Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

  As soon as Timmy and Lela went up to the nursery, I went directly to my room, closed and locked the door, threw myself on the bed, and burst into tears. All I could think of was how I could prepare him for the testing times we were going to have to face. How could I tell this little child, who had just turned six, about the agony he might suffer from an operation? An angel, my own dear little boy. Oh God, please, God . . . Why? What was this horror? Where did it come from? And why so suddenly? I thought back over the past year, trying to recall if he had ever complained of this trouble before. He hadn’t, or I would have done something sooner. No, it was as if some evil thing had enveloped us without warning.

  It must have been hours before I finally got up. I washed my face in cool water and then placed a call to Paul in London, but I couldn’t get through to him. I couldn’t even find him. I knew there were hours of delay on all transatlantic calls.

  Out of desperation I called my lawyer, Ludwig Gerber. I was relating to him the appalling verdict of the X-rays, when Timmy phoned me on the intercom to come and join him for an early supper.

  At midnight Ludwig called and said, “I got in touch with Paul’s attorney, David Hecht, who finally located Paul by phone in Naples and told him about Timmy. Paul sent this message:

  Tell Teddy to take Timmy to New York at once to be examined by Dr. Lawrence Poole. He is one of the finest neurosurgeons in the world.

  The message also said:

  Tell Teddy Paul will meet them in New York. Tell her not to be afraid, and not to let Timmy know anything about it.

  After I hung up the receiver, and after making sure Timmy was fast asleep, I told Lela. She was shocked. Being a faithful nurse, she assured me she would in no way show fear in front of Timmy, and immediately helped me to prepare for our trip.

  The next day I told Timmy we had to go to New York for some tests, that we were going on the Super Chief, and that in Albuquerque he would meet some real Indians. I told him that in New York, we’d visit the Statue of Liberty, the Museum of Natural History—where he’d see the dinosaurs—and we’d even get to ride to the top floor of the Empire State Building! It was so hard to pretend it was to be a fun time, but I couldn’t, just wouldn’t let him see my fear.

  Next I called Mother, and, sobbing like a child, told her all about it. Thank goodness she was strong in her faith that God would direct us all the way. This helped me keep up. I realized there was only one thing I must do: be strong for Timmy’s sake. So I prayed to be strong, and I listened for guidance.

  Two weeks later, Timmy, Lela, and I boarded the Super Chief. It was June 26, 1952. How could I ever forget? On the way to the train, I stopped at Santa Monica Hospital to see my sweet little sister Nancy, who had just given birth to her firstborn, a fine son, Kit. She looked so beautiful and happy that I worked hard not to break down and tell her about my own son. I could hardly hold back the tears when I realized that, only six years ago, I had been in that same hospital, giving birth to Timmy . . . and now I was taking him on a long, frightening trip to another hospital in a faraway city. But I couldn’t upset her. I embraced her and said, “Paul called. He is coming to New York, and wants us to join him there. Isn’t it wonderful?” Then I dashed down the stairs to join Timmy and Lela, who were waiting in a taxi, and we sped on to the railroad station in Pasadena.

  No sooner had we settled in our Super Chief drawing room, than I felt reassured. Nothing could happen to Timmy. His daddy would be with us. Soon.

  The trip across country tested my self-control. It was hard for me not to let Timmy know that I was looking for symptoms: headaches or red eyes. But with the exception of feeling a little bit tired at times, he was his usual adorable little-boy self. Just a very happy fellow. We spent many hours in the Dome Car, watching the sunset and looking up later into the starlit sky.

  At Albuquerque, an Indian chief came aboard and rode for about an hour, during which time he told some mighty tall tales to Timmy, an avid listener. Then from the chief’s collection of Indian jewelry, I bought Timmy a silver ring and a bracelet, which resembled a gauntlet. Timmy cherished the gauntlet and I still have it on my dresser.

  Later that evening, Timmy, Lela, and I dined in the Turquoise Room, then climbed up to the Dome Car. There, under a beautiful starry night sky, we talked about how big our country was, and how brave the early pioneers, who crossed it in their covered wagons, had been.

  “How could they do it, Mom? Weren’t they afraid?”

  “No, Tim, they weren’t afraid because they had their eyes on the goal always, and they weren’t about to let scary things frighten them away. And so they kept right on and made it.

  “Mama, why does everything always seem so much more scary in the dark?”

  “It really isn’t, Tim, it just seems so. It’s just our fear that makes us afraid.”

  “Like our president said, Mom, there’s nothing to fear—but fear.”

  “That’s right, Tim. Where did you learn that?”

  “At school! The teacher said President Roosevelt said it. Did he, Mom?”

  “Yes, he did . . . and we must never forget it, either.”

  “Mommy, tell the dream story about fear and the bear, will you?”

  “Well, once upon a time, in Midsummer Night’s Dream, there was someone named Theseus, who said that in the night, imagining some fear, how easy is a bush supposed a bear?”

  Timmy laughed heartily, as he always did when I told the story about the “bear and the dream.” Then we said so long to the night, the stars, and the Milky Way, and headed for bed.

  As we started down the narrow stairs to the car below, I put out my hand and said, “Careful, son. Let me go first. The train is going very fast now.”

  He stepped back and said, “Why, Mom—of course. Ladies first, always.”

  We laughed at each other as we climbed down the circular stairs and made our way through the club car to our drawing room in the next car, where Lela was waiting to put Timmy to bed.

  After Timmy went to sleep, I slipped into my negligee and settled down to read my Bible. I leafed through the pages, and then read the ninety-first Psalm. Then I read it again. With the comforting thought that no matter what battles we might face in the days ahead, God is truly our refuge, I closed my eyes, grateful to feel a certain peace.

  We arrived in New York at eleven in the morning. There to greet us was my brother Ware, who drove us to the Hotel Pierre, with the luxurious suite that Paul had arranged for us.

  Timmy was a bit tired and, after a quiet lunch, took a short nap. I seized this opportunity to call Dr. Poole’s office and make our appointment for the next day. The phone rang constantly. Mother called from Brentwood to encourage me, as did my brother Henry from Washington. There was no call from Paul.

  The next morning, Monday, at ten o’clock, Dr. Poole began examining Timmy. At eleven o’clock, I was told that Timmy would have to be operated on a week from that day. At twelve noon over transcontinental phone, Paul’s attorney David Hecht told Paul the awful news. He sent word for me to be brave, to keep Timmy’s spirits up. He said he was coming home on the Queen Mary, sailing that very day. His New York office would make arrangements for us to board one of their tugboats to meet the ship when it arrived in New York.

  Five days later, Timmy, Lela, and I—along with my brother Ware, his wife, Peggy, and their children, Terry and Sharon—were thrilled and excited as our tugboat drew near the big liner. But as we inched closer, our captain received a ship-to-shore message from David Hecht that “Paul is not on board!”

  Our trip had been in vain. I was deeply hurt for Timmy’s sake, as were the others. But quickly, we all tried to make light of it, even making up a story that the boat was so crowded that there was no more room, even for Daddy. Fortunately, the leviathan’s decks overflowed with returning vacationers, so our story seemed logical.

  Sensing Timmy’s disappointment, the captain asked that he join him on the bridge to “help him steer,” and to speak to the command
er of the Queen Mary on the ship’s radiophone, which Timmy proudly did as we scooted closer and passed under her bow.

  When we returned to the hotel, Timmy was very tired, and I could see his eyes were bothering him. My heart ached for my little son, but I called out gaily, “Beat you to bed, Timmy!” And with that, he showed us he could do it. When he fell asleep, I went to my room and tried to quiet my fears. If only Tim would sleep and awaken rested. But the fact that he appeared to be getting worse, and in such a short time, was appalling. Oh, if only I could see or even talk with Paul. I felt such a need for him to reassure me that we were doing all we could for our son.

  Timmy slept peacefully all night. In the morning I told him I was sure Daddy would be on the very next boat, that Dr. Poole wanted to do a series of tests, and that he would be going back to the hospital on the following Monday.

  But in the meantime, we were going to have the most fantastic Fourth of July weekend with his cousins Sharon and Terry at their home in Lawrence, Long Island. Although Timmy appeared lethargic at times, he swam in the ocean and in the pool at the Lawrence Beach Club, went for a ride on the neighbor’s antique fire engine, and, with the other children at the club, he watched as the rockets and flares lighted the night sky.

  When we returned to the Pierre on Sunday evening, this note from Paul was waiting for Timmy:

  Naples

  June 29, 1952

  Darling son Timmy,

  You are the best boy in the whole world and I love you.

  I hope to see you soon.

  Father

  Timmy was thrilled with “his very own letter” from his daddy. He folded it and put it in his little wallet. I was grateful he understood that his daddy wanted to come, but I was furious that Paul didn’t say, “I’m trying to get there as soon as possible.”

  Early Monday morning, Ware called for Timmy, Lela, and me in a limousine, and we drove through Central Park and up Riverside Drive to the Presbyterian Hospital, where Dr. Poole was waiting. Greeting us warmly, he said, “Tim, I want to make some tests on your eyes tomorrow, so I’d like you to spend the night here. I’ve arranged that your mama and Lela can stay here tonight, too. Won’t that be great? So now, let’s get busy, shall we?”

  Timmy was completely relaxed about the entire procedure, except when they took his blood count. But soon even that was forgotten, and we spent the balance of the day playing checkers and the guessing games “animal, vegetable, or mineral” (which Timmy always won). Then Ware and I took turns reading stories to him, and later in the afternoon, when Lela took over, we went for a walk, bringing back ice cream for Timmy.

  After he went to sleep, we drove to the hotel for dinner, where David Hecht found us in the Cafe Pierre. He sat down and said, “Teddy, Paul just called and apparently is so deeply broken-up—he even cried over the phone—that he isn’t able to come to New York. He told me that you should tell Dr. Poole ‘to go ahead with his brave little boy.’ ”

  In other words, he wasn’t coming.

  At 5:30 the following morning, the door opened and a nurse came in. Timmy was still asleep. In a brisk voice she said she had come to shave his head. I asked her to follow me and we went out into the corridor. I said, “Dear, I just can’t allow you to do such a thing. It would frighten him too terribly. I’m sure Dr. Poole can order it done after he has been anesthetized.”

  She was very cross and kept insisting, but I stood in front of the door barring her way. Just then Dr. Poole arrived. When I explained that I couldn’t possibly allow Tim to be frightened by such a scary procedure, he agreed it could be done later. I was very grateful, but sorry the nurse was so arrogant as she walked away.

  Forty-five minutes later, Tim awoke and was given a pill. Soon he became very drowsy and was wheeled out of the room and taken up in the elevator to the operating room, where Dr. Poole and his team began the operation to remove the tumor. I remained in my room, and prayed. At 8:30 A.M., Ware and Lela came in, and we waited together.

  Six hours later, Timmy was brought down to his room. His head was bandaged. He was coming out of anesthesia and waving his little hand to me. Any mother knows the feeling in such a moment as this, which can never be expressed in words. In deep humility and gratitude I kissed his dear hand, then left him in the care of the two special nurses and followed Dr. Poole into the next room, where he told us he was satisfied with the operation. He said that although there was still more to be removed, it was not malignant.

  Ware had gone directly to the phone to relay the news to Paul via David Hecht, when suddenly the door burst open. One of the nurses ran in and spoke to Dr. Poole, who hurriedly followed her out.

  Lela and I, not understanding what was happening, just stood. Then we heard the orders being given and saw ice being rushed into Tim’s room. In seconds Dr. Poole returned and said, “His temperature is going up, and we can’t seem to stop it.” Turning to Lela he said, “I need you to help,” and they rushed out.

  I was alone. I stood still a moment, then fell to my knees, closed my eyes, and prayed. How long? I don’t know, but when I opened my eyes Dr. Poole was standing beside me.

  “It’s stopped,” he said. “The temperature is going down. Thank you for your prayers. He’s going to be all right. You can go in and see him now.”

  I ran in, and there—in a blanket of ice—was “Paul’s brave little boy.” Alert, and with a little half smile he said, “Mama, they sure tested me. Look! I’m on ice!”

  I laughed right out loud, but inwardly said, Thank you, dear, dear God.

  A few days later, my brother Henry came up from Washington to see Timmy. He, Ware, Lela, and I did our best to fill each day with interesting things to talk about, and plans for interesting things to do when Timmy would be released from the hospital. Paul called us daily and was pleased and grateful for Tim’s improvement. Dr. Poole was more than astonished and delighted at his patient’s progress. Finally, the great day came! Timmy was discharged from the hospital with instructions that we return to the Hotel Pierre, where Tim should rest for a few weeks before returning to California.

  About an hour after arriving at the hotel, Paul phoned from France. The connection was a bit weak at first, but in seconds there was perfect communication. I was so happy, I fairly shouted, “Oh, Paul, you should have been here this morning. Just before Timmy left the hospital, Dr. Poole asked that he appear in front of the entire hospital staff in the hospital amphitheater, which we gladly agreed he should do.”

  “But, Teddy, why did he want him to do that?”

  “I don’t know. I guess he wanted them to see how well he is. Anyway, Tim was wearing a little astronaut’s uniform we bought for him at Schwartz . . . also a helmet.”

  “A helmet? Teddy, how could he take it off?”

  “Wait till I tell you. I was worried about that, too, but as they wheeled him into the amphitheater—this huge place, with the doctors and nurses seated in a half circle—a most attractive lady doctor, who had been among those taking care of Tim, walked up to him and said, ‘Good morning, Timmy . . .’

  “At which point, Tim told his orderly to stop, stood up, and, taking off his helmet, he bowed and said, ‘Good morning, Doctor Bright Eyes, how are you?’ ”

  “Teddy, I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, Paul, it’s true. And what is so wonderful is that all who were there saw his little shaved head and Dr. Poole’s very fine work—a beautiful result—without having a word said to remind him of the experience he had just gone through. Oh, Paul, it was a beautiful morning! And now he has been released in my care, and we just arrived at the hotel.”

  “Yes, I know, darling. I tried to get you earlier.”

  Although we kept receiving letters and phone calls from Paul, it was apparent to me that he was not coming to New York. I had managed to live through these ghastly days and fear-filled nights on his promise that he would be with us any minute. I had hoped he would personally check things out with Dr. Poole, observe the situation, and foll
ow through as he did with his important business deals. Even closer to my heart was the hope that this terrible ordeal Timmy had so bravely fought through would bring Paul out of his worldly world des affaires into the simplified glorious world of his famille . . . but that obviously had only been my hope.

  We stayed at the Pierre a few weeks longer. Then one early morning, Dr. Poole phoned and said he felt that Timmy could return to California. At his request, I immediately went to his office to have a final conversation about Timmy. I was filled with fear when I left the office, and through David Hecht, I at once relayed Dr. Poole’s report to Paul:

  Some of the tumor is still there. It will grow again. Timmy must undergo another operation in about five years. In the meantime, he must take a series of cobalt treatments. Hopefully he can return to school in the fall.

  It was early August when we returned to our beloved beach house. Timmy was so happy to be home, he ran out on the lawn and knelt down on the grass. “Oh, Mom, we’re home!” he kept saying. But the cobalt treatments he was to take and the prediction that one day he would again face another operation left little for me to be joyous about.

  At first the treatments made Tim ill, but he was obedient to his doctors. He was patient with the problem of not seeing as well as he should, but happy when he was fitted with reading glasses, so he could again do his school homework.

  One day I found him looking at himself in the mirror.

  “Mom, I look like a college professor—don’t I?”

  “Yes, you do, Tim, you really do. But before I can call you Mr. Professor, I think you need to learn a little more.”

  “Like what, Mom?”

  “Well, you’ve lived by the side of the sea all your life, but have never been to sea. Right, Tim?”

  He nodded.

  “So, how would you like to spend an adventurous week sailing up and down the coast?”

  “When do we go, Mom?”

  “Tomorrow!”

  Early the next morning, Timmy and I boarded the big ship Celeste, owned by my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Myron Shane. We spent several days cruising, then headed for Catalina Island, where we dropped anchor in the picturesque old harbor among the many other boats already moored there. We fished and visited the quaint town of Avalon, where we met Frenchie Small, who drove the great team of horses and carriage that met the daily steamer from Wilmington. Frenchie was also in charge of the stable for the Wrigley family, and he taught Timmy to ride, slowly and carefully. Timmy took lessons with him every day, and it was a joy to see him so happy. Finally, Tim became so enchanted with horses, and so sure of himself as he “helped” Frenchie around the barn, that Frenchie showed him how to drive his big team.