Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

Teddy Boo,

  It does seem strange doesn’t it, after all these years! I’m so glad that there was so little publicity and no quarreling or recrimination. Little Teddy Boo, is, as always, a thoroughbred.

  I think of the old days, really the young days, very often.

  Love, Paul

  A day later, he wrote this to Timmy.

  Feb. 22, 1956

  Darling Timmy,

  You are my treasure.

  I was very glad to get your letter.

  I hope to see you soon.

  Love Daddy

  In March, I received another letter from Paul.

  March 18, 1956

  Dearest Teddy,

  Your letter was most welcome. I hope to see you and Timmy in the U.S. in May.

  All love to you both,

  Paul

  Sadly, Paul was unable to keep that promise, so when summer came, I accepted Bill’s offer for us to spend any weekend we could at his home in New Canaan, because he was planning to be at his island with his sons in the summer. While there, I bought a large screened tent, and placed it out on the lawn overlooking the river in front of Bill’s house. That way Timmy, his nurse Louella, and I could spend time outside, for it was very hot in Connecticut and there were lots of bugs flying around. Sometimes he’d sleep out there with our beloved puppy, Clover, who would always go along with us in the ambulance up the Merritt Parkway on our way back and forth from University Hospital. Spending the summer at Bill’s house with his puppy dog and different friends from school coming to lunch and play with him was just what Timmy needed. By September, he was back in school.

  Paul’s letter to Timmy dated December 8, 1956, from Geneva showed how much he seemed to miss us and how he wished we could all be together at Christmas.

  Darling Timmy,

  I wish we could be together this Christmas. I wonder what Santa Claus will bring you. I remember our Christmas together in Santa Monica and how handsome you looked and how well you sang during the Christmas song and the march to the Christmas tree. Happy Days!

  With all love to you and your dear Mother,

  Father

  Upon receiving this, I felt Paul was for the moment longing for the simple days of Santa Monica and the beach he loved.

  In July of 1957, we returned to New York and were seen by Dr. Hoen and Dr. Wright, the very loving woman doctor who had created the serum made from the tumor that they had taken from Timmy.

  Later, Dr. Wright asked to see me alone. She came to my room, sat down, and said, “Teddy, I’m leaving soon for Africa and want you to know if for any reason an order for serum is given, the platelet count must register over one hundred (one-hundred thousand platelets per liter of blood) or it must not be given. All the doctors know this.” I thanked her so much and wished her a happy trip.

  In the meantime, Timmy seemed to be doing better, and back we went to Bill’s home in Connecticut with his puppy and Louella, his nurse, for the rest of the summer. Then, sometime in August, Timmy began having nausea and headaches. Dr. Hoen suggested I bring him to the University Hospital.

  On the way back to New York in the ambulance that early morning of August 15, 1957, with little Clover curled up beside him, Timmy looked up at me, smiled, and said, “Mom, have you a pencil? If so, please write this down.”

  And he proceeded very slowly to say these words, as if he were reading them.

  God protects me through the night

  God will help me win each fight

  I know that God is ever near

  I know in God, I cannot fear

  God will show me day by day

  If I follow in His way

  “Timmy, where did you get this?”

  “I just made it up, Mom. It’s my prayer.”

  “It’s so beautiful.”

  I wrote it down, handed it to him, and he folded it up carefully and put it in his pocket. Months later, Arden Clar, the composer and father of Timmy’s friends from Daycroft, came by to pick up his children from Bill’s house. Sitting down at the piano with Timmy by his side, he put this little prayer to music. It was published in 1959 under the title “Timmy’s Prayer,” with the credit line “Words by: Timothy Getty. Music by: Arden Clar.”

  Arriving at University Hospital, Timmy saw Dr. Hoen, and though nothing seemed to be wrong, he asked us to stay. He wanted to run tests. I slept in the room next to Timmy’s. To keep cool during those hot New York summer days, I’d run down the street and bring back ice cream every afternoon, which we shared with his nurses, Louella and Scarlett.

  During this summer, Ware and his family were up at the Vineyard; Bill was in Maine, Mom and my sisters out on the Coast sent messages of love . . . but from Paul, no word.

  On Thanksgiving and through Christmas of 1957, Timmy’s headaches and nausea returned, so I stayed very close to him and prayed. Though we didn’t know it at the time, we were in the hospital when it was announced that “J. PAUL GETTY HAS BECOME AMERICA’S FIRST BILLIONAIRE.”

  By New Year’s 1958, hope filled my heart when Timmy overcame these attacks. In February he started rehabilitation, and in April, he asked Louella to turn the shades in his room down as the light was too bright. I remember Louella and I looking at each other shocked, but so happy.

  Dr. Hoen decided Timmy was making such progress that we could start making arrangements to go back to California. We had a calendar on the wall of Timmy’s hospital room, and with each passing day we were getting closer to going home. Sometime in July I made our plane reservations, and wrote on the wall, California or Bust!

  Then Dr. Hoen suggested that, before we leave, Timmy have plastic surgery to smooth out the bump on his forehead caused by all of his operations.

  “Absolutely no, Doctor,” I said. “Wait a year. Please give Timmy a chance to get his strength back, just let us go home.”

  Paul, who was in Europe when questioned by Hoen, firmly said, “No,” but finally agreed, giving the order that “nothing but plastic surgery be done.” I agreed with Paul, and reluctantly gave my consent. The operation was scheduled for Thursday, August 14, 1958.

  About the first week in August we were sent to the Rusk Institute, where Timmy was reevaluated. It looked good. While there, Timmy met the famous baseball player Roy Campanella, who was also a patient at the Rusk Institute, due to an automobile accident that left him paralyzed.

  Mr. Campanella recounted the meeting this way in his memoir, It’s Good to Be Alive:

  I was sitting outside on 34th Street one day when a nurse came over and said, “Mr. Campanella, will you be here for a while?” I said I would and she came back with a boy who looked to be about eleven or twelve years old. He was a fine-looking youngster, but he had a cut from the top of his head right down between his eyes. He was wearing dark sunglasses. He was very friendly and spoke very intelligently and I liked him right away. He was a real little gentleman. He was very much interested in baseball, and we talked quite a bit about it. I was so impressed by him I had a baseball up in my room autographed by all the Dodgers that I wanted him to have. He was very happy about that, so I had the nurse wheel me to the elevator and we went to my room.

  The baseball was on the dresser and the nurse took the ball and gave it to the boy. He held the ball in his hands and told me he would say a little prayer for me that night before going to bed. I told him I would do the same.

  “I’m sorry I can’t put my name on it, too,” I told him as he was about to leave. “I can’t hold a pen in my hand yet.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Campanella,” he said. “I can’t see.”

  It was like someone hit me over the head with a baseball bat. It never had entered my head that he couldn’t see. I didn’t even know who he was. He told me his name was Timmy, but that didn’t ring any bell. He was just a nice kid. It was not until later that I learned his name was Timothy Getty, the son of the oil and railroad tycoon, Jean Paul Getty, who had been called the richest man in the world.

  Timmy was released from the
Rusk Institute a week before the scheduled surgery, so back we drove by ambulance along the Merritt Parkway with his puppy, nurses, and luggage to Bill’s home on the Silvermine River to wait for the day of Timmy’s plastic surgery and freedom. We had a fun time that week out at Bill’s. Timmy’s school friends came to see him, Ware and his family, too. Paul called from Europe, regarding the plastic surgery, and was just as furious with the doctors as I was, for to us there was no urgency.

  We should have just left on a plane. However, Dr. Hoen had insisted, “You should do this before you leave for Santa Monica.” So Paul and I finally agreed for Timmy to have the operation, but absolutely they were to do nothing more.

  On Wednesday, August 13, we left the countryside and drove back into New York. That morning I got up very early, walked over to Timmy’s bed, knelt down, and said, “Timmy, dear, Mommy has made many mistakes, and if ever I’ve made one that’s hurt you, please tell me. I only know I’m trying to do what’s right for you, and I get afraid my judgment isn’t too good and I might hurt you. I’d die if I did.”

  He leaned up, kissed me, and said, “You’re the best mommy in the whole wide world—you couldn’t do wrong—and if you did, I’d forgive you even before you did it.”

  I gave him a kiss and a hug, then said, “Thanks, Tim.”

  The next few days, he seemed so well. Everyone came in to see him. Bill brought him a pair of moccasins from Maine. Ware brought him a boat carved out of wood that someone had made. Then on Thursday morning, I kissed him, and they took him down to the OR.

  CHAPTER 41

  GOING HOME

  The operation lasted about three hours. Tim came up from the recovery room at about 11 A.M. He was alert, but the tube and needle in his thigh, which was feeding him glucose, was bothering him. He said, “Hello, Uncle Ware,” as he passed by my room, and when I said, “Hi, my lamb,” he cried out, “Oh, Mommy!” and my heart burst.

  As they put him into bed, Dr. Hoen came in and said, “How’s my Timoshenko?”

  Tim said, “My side hurts.”

  Dr. Hoen said, “Take this needle out. Tim can have a drink. How about a Coke?”

  Tim said, “Thank you, you blessed man!”

  When the nurse got the Coke, Tim offered it first to Hoen. (He always wanted to share what he had.) Then he put his hands about the doctor’s head, kissed him, and said, “I love you, Dr. Hoen.”

  Dr. Hoen said, “Well, boy, I love you. The bump’s gone, you’re okay, and now you’re going home to California.”

  I stood there beside Timmy and thanked God as I never had before, for it seemed at that moment that we had won our battle. He was free, he was fine, and we were going home. Tim was in a kidding mood, full of spirits. His pupils were small and he looked so very healthy—he was. He moved his left hand and leg, and we were all so gloriously happy.

  On Friday, he was fine, full of love, kissing everyone (his nurses and me, mostly). He played his radio and listened to stories. We read our lesson from the Bible, and Ware decided he’d fly up to the Vineyard that night, since Tim was well. I was in Tim’s room every few hours all night Friday night. I asked the telephone operator to waken me every hour, and I went in to let the night nurse (who slept on duty) go out for coffee. I looked at Tim, who slept quietly. I looked at his chart, noticed that the night nurse hadn’t given him more than a sip of water, and that he had voided more than he had taken in. I spoke of this to her at about 6 A.M.

  She said, “He just didn’t want it.”

  “You must make him drink!” I replied. “He needs it.”

  The nurse took his temperature. It was 102. Dr. Vargas, from Mexico City, who was supposed to have checked on Tim during the night, didn’t walk in until 7 A.M. He came in before Tim was awake and spoke in broken English to the nurse who said to him, “He is very lethargic.”

  The doctor didn’t understand. He smiled, said, “Dr. Shaccter is coming on at eight o’clock,” and left.

  Then at 7:30 Tim stirred, and I asked the nurse to give him orange juice. He took a sip, then said, “No more.”

  I went over to him, kissed him, and he felt warm. I said, “Angel, Mommy’s here. Are you okay?”

  He said, “I feel awful.”

  Usually, after a glass of orange juice or Coca-Cola, he perked up and was fine.

  At 7:40, I felt something was going on that was wrong. Just then his day nurse, Louella, came in. The night nurse told her he was lethargic, and took out the thermometer which read 102 (rectal). Louella went over to him, said, “Hello, precious, how’s my precious? Do I get a kiss?”

  He put his arms about her neck, kissed her, and went into a state of shock—just collapsed. They put the thermometer back in; it was 104. I said, “Get some ice!”

  We put the ice mattress on and started trying to cool him off. I asked Louella what the temperature was. She said, “Higher!!” She was afraid that I’d get afraid. I demanded to know. She said, “106.”

  I picked up the phone and called Dr. Hoen. I also asked for the resident, Dr. Shaccter, who apparently wasn’t due until nine. Louella went out and came in with an oxygen siphon and tube, which she put up his nose. She was quick, thank God. The night nurse and I cooled Tim off with ice and alcohol, and Louella put an aspirin suppository in. Hoen didn’t come until 11 A.M., but Dr. Shaccter came at 9 A.M. and told me to get out. I went to my room and prayed.

  I didn’t know what was wrong. I found out later that during Tim’s surgery, one of the doctors had ordered the serum without knowing his platelet count. When the doctor came to see Tim on Friday, the nurse who had asked him if they hadn’t better do a platelet count was told it could wait until Monday. I hadn’t even thought about the serum, because I never dreamed they’d give it to him. But it was the serum, given on Thursday, that immediately began to destroy the platelets in his blood so that he went into shock on Saturday morning.

  Dr. Shaccter ordered steroids—Cortex, Cortisone, ACTH, and others, in quantities—so I asked the operator to get Dr. Kupperman, the endocrinologist. Dr. Bloom was off. Shaccter, who knew the case but hadn’t been with us since February, I didn’t care for. He was a rough young man.

  Kupperman was out on an emergency call and didn’t call until later that afternoon. In the meantime, Shaccter gave Tim great doses of steroids. Perhaps they did him good. Perhaps they caused the hemorrhaging at 5 A.M. the next morning. ACTH is a dangerous drug and in large amounts can do terrible things to the body. Kupperman, the great endocrinologist, was employed to help Tim. But in Tim’s greatest need, he wasn’t available.

  The doctors seemed to have forgotten that they’d given Tim the serum Dr. Wright had told them not to give him unless his platelets were over one hundred. The following was done to Tim on Saturday. They: 1) tapped his spine, 2) blew out his stomach, 3) gave him oxygen by tube, and 4) put a tube through the other nostril into his stomach. His respirations were 76; his blood pressure and pulse too low to read. So: 5) They gave him steroids by vein, and 6) blood plasma.

  I never left my room. I was alone, praying. Dr. Hoen finally came in and said he “couldn’t understand what was happening.” Then, at about 5 P.M., they did a cardiograph. Apparently he was okay. I was praying for his blood pressure, pulse, and respiration to normalize. At about ten on Saturday night, when Dr. Hoen came in, I asked if I might see Tim.

  He said, “What will it do to you?”

  I said, “Never mind me. If it’s helpful for me to go in and talk to him, let me go.”

  I called Mr. Pittman in Boston, my Christian Scientist adviser and friend, who I’d been talking to all day; he was out. I called my friend Vera Shepherd. She told me to go in and talk quietly, calmly, and reassure Tim, even if he seemed not to hear or recognize me. I went to see him.

  There he was with needles in him, tubes in his nose, breathing heavily. Three nurses were there, also Dr. Shaccter and Dr. Hoen. I went up to Timmy and whispered into his ear, “Darling, it’s Mommy here. I’m with you, God’s with you, and we are not
going to leave you. Don’t be afraid anymore, all is well.” I put my hand on his diaphragm and patted it; he was breathing hard. Then, as I talked to him about God and His love for Timmy, telling him he must not be afraid, he suddenly relaxed and his respirations came slower.

  I looked at Dr. Hoen and he nodded. Tim tried to speak, and I whispered to him, “Don’t try to speak, baby, I love you. You’re okay, and I know you love me. Take it easy now. God is here. He is your breath, your life. Be not afraid.”

  The room was cold—the air conditioner on, ice mattress, too. It was horrible to see him lying there. I couldn’t collapse for his sake. I simply stayed by his side and held his hand and talked. Then I put his hand in Louella’s and went out of the room to speak to Dr. Hoen. He seemed in the dark about why this happened. Shaccter had the room next to mine. He and I were in and out of Tim’s room all night. I had had no sleep for days and was so tired, I told the telephone operator to call me every hour so I could go in to Tim and rest in between. I couldn’t think anymore—or pray, either. I was alone and frightened.

  Sunday at 5:00 A.M., Louella, who stayed on for seventy-two hours, day and night, came in and said Tim was expelling “coffee grinds”—dead blood from his stomach. I called Dr. Hoen and told him. He said to call Shaccter, and have Shaccter report to him.

  I don’t know what they did, but I think they pumped his stomach. Hoen said, “If it’s ‘coffee grinds,’ it’s old blood. We don’t want him to hemorrhage fresh blood . . . watch it.”

  I called Mr. Pittman at 5:30 A.M. to tell him. Hoen came in sometime in the morning. Then, after seeing Tim, he came back to see me. I spoke about the steroids starting the hemorrhaging, asked him to cut them, especially ACTH and Cortex. Then I asked him where Kupperman was, and if he could reach him. If he couldn’t, I wanted him to get Dr. Tuckman back quickly to make sure the doses were correct. I kept saying, “If Kupperman is the medical consultant for steroids, why isn’t he here?” I guess I’ll never know the answer to this one.

  On Sunday, at about 2:30 P.M., they did some sort of test and found the hemoglobin was at 11 instead of 12 or 14. They gave him blood; his breathing was less labored. He was better at 3:30 than at 3, and better at 4:30 than at 4. Sometime Sunday afternoon, Hoen started to put the platelets back in thru the IV. When I heard this, I was grateful, but I didn’t connect it with anything except that apparently he was putting platelets and blood plasma and steroids and Dilantin (a drug against convulsions) all in, by tube. The oxygen tube was still in the right nostril, the stomach tube in the left. Hoen left at about 6 P.M. “Tony” Holmes, his day nurse, left at 8 P.M. She stopped by my room to tell me good night, and said, “It looks good now. His temperature is 100, pulse 140, blood pressure 110/60, and respiration 40. I’ll see you in the morning.”