Between the Bylines

by Doug Krikorian

  “I saw Gillian in the milk department and noticed she had a scarf covering her head,” relates Webber. “You could tell she had lost her hair, and I knew it was either caused by cancer or alopecia. My husband John had recently had chemotherapy for bladder cancer and had lost his hair. But I was a little wary about saying something to Gillian and embarrassing her. So I went to the other side of the store.

  “But I just kept running into her. I think it was four times. After the last time, I went into the restroom and began praying. I’m a strong follower of the Christian faith and walk with the Lord every day. I long had served as a volunteer at the Women’s Shelter in Long Beach, as well as the Rape Hotline. The Lord had brought me so many people to help over the years, and I remember asking Him, ‘If you want me to minister to this woman, I will.’ And I quickly walked out of the restroom and started looking for Gillian but couldn’t find her.

  “She would later tell me she had left the store because she didn’t have any reason to be there in the first place. She told me she just wanted to get away from the house and walk around a little. But when she was out in the parking lot and set to get in her car, she decided to go back in the store and buy some crackers.

  “After looking for her for about ten minutes, I spotted her in the deli section. I went up to her and said, ‘My name is Sunni Webber, and I want to get to know you because the Lord has a message for you. He loves you so much, and He knows you’re hurting and suffering. But He has a plan for you.’ Gillian started crying right there in the store, and I spoke to her almost every day after that for the next seven weeks.”

  As a fellow who as an adult had stayed detached from organized religion—my father belonged to the Holy Trinity Armenian Apostolic Church in Fresno and my mother was a Catholic—I didn’t know what to make of Webber at the beginning.

  I had never spent any time around faith-based people and, frankly, was skeptical about such types. I guess, as I reflect on Sunni Webber suddenly coming into Gillian’s life, I felt the same way toward her. Did she have an ulterior motive suddenly forming a friendship with Gillian? I soon would find out there wasn’t one. Her only motive, it turned out, was to enhance Gillian’s spiritual awareness in her final days, which Sunni helped accomplish in so many compelling ways.

  On the morning of July 28, the day after she met Webber, Gillian and I went to El Dorado Park, as we did every Saturday morning. I was planning to run my usual four miles, while Gillian might walk a few minutes or sit on a bench and read the LA Times while waiting for me.

  That evening we were going to celebrate my mother’s ninetieth birthday at 21 Oceanfront Restaurant in Newport Beach with my sister and her family and a few of her friends from Tucson.

  As I began my run on the cement pathway that cuts through the park, Gillian, shockingly, began running alongside me.

  And just as I slowed down and started saying, “Stop! What are you doing?” she stumbled and fell forward, slamming face first into the cement surface.

  This was a harrowing microcosm of the constant evil occurrences that had stalked Gillian for almost a year and a half.

  She lay there helplessly on her stomach, grimacing in pain, unable to rise and crying hysterically.

  “I’ll call 911,” I said.

  “No, no, no…please don’t,” she said in a whisper.

  “I’m calling 911,” I repeated.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said between sobs, as I helped her up to a sitting position.

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes,” she said.

  And she kept crying.

  And I put my arms around her and held her as tenderly as I could.

  A few concerned people stopped and offered assistance, but we declined.

  After fifteen minutes, she finally arose, and I noticed her right cheek was swollen.

  “You go do your running,” she said. “I’m now all right. I’m going to walk a little.”

  “I’m not going running, and you’re not going to walk anywhere,” I said.

  But Gillian shook her head with surprising vigor.

  “I’m all right. Please, Douglas, go do your running,” she said. “I wanna walk. I need to walk. Oh, Douglas, please, please, go jog. Don’t worry about me.”

  I shrugged and with reluctance took off on my run.

  I would return forty-five minutes later.

  And Gillian and I would arrive at the starting point, which was near the Spring Street entrance, at about the same time.

  She told me she had been walking for the past forty-five minutes.

  I don’t know how she managed it in light of her condition, which had been exacerbated by that terrible fall, but I wasn’t too surprised. Gillian had almost an inhuman inner strength. That evening she attended my mother’s dinner party, and the bruise on her face had turned reddish blue, a discoloration that would remain until her death. She had a good time, managed an occasional smile and participated even in the toasting of my mother’s milestone birthday.

  August 2001 (The City of Hope)

  After Gillian’s latest bleak meeting with the medical personnel at the UCLA Medical Center, I decided in desperation to call an old friend, David Marmel, who was the executive producer of the Victor Awards, which preceded ESPN’s ESPYS by several decades and had been the longest-running sports awards special in TV history. Marmel also was the creator and executive producer of both the Mrs. America and Mrs. World Pageants and was an influential fellow with a lot of strong contacts and a longtime member of the board of directors of the City of Hope, the renowned cancer facility.

  When I apprised Marmel of Gillian’s critical situation, he immediately went into action and set up an interview with a City of Hope physician who was overseeing a colon cancer clinical trials program.

  As we drove to City of Hope in Duarte, a tiny city located at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains, Gillian was hopeful that she could be enrolled in it and that her worsening condition could be reversed.

  She had read extensively about the City of Hope and knew about its innovative treatment remedies for seriously ill cancer patients.

  “I feel good about this place,” she said shortly after we had arrived.

  I did, too. I had read the stories of how those on the verge of death had found stunning success in clinical trials, as their disease miraculously went into remission from the experimental remedy.

  Why couldn’t Gillian be one of those fortunate people?

  But within an hour, we were given the worst news possible.

  The doctor had studied Gillian’s records, which had been forwarded to him from Dr. Lee Rosen, and concluded that her cancer had spread too extensively for her to be a participant.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said with empathy.

  Gillian burst into tears.

  “Oh, no,” is all she said softly. “Oh, no.”

  The ride back to Long Beach was like so many of the ones from Westwood, in total taut, solemn silence.

  What could one say that wouldn’t sound like a pathetic contrivance? Hang in there? You’re going to beat it with God’s help? Everything will turn out all right?

  According to Sunni Webber, an occurrence happened later that day to Gillian that would set in motion factors that had a transformative spiritual effect on her in her final weeks.

  “I remember Gillian calling me that afternoon, and her crying over the phone about what happened at the City of Hope,” said Webber. “Her heart was totally broken. I had just known her for a few days, but it was as though I had known her for years. She confided how she had gone to a church near her home after she had returned from the City of Hope and how she was the only person seated at the pews. She said a couple of priests had seen her and walked right past her. She felt they had ignored her on purpose, and she told me how she felt unwanted and how hurtful she found their behavior toward her. I asked her if there was anything I could do for her and she replied, ‘Please, Sunni, find me a church.’ And I did: the Life Asse
mbly of God in Lakewood. I took her there, and she sat down an hour with a couple of the pastors and a few church members. There was a lot of praying, and Gillian cried a lot and everybody embraced her with such love. When she emerged from that room, she was a different person. Something clicked in her mind. She suddenly had a plan, and that plan was to walk with God and be focused on where she was going to spend eternity.”

  Webber later also told me that she took Gillian one evening to listen to Joyce Meyer, a nationally known Christian author and speaker, at the Long Beach Arena.

  “That night, Gillian was in a lot of pain, but she was captivated by the speech given by Meyer, who’s very charismatic, and also was captivated by the music. She loved it, and we bought some tapes after the show.”

  While I knew Gillian spoke on the phone a lot with Sunni and would go out on occasion with her at night, I didn’t realize the extent to which Gillian had turned to religion in those final weeks until Sunni later informed me.

  Gillian never discussed in detail her activities with Sunni with me, even though we never had kept anything from each other during our marriage. I’m not really surprised. Actually, it was typical Gillian. She knew I was a secular person and figured her sudden passionate devotion to Christianity—as it was, she long had been a member of the Anglican Church—would on some level be disconcerting to me. It wouldn’t have been, but her silence on the matter was understandable.

  On the Tuesday morning of August 21, Gillian accompanied me to El Dorado Park, where I ran for about an hour. When we returned to our home on Huntdale Street, there were police cars parked in front of it and yellow crime scene tape draped in front of the home of my neighbor, Bob Getman.

  “Omigod, what’s going on?” wondered Gillian.

  After parking the car across the street, I noticed a white sheet covered a body in Getman’s driveway.

  It turned out to be the eighty-two-year-old Getman, a friend who had been my next-door neighbor since I bought my house in 1975 and who had done so many handyman chores for me during that time. I was informed by a policeman that Bob had suffered a fatal heart attack.

  He and his late wife, June, an Australian native, adored Gillian, and Gillian had similar feelings for them, as she did for Esther Fawcett, another neighbor who had been so helpful during Gillian’s sickness.

  Gillian was visibly shaken by Bob Getman’s death.

  “He and June were so kind toward me,” she said between sobs. “I’m going to miss him so much, but maybe I’ll see him soon.”

  Despite her rapidly declining health, Gillian insisted on attending Getman’s funeral services three days later at the nearby St. Cornelius Catholic Church and even went to his burial at the military cemetery in Riverside, sixty miles from Long Beach.

  Despite weakening legs, Gillian still was walking, albeit haltingly. Despite it becoming increasingly more difficult, Gillian still managed to get herself out of bed every morning, driven perhaps by the remembrance of what her first oncologist, Dr. Peter Rosen, had once told her about how the end would be near when she no longer could do so.

  Chapter 37

  I became in awe of Gillian for the brave dignity she displayed as her hours ticked ominously to a conclusion. Actually, I was reacting to her deteriorating condition a lot worse than she was, as I got involved in some incidents in which I momentarily lost control of my senses. I’m sure I was close to having a nervous breakdown.

  The first came at a restaurant on Bellflower Boulevard called Tiny Naylor’s, which is no longer in existence but was a place I ate at on occasion in those days. I had stopped there one evening in early August after finishing my radio show when my waitress started whining about her cheating boyfriend and undependable car and her financial woes.

  I had known her for a couple of years—her name was Joanne—and she was an attractive single mother of a three-year-old girl whom I had always gotten along with well, but I suddenly exploded at her when she brayed, “Life just sucks!”

  “You have no idea how fortunate you are!” I shrieked, loud enough for other customers to hear. “You have your health, don’t you? You have your future, don’t you? Go up and spend a day at the chemotherapy ward at UCLA. You’ll find out what real misery is like. You’ll find out when life really sucks!”

  I remember heaving a twenty-dollar bill to the table and hurriedly departing before my order had even arrived.

  I returned later that evening to apologize and was embarrassed by my eruption.

  But a couple weeks later, I lost my temper again at the ESPN Zone. After I had finished the McDonnell-Douglas Show, I had a few drinks with our producer, David Vassegh, and then went back to the radio booth to retrieve my briefcase. But the door to the room was locked, and there was a well-dressed gentleman seated in one of the chairs talking on the phone.

  I tapped softly on the front window a couple times to get his attention to open it, but he ignored me and blithely kept chatting away with his back to me. I then started knocking loudly, prompting him to slam the phone down, whirl around and get up to quickly open the door.

  “Don’t you ever do that again!” he said in a threatening voice.

  Now, in my younger, intemperate days, I would have reacted with a stream of obscenities and perhaps even a volley of punches. But I had mellowed significantly and hadn’t been in any sort of street encounter since November 1971, when I decked a drunken miscreant outside Spires Restaurant in Downey for pulling off the radio antenna on my beloved 1966 Volkswagen.

  But uncharacteristically, I immediately fired back at the guy, saying, “Hey, motherfucker, don’t be wolf talking me!”

  And as I said that, I actually found myself getting set to launch a left hook at his right temple, which Evander Holyfield had told me long ago was the most vulnerable spot on a person’s face. It was the punch I had learned from a great trainer, Noe Cruz, when I was sparring regularly at the Westminster Boxing Gym in the late 1970s.

  But just as I was set to unleash it, I was grabbed from behind by Vassegh, who doubtless saved my job since my antagonist turned out to be a Disneyland executive. The guy complained about my behavior to ESPN management, which sternly admonished me for it and ordered me to apologize to the guy, which I did.

  The final brouhaha I got myself involved in that late summer was the scariest since it could have resulted in my winding up in a hospital or even worse.

  I had gone to a nearby Italian restaurant called Ferraro’s to pick up some takeout and almost struck a car that was backing up as I pulled into the parking space.

  The ridiculous way I overreacted indicates to me now that I was unraveling mentally. I started screaming at the driver and motioned for him to get out of his car so I could give him a fistic lesson.

  Unfortunately for me, the guy did.

  And as I swaggered toward him, I suddenly noticed his immense size. He was at least six-foot-five, he was at least 230 pounds, he was at least thirty years old and, blessedly for me, he at least turned out to be a pleasant fellow not given to beating up older guys half his size and age.

  “You don’t want to do it, buddy,” he said, as I got closer to him. “You’re going to get hurt.”

  I looked at this hulking guy and figured there was a lot of truth in what he was saying.

  I also suddenly felt like a fool for my intemperate conduct, bowed my head, turned and walked away.

  What a class act that hulking gentleman was.

  I figured I would be bombarded with a lot of nasty, demeaning words, but he remained silent, not emboldened to express his disdain at my meek departure.

  Chapter 38

  The daily sadness and helplessness I had felt since Easter Sunday 2000, when the colonoscopy doctor gave me the dark news about Gillian, grew stronger as my wife grew weaker. I had suffered through numerous romantic breakups across the years and the lingering torment that went with them. But nothing was comparable to what I was feeling as I saw this woman I loved so much enter the climactic stage of her terribl
e disease.

  Every day she walked a little slower. Every day she experienced greater pain. Every day her struggle to survive became more difficult. Every day the sorrow in my soul became deeper.

  The Press-Telegram’s executive editor, Rich Archbold, told me to take time off, but I continued to write my columns. The ESPN program director, Erik Braverman, told me to take time off from the McDonnell-Douglas Show, as did Joe McDonnell himself, but I continued to do my radio work.

  I actually continued working both jobs into the final week because I found staying busy helped me retain my sanity. For a few hours each tense day, my mind momentarily was diverted from Gillian’s terrible struggle.

  At least Gillian had a terrific support system. Her mother proved to be a steady, comforting presence, as was Esther Fawcett, who was constantly running errands and assisting in various household chores. Katharine Elliott twice flew over from Hartlepool—she brought her two young children the first time—and Gillian’s spirits were brightened considerably by the presence of her beloved older sister, as well as her niece and nephew.

  To list all the people who provided succor, in one way or another, would be an impossibility. But there are a few who deserve special mention.

  The then president of Long Beach State, Dr. Robert Maxson, whom I kiddingly referred to as “Fightin’ Bob” in the newspaper, and his wife, Sylvia, would stop by the home at least three times a week and drop off a tureen of taco vegetable soup and chicken and rice.

  The repast was specially prepared by Sylvia Maxson, a gourmet cook, and Bob Maxson wasn’t kidding when he said, “There’s no one in the world who cooks better taco vegetable soup than my wife.”

  Her chicken and rice meal was top notch, too, and Gillian and I were heartened by this nice couple who would interrupt their busy schedule—Sylvia taught several English courses at Long Beach State—to dispense such acts of kindness.

  Another person who turned out to be a godsend was Elizabeth Milligan, wife of my pal Stu Milligan. Liz then was a first-grade teacher in Santa Ana and made it a point after school during Gillian’s final months to come to our home to comfort Gillian, who dearly enjoyed her company.