The Kennedy Heirs: John, Caroline, and the New Generation

by J. Randy Taraborrelli

  “The guy can’t win for trying,” admitted Ted Kennedy in one private meeting at his home about Andrew’s chances. “Whatever he says or does is wrong, and that’s just because of the way he is. That’s politics,” he said. “Politics is perception.” He also noted that Mario Cuomo had had the same problem. “That bunch has never exactly been likable, have they?” he asked. The Senator reminded those in the room that many people didn’t take to Mario, including Democrats, despite his three terms as governor.

  Maybe part of the reason Andrew appeared unlikable on the public stage was because he actually wasn’t the nicest guy in the world, and he couldn’t hide it. Put another way, most of the Kennedys were better actors. Certainly Joe Kennedy was not known to be particularly pleasant to his team, either. To some staffers, he was known for the remark “I would like people who work for me to show initiative. But only when I want them to.” However, Joe always came across well before an audience. His uncle Ted, even when his behavior was at its worst, still translated to the public as a decent fellow. Andrew couldn’t seem to disguise the fact that he was hard-nosed and difficult.

  The real killer of Andrew’s campaign, though, was his much-reported criticism of Governor George Pataki as having taken a backseat to Mayor Rudy Giuliani during the tragedy of September 11, 2001. The gaffe happened while Andrew and Kerry were traveling with reporters on a bus. Maybe he thought it was off the record, but it wasn’t. “He stood behind the leader,” Andrew said of Pataki. “He held the leader’s coat. He was a great assistant to the leader. But he was not a leader.”

  All Kerry could do was shake her head and bite her lip. She’d been around politicians her entire life and knew the second she heard those words tumbling from her husband’s lips that he’d made a huge blunder. “Kennedys always think before they speak,” she said (though of course that was hyperbolic at best), “and my uncle Ted says you don’t always have a chance to correct something when you misspeak. It just becomes the record, for better or worse, and usually for worse.”

  While Andrew’s remark seems a little benign all these years later, it really did ruin everything for him. Using 9/11 as a political talking point? No. It was too early, and regardless of how Pataki had performed during the crisis, it was not deemed appropriate as far as most traumatized New Yorkers were concerned. When the comment made the front pages of Manhattan newspapers, it was all over for Andrew. Looking back years later, he would have to note, “One stupid remark on the most sensitive topic in a generation communicated one thing: arrogance.”

  On September 2, 2002, a week before the primary, Andrew withdrew from the race. He had no choice; he was never going to get the nomination, anyway. Former President Bill Clinton introduced him to the cheering crowd, telling him he was proud of him and that he should be proud of himself. He would be back to race again one day, or so Clinton assured him and the audience.

  At this same time, Andrew’s sister-in-law Kathleen Kennedy Townsend had just lost her bid for governor of Maryland. Because the state’s incumbant, Parris Glendening, hadn’t been eligible to run again due to state term limits, Kathleen was nominated by her party. In the end, Kathleen lost to the Republican U.S. Representative (Congressman) Robert Ehrlich of Arbutus, 48 percent to 52 percent. “I’m just happy to now focus on my family,” she said, seeming relieved.

  It was a triple defeat for the family in that Mark Shriver had hoped to move up from the Maryland House of Delegates, where he had served since 1995, representing Montgomery County, Maryland District 15, to a seat in Congress for the Eighth District of Maryland. He was defeated in the Democratic primary by Chris Van Hollen. He took it harder than Kathleen; he really wanted to serve. It was a bitter disappointment. (He would then join Save the Children and serve as senior vice president for U.S. Programs until 2013.) This was definitely not a good time for Kennedys in the political arena.

  Meanwhile, Andrew Cuomo was crushed. He would look back on his run for governor many years later with great regret. “I’d disappointed my wife, my parents, my supporters, myself. I hated feeling like a public spectacle. As I stood onstage, I felt my last bit of dignity drain out.”

  It would get much worse. About a week after Andrew dropped out of the race, Kerry made clear her feelings about the future of their marriage. She’d been there for him throughout his campaign, but now she was done. In January 2003, she hired a divorce lawyer.

  Six months later, while still technically married to Andrew, Kerry would have a brief affair with a restaurateur named Bruce Colley. It wouldn’t mean much to her, though, and, in fact, became the catalyst for her to examine how she really felt about being involved with anyone while still married to Andrew, even if she was separated. It had always been a part of Kennedy culture that the men were the ones who had the affairs, not the women. Though this really wasn’t an affair in the strictest sense, it was close enough—and the press about it was relentless and unforgiving. She had to ask her mother, her chief adviser, how she felt about it.

  Ethel had changed a lot in recent years, especially after Michael’s death. She was more subdued, not as volatile. Perhaps a lot of it had to do with growing older—she was seventy-four—and mellowing with age. A person would be hard-pressed to remember the last time she’d snapped someone to attention by clapping her hands in front of his face, or forced someone to eat a slice of chocolate cake in order to test that person’s mettle. She’d also relaxed many of the rules when it came to the household staff, saying that she now felt maybe life was too short to worry about old-world servant protocol. “I guess you could say that my perspective has totally changed with the years,” she told one intimate. Indeed, she’d been through a lot and had found a place within where she was just more peaceful.

  Whereas Ethel once would have advised Kerry to work on her marriage for the sake of the family, now she was a little more lenient in that regard, too. She still wouldn’t condone an extramarital affair, though. If anything, she urged Kerry to get her divorce and start a new life with her children. Therefore, within weeks of it having first been reported in the media, Kerry ended her brief relationship with Bruce. As for Andrew? She was finished with him, too. She would move forward with the divorce.

  PART III

  “The Kennedy Curse Ends Here”

  Ted Advocates for Kara

  It was January 2003. Senator Ted Kennedy, who would turn seventy-one in a month, was sitting in the office of the president of the Dana-Farber/Brigham Cancer Center in Boston, Massachusetts. Before him were six large computer monitors. As he watched and listened, a half dozen of the most prestigious, skilled medical professionals in the field of cancer research offered various opinions and conclusions. Occasionally, Ted would turn to Vicki and whisper something in her ear. She would nod and take a quick note on a large yellow pad in her lap. In front of her on a coffee table was a stack of medical books. Now and then, she would lean over to them and riffle the pages of one until she found a passage. She’d hand the book to Ted for his review, pointing at the paragraph as he read it. He’d nod his appreciation. Though the information being imparted was grim, the rapport shared by the Kennedys was apparent as they took it all in and assessed it.

  By this time, Ted was older, but he actually looked better than ever. His work in the Senate continued to be important to him, as it was to the country. A year earlier, the No Child Left Behind Act, which he had cosponsored, was signed into law. In the end, it gave states more fiscal freedom but also required substantial education allocations. He had also won an increase in the federal minimum wage. On this day, though, Ted had concerns that were more personal; he was determined to not allow yet another tragedy to occur in his life or in that of his family. A month earlier, his forty-one-year-old daughter, Kara, called to tell him that she’d had an annual physical and that the results had come back problematic. Her doctor suggested she have someone with her for a conference, during which he would provide more information. Kara wanted Ted to be at her side. Of course he would be there f
or her.

  As father and daughter sat before him, the doctor pulled an X-ray out of a manila envelope and held it up to the light. He then began a series of solemn sentences with phrases such as, “this spot here…” and “that spot there…” The summation finally ended with the jarring words: “Kara, I’m afraid it’s lung cancer.” As Ted took in Kara’s dazed expression, he knew for sure she wasn’t actually hearing anything the doctor was saying; she was practically in a state of shock. Holding her hand and trying to keep his own composure, Ted began to ask questions, the last of which was: “It’s curable, right, doc?” The physician asked if he could be frank. Ted turned to Kara. She nodded. “Senator, I’m not one to play the numbers game,” the doctor began, “and you never can tell with these things, of course. But, at least in my opinion,” he continued, now looking at Kara sorrowfully, “I would say you have less than a year.”

  A silence fell between them as the news sank in; the three stared at one another.

  “Doctor, I would say that you’re wrong,” Ted finally said, his voice steady. “I would also say that as much as we respect you, we’re not going to accept your prediction.” He then turned to Kara and said, “Don’t listen to him, kiddo. Don’t listen to him at all.”

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said apologetically, “but … I…”

  As he and Kara rose, Ted said it was fine. He appreciated the opinion. He would require a lot more information, though. “We Kennedys don’t give up, as you may know,” he concluded.

  The doctor nodded as he shook Ted’s hand. He put his hand on Kara’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to have been so blunt,” he said. She smiled and looked right through him.

  Now, a month later, six doctors who had earlier examined Kara were weighing in with opinions on video screens while Ted and Vicki watched and listened; Kara was not present. The image of William Travis, the chief of pathology from the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology, flashed on a TV monitor. Looking grim, he noted that small-cell lung cancer was a disease not known to be treatable. Another doctor, this one from Johns Hopkins, agreed with Travis that there was nothing that could be done. He said he was afraid that Kara had, as earlier projected, about one year to live. A third added, “This particular tumor is known as a ‘really bad active.’ There is not a favorable prognosis to be had here.” Three more had similar opinions.

  Another physician present for the tribunal, but in person, was Dr. David Sugarbaker, a young chief of thoracic surgery at Dana-Farber/Brigham specializing in the treatment of mesothelioma. He’d earned his degree from Cornell University Medical School. A day earlier, he’d received a call from Dr. Edward J. Benz Jr., president of Dana-Farber. Benz told him about a “VIP patient facing a critical situation.” He asked Sugarbaker to sit in on a video conference of doctors scheduled to take place the next day in his office. “Who’s the VIP?” Sugarbaker asked. “Kara Kennedy.” The name “Kennedy” sent a shot of adrenaline through the young doctor. “Her father is Senator Ted Kennedy,” he was told.

  As David watched Ted ask questions to the assembled physicians, he would recall, “I was surprised by his depth of knowledge. Obviously, he’d done a great deal of research in a short period of time and had talked to a number of professionals about his daughter’s problem. He took in all of the opinions, all of the information, none of which was sugarcoated. Most fathers would have been out of their minds hearing such dire predictions for the mortality of a daughter, but the Senator was methodical, dispassionate. Serious.”

  Dr. Sugarbaker wasn’t nearly as pessimistic about Kara’s chances as his colleagues. “I say we begin with a simple evaluation process,” he offered. “Let’s go step by step and find out if this tumor has metastasized. I would biopsy the lymph nodes to see if they’re involved. Perhaps we can then remove the tumor.” One of the other doctors said that it was a complete waste of time to do any surgery at all. He noted that small-cell lung cancer has usually gone through every lymph node by the time it’s diagnosed, and that it’s already “widely metastatic” by diagnosis. He felt that immediate chemotherapy was in order, followed by radiation, but surgery was useless.

  “I disagreed,” Dr. Sugarbaker would say many years later. “I wasn’t going to say my proposal for surgery would definitely work, but I felt there was hope whereas the others didn’t. So I presented my case—biopsy, surgery, chemo, radiation. The Senator took in all of the opinions. He and his wife sat silent for a moment. Then he turned to Bill Travis’s monitor and asked, ‘Bill, what do you think?’ Travis mulled it over and said, ‘You know what? I actually think I agree with David here. If it were up to me, I’d want it [the tumor] out, and then I’d want to see how it goes from there.’ That was all the Senator needed to hear. ‘I appreciate your input, everyone, as does my wife,’ he said. ‘I’m also sure I speak for Kara when I say thank you. My family has been through this kind of thing before,’ he explained. ‘When my son Teddy had cancer, they told me he wouldn’t make it. They said his chances were bleak. But we Kennedys are made of tough stuff. That was almost thirty years ago, and thank the good Lord, my son is still with us today.’”

  Ted paused. “In the end, I think you have to be pretty decisive about these things,” he declared. “My father always told me, ‘If you have a second choice, then you don’t really have a first choice. So I’ve made my first choice,” he said, “… and it’s Dr. Sugarbaker,” he said, turning to the physician. “I’m going to explore Kara’s situation with him. So, once again, thank you, all,” he concluded.

  “And with that,” recalled Dr. David Sugarbaker, “all of the monitors went to black.”

  A few weeks later, Kara had biopsy surgery at Brigham to determine if the cancer had spread to her lymph nodes. Ted and Vicki paced the waiting room anxiously during what was actually a minor procedure. Days later, the couple was seated in Dr. Sugarbaker’s office—again, without Kara—when he gave them the good news: the biopsy results were negative; the cancer hadn’t spread. “I actually think we have a good shot at this,” Sugarbaker told the Kennedys. “I say we go in, we remove the tumor and part of the lung, and then we just see how it goes. I believe we have a good chance for longer-term survival.”

  Ted smiled broadly. “This is good news,” he exclaimed. Tears filled Vicki’s eyes.

  On the day of the surgery, Ted called a summit in Dr. Sugarbaker’s private office at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, which is connected to Dana-Farber. It was a dark, wood-paneled sanctuary. There were shelves with hundreds of medical books on the walls, along with striking black-and-white photographs of historical figures such as Albert Einstein and Winston Churchill. Sugarbaker’s father was also an oncology surgeon; his antique medical instruments were displayed in lit glass boxes. There were also antique clocks everywhere; Sugarbaker was an avid collector. Ted loved sitting in this room in its heavily stuffed burgundy leather chairs. He said it felt not only like a safe haven but, as clocks ticked all about him, also a reminder of the inevitability of time’s passing. “How many people with personal stories of pain and anguish have sat in this room and tried to come to terms with the inevitable chaos life presents?” he once mused. “And how many of those people were reminded in looking around this office that we must make the best of every single second as it ticks by?”

  Many doctors and nurses connected to Kara’s case were present to say hello to the Kennedys before they got to work on Kara. Ted, Vicki, Teddy, Patrick, and even Kara’s former husband, Michael Allen, chatted with the medical team, wanting to know them, eager to hear their personal stories. “The Senator thanked each and every person,” said Dr. Sugarbaker, “shaking hands, getting to know them, connecting with them. Each of us has a life story that extends far beyond what we are capable of doing for our patients,” the doctor observed, “and Ted wanted to know those stories, as did his family members. I found it remarkable. So many people are either put off by doctors and nurses, maybe intimidated by them or maybe viewing them as just servants. What I got from the Kennedys was
a personal approach to respect. After we all extended our hopes for a successful surgery for Kara, we left the Kennedys to get down to business.”

  The family made itself comfortable in Sugarbaker’s office rather than stand vigil in the public waiting room. Meanwhile, Ted left the room and sat down on one of the two chairs in front of the desk of Mary Gillan, Sugarbaker’s secretary. During the last few weeks, the two had developed a cordial relationship; she was so protective of the Kennedys she put extra drapes in front of her office window so that no one could peer in and spy on them. “What would you like for lunch, Senator?” Mary asked. “I’ll order ahead to Pat’s Place [the hospital’s family-owned deli].”

  Ted brightened at the mention of deli food. “Whaddaya got?” he asked. “Just don’t ask my wife or I’ll be stuck with cottage cheese.”

  Mary went into her desk, pulled out a menu, and handed it to him.

  “Do you have children?” Ted asked Mary as he perused the menu.

  “No, Senator,” she said. “I’m a widow, no kids.”

  Ted nodded. “Lots of freedom, then, huh?” he asked, smiling.

  “Lots.”

  “Steak and cheese sandwiches for all,” Ted finally said, handing back the menu. “Oh, some kind of rabbit food for Vicki,” he added with a smile. “Say, let me ask you, Mary, is there a Catholic church nearby?”

  “The hospital has a chapel,” she answered.

  Ted frowned. “No, I think I need a real, honest-to-God church.”

  Mary, who happened to be a former nun, offered, “There’s the basilica in Mission Hill.” She said that it was one of the oldest churches in the country, built in the 1800s, and that legend had it that people from all over the world have prayed there for a cure to illnesses. Her brother and his wife had an autistic child, and they often went to that church to pray for his healing. Ted had never heard of it, unusual since he was from the Boston area. “How did that one that slip by the Kennedys?” he asked. “Because we know our churches, believe me.”