watches over the sick. Miss Alma brought that medal, his picture, and everyone’s favorite priest, Father Bouterie, did a blessing.”
“Mother, we are not Catholic, we are Methodist, I think. Now that you are trying new religions, have you called the Dalai Lama or Rabbi Cohen?”
“If you must know, mister smarty pants, Mrs. Katz and her friends are saying prayers for me at Temple Sinai, and if I knew any Hindus, or Buddhists for that matter, I’d welcome their prayers or chants. You can say what you want, Bryanny boy, but I like it, it makes me feel better. You’re the one that’s always saying there are many roads—well, who knows? Father Silos needs only one more miracle to become a saint, and it could be with me. Just what New Orleans needs, a real saint.”
Yvonne chimed in, “Amen, sister.”
I have my issues with organized religion and cafeteriastyle religion, picking and choosing certain dogmas that apply or seem ethical while ignoring the oppressive, non-inclusive, and outdated ones as if they don’t exist. The trouble began a long time ago when we tried to bring God indoors. Leave it to mankind to screw it up and to Christians to turn heaven into an exclusive country club. But today was not the time to engage in a debate.
Just as with Moozie and Dad, the grim accountrement of the invalid (what a horrible word, in-valid)—the hospital bed, walker, bed pan, oxygen tank, breathing apparatus—filled the room. These foreign contraptions no longer frightened me, but saddened me profoundly, because for the first time I saw my special friend, this darling enigma of a mother, seriously confronting her mortality. In her seventy-five years she had undergone over two dozen surgeries, and now her body was weak, depressed, and heartbroken. The worst part was that I saw sadness that was so foreign to her in her eyes—eyes that had always danced. We stared at each other briefly and intuitively.
I kissed her gently on the forehead so as not to cause any unnecessary pain. Though slightly more wheezy, she uttered in a lilt that could charm the husk right off an ear of corn, “Baby dear, Miss Margaret, Mr. Albert’s sister, is coming to do my hair today—can you believe he broke his teasing hand? Thank the Lord, because I look like a wet rat.”
My cousin Donna-Gayle, who now had become my mother’s caretaker, secretary, bookkeeper, and confidante, gave a slight chuckle.
“Now, doodlebug, could you help me make it look presentable before she comes, just get my teasing comb off the vanity and try to fix it, please?”
I barely recall the last time I saw my mother’s hair actually move. Since our emotional meeting at my birth many years ago, her ’do had consistently resembled a cotton-candy confection, strategically coiffed and lacquered. It has never been seen wet, or experienced the slightest hint of kinetic activity. Briefly in the late seventies there was a period when bejeweled or floral combs held back a few locks, but before the slightest breeze was allowed to disturb the creation, an ample coating of All Set was applied.
Every word my mother spoke took effort, and if she moved ever so slightly, she felt shocks of stabbing pain that brought tears to both our eyes. Having had some experience with character makeup and hair in various plays and musicals, I thought for a moment there was a chance, but it would definitely take a miracle of Father Silos to transform that mop of straw to its former glory. But try I would. During the teasing, spraying, and virtual molding of her tresses, we chatted about family, memories, and all that we’d been through. A gentle ease came over us with each brushstroke of blush, and as I was helping her put on her eyeliner, Mom looked up at me and whispered somberly, “Did I do this, pumpkin-eater boy? Did I help make you this way?”
“What way?”
“Sweet.”
“Let’s just say I had a wonderful teacher.”
She smiled and started to well up, so I quickly joked, “I thought you meant gay. Oh, you can’t take credit for that, it’s all mine.”
She started to smile, then to laugh, but the pain from her surgery stifled any outward expression of humor except in her eyes, those generous, knowing, always loving eyes.
“Oh pet, I think I may have to … Donna, Yvonne, I need some help to the loo, this is what we have been praying for!”
As Yvonne helped Mother to her failing feet, Donna, in a hushed voice, quickly and stealthily explained that she had not made “number two” in almost a week, and that per the suggestion of Yvonne, a potty vigil had become part of the daily ritual. Donna reassured Mom that she was on her way.
“Nan-Nan, just start without me.” Then, aside to me, she muttered hopefully, “I hope this is it, ’cause I don’t know the Hail Mary.”
Not all that shocked, but seriously amused, I watched as the ladies fluttered through the beautiful yet eternally disheveled boudoir and into the adjoining loo, and shut the door. For some odd reason, which a therapist would have a field day deciphering, I remained.
Miss Yvonne’s booming voice was the first to be heard.
“Y’all, let’s all hold hands. Bow our heads. Dear Father God, we ask you to help Miss Gayle, we ask you to work through her, we know you work in mysterious ways.”
There was the unmistakable sound of flatulence, followed by …
“Thank you, Jesus, amen.”
“Come on, Miss Gayle, believe, let the spirit move you.”
With that profound declaration came a thunderous “Hallelujah!”
The reverberating bellow nearly scared the crap out of me, so I can only imagine what effect it had on Mom. The result must have been an overwhelming success, because the next words were, “Praise Him, ask and ye shall receive, amen, amen, amen!”
Donna-Gayle burst from the room. Stifling her laughter, she grabbed my hand and forced me downstairs.
“Oh my God, Bryan, open some wine, I need a drink and a cigarette.”
We both doubled over and, laughing hysterically, agreed that the phrase “holy shit” would have
new meaning for us—forever and ever, amen.
Good News and Bad News
“NOW, SWEET POTATO, I don’t want to slow you down, you have so much going on, but if it’s okay, and you don’t think I’d be a burden, I’d love to come out and see you do your thing in L.A., but I’ll understand if …” Mom went on, muttering in her now slightly breathless style.
The removal of three-quarters of a lung a few years back, coupled with the effects of chemotherapy, was beginning to take its toll. Her signature honey-toned cotton-candy hair had fallen out and was replaced by a wiry gray Brillo pad. It didn’t seem to faze her in the least; she wore hats and wigs, and continued to smile as she always had. She did everything in her power to fight this disease yet again, not just medically, but spiritually as well. Visualization classes, seminars on self-healing, meditation—if it might help her, she was going to try it.
“Mother, I would not have invited you if I didn’t mean it. Book your flight, use your miles to upgrade, and I’ll make reservations at a hotel, one with no stairs.”
“You are an angel. This may be my last opportunity to come out. Oh, baby dear, this is just what the doctor ordered, but if it’s going to be too much for you …”
“Mom, you and Donna are coming—that’s final.”
Just then there came a knock on my trailer door. “You are invited on set.” I’ve never understood why that phrase is used to call actors to the set. It’s my job; I really don’t need to be invited to work.
“Mom, I’ll call you later, just get here, love you, ’bye.”
Her choice of words—last opportunity—stuck in my head, and while making a last-minute tie adjustment, I realized that this was the first time she had ever slightly suggested the possibility of her death. Throughout her entire life, life itself was the answer, the simple driving force from which she never deviated. It was such a shock to me to hear that it sent my mind swimming.
As I crossed the scalding summer streets of the Los Angeles Center Studios and opened the double doors to the arctic air conditioning of the sound stage, I kept repeating the mantra I’d adopted very early in my career: “Leave your personal life at the stage door.” I tried, but those two words plagued me. I had buried my father nearly twenty-five years before, and realized how lucky I was to have had my mother all these years, how wonderful and unique our friendship was. I thought of the years she’d fought just to stay alive, and how she’d survived countless life-threatening illnesses with dignity and grace, and was now waging a battle with her own destiny once again. When or how would it end? Where had it come from, this strength, this will?
As I passed a gathering of impeccably costumed 1960s secretaries, I smiled a hello and noticed that one actress was holding a pair of my mother’s gloves, ones that I had given Janie, our brilliant costume designer, a year ago. I had come to terms with my mother’s illness and the fact that the end could be soon. I had no regrets, and was fully prepared to release her; the problem was releasing myself. Tears started to well, and for a moment I thought I was about to lose it as I approached my friend Rich Sommer, who played Mad Men’s Harry Crane. He looked at me, and his face dropped.
“What’s wrong? How’s your mom?”
I took a deep breath to compose myself, then said, “She’s coming to the premiere.”
“That’s fantastic! So why the who-died face?” he joked.
“It’s just, it just really hit me that it’s going to happen. I mean I have always known it will—hell, all of my youth and adult life I was constantly worrying about it. It’s the natural progression, it’s what should and must happen. It’s the pain and suffering, her pain and suffering—it just sucks.”
“I know what you mean; my grandmother died last year of cancer—no fun, there is no fun in a funeral. Hey, they’re not ready for us just yet, the corn nuts are calling me at craft services, care to join?”
We laughed as we made our way past the huge lights and period sets. It still amazes me how such an unreal world can be transformed by the camera to appear so rich and real. Just like my own.
A WEEK LATER I was driving to LAX to retrieve Mom and Donna. Driving along La Cienega, I thought about my New York life and how everyone had thought that I would hate L.A., but maybe my time in New Orleans had tempered the culture shock. The one thing that L.A. has over the rest of the world is the perfect weather ninety-five percent of the year. It is mind-boggling how beautiful it is, but it explains why God saw fit to hurl the occasional mud slide, fire, or earthquake. En route to the airport, the sky was ablaze with the beginning of a perfect sunset, and the silhouettes of palm trees danced against skies of flame. Just minutes from the airport, my cell phone rang. It was Donna.
“Well, we are here, headed to baggage claim. Her majesty is now officially friends with everyone in the first-class cabin and many in coach, and she has made everyone in earshot promise they’ll watch the season premiere of the show.”
“I’ll be there in a couple of minutes; just wait outside. And Donna, thank you for doing this.”
As I approached the pickup area, I could see in the distance a wheelchair encircled by people, some standing, some actually kneeling, and as I got closer I saw that of course it was Mom, holding court with her new comrades as they were saying their good-byes.
I hugged Donna and made my way to my mother. When I caught her brilliant twinkling gaze, my heart just smiled at the sight of her. There she was, seated in a wheelchair, dressed in a black pantsuit and pearls, and on her head was a matching black turban with a serious gold and pearl brooch centered on her forehead. She exclaimed, “Come give me a kiss, my angel boy. Y’all, this is my actor son Bryan, and he’s on that television show I was singing the praises of, Mad Men on AMC Sunday nights at ten p.m., nine Central. That’s when it airs where we live, in New Orleans. Oh, petunia, it’s so good to see your sweet face, it just does my heart good.”
I loaded the car as the other passengers went on their way, and as I approached Mom to help her into the car, she was handing the attendant who wheeled her a tip. “Thank you so much, Mercedes, I had an aunt Mercedes, Bryan, you remember Aunt Mercedes and Uncle Frank, that was my mother’s brother and his wife, Bryan, this is Mercedes, and she has been a living doll, just a doll. You have been so sweet and you keep on taking those classes and one day you will be a great medical assistant, we need more sweet people like you.”
With that, Mercedes hugged Mom and we went through the routine of her angling her bad hips and knees into my mini-SUV. The sunset was in full bloom, and the tall, spindly palms swayed in the gentle summer breeze now against a sky that glowed like lava.
“This is just beautiful, isn’t it, Donna? Honey, tell me everything. How is filming? Are you excited about the premiere tomorrow, ’cause we are, I am about to bust, just bust with excitement!”
I started to answer, but Mom quickly said, “Now, honey, please take it easy, we are not in a race to get to the hotel and we would like to arrive in one piece, so please slow down. I don’t want you to get a citation.”
I pointed out that you can actually get a ticket for going too slow on the L.A. freeways, and that I knew what I was doing. I asked about everyone in the family, a subject she always loves to chat about.
“Well, Jay had the back surgery and was recovering just fine but the poor thing developed kidney stones again. I hear they are excruciating. You know your father had them something awful one year during Carnival. You and Jay were just little tykes at the time, and I was sitting in the box seat at one of the balls, to tell the truth I can’t remember which one, was it Dorians or Osiris? … Well, anyhoo, I was waiting for him to dance with me for the first ‘call out’ dance, and no John, and the second dance, no John. Your Uncle Donny was his committeeman, so I asked him ‘Where’s Johnny?’ and he had no idea, so he went backstage at the auditorium. As it turned out, your daddy had passed the kidney stone in the shower and fainted for a moment from the pain. Isn’t that just horrible? So say a prayer for Jay-boy. And
rée is great, and the girls are getting more grown up every day, becoming little ladies. We went out to dinner the other night with Aunt Carol and Uncle Jack and had a fantastic time. Oh, pet, as we drive, please point out any sites of interest or historic significance. You know your grandfather Pa-paw, my father, wanted to move to California to retire, but Moozie could never leave New Orleans. Come to think of it, your daddy loved California too, but with the business and then his heart, he couldn’t leave, and to tell the truth, me either. I just adore that city.”
We drove up to the uber-chic London Hotel on San Vicente, and Mom marveled that there were no stairs and at the ultra-modern decor. Both she and Donna oohed and ahhed over the golden leather settee, commenting how different and festive it looked, but how it would never ever work in a real home. Once again she started to charm the doormen and valets and front-desk workers as she checked in.
Donna and I managed the luggage as well as the grocery order I had received. Prunes, bottled water, fresh fruit, and whole-wheat crackers. I added a bottle of Chardonnay for Donna and me, as Mom was not imbibing. She knew that when dealing with cancer, sweets are out and liquor just makes you sicker. I shared a glass with Donna, and we all stepped out onto the veranda for a quick toast to the twinkling lights of Hollywood. Mom slipped her braceleted arm around me and hugged tightly yet softly, saying, “Have I told you how proud I am of you?”
“Only all my life.”
I informed them that I was filming tomorrow, and depending on the schedule, which could change at a moment’s notice, the car would pick them up for the premiere first, then me. There were kisses, and I was on my way to my rented West Hollywood bungalow. I decided to bring my suit for the premiere to the studio just in case we ran late filming, which turned out to be the best decision, as we were extremely behind schedule that day. I called the press office and told them to have the driver pick Mom and Donna up from the hotel, then come downtown to get me. They arrived as I was wrapping, and our sweet assistant director and script supervisor took the girls on a tour of the Sterling Cooper set as I flew to my trailer and got dressed. Tying the vintage pink Pucci tie, one of my dad’s that he had never worn, once again I caught a glimpse of him looking back at me in the mirror. He really wasn’t the pink Pucci type, but I sure as hell am, and damn proud of it.