Still Me

by Christopher Reeve

  Originally Kathy was hired to work on the film for a couple of weeks. She had made it clear that she was attending architecture school and no longer editing. But once she and David and I huddled together around the computer screen and started fine tuning, she couldn’t tear herself away. I was especially impressed by David’s willingness to take suggestions from her. I considered myself lucky to have input from both of them, which helped me tremendously.

  I agonized particularly about Danny’s death scene: the question was whether to stay on a spectacular close-up of Glenn as she realizes that her husband may still be in love with her, or to cut back to Danny for a moment as he takes his final breath. We talked about it at length, tried it both ways, left it for a week and came back to it, played different music cues underneath the scene—the process of getting that moment right seemed to go on forever. But the collaboration was exhilarating. I thought again of how Jim Ivory absorbed suggestions, giving everyone free rein to speak his or her mind, then making the final decision. I remembered a famous maxim of Nikos’s, which I first heard all those years ago as an apprentice at Williamstown: “Theater is a democracy where the director is king.”

  After nearly three weeks of agonizing about the death scene, I decided to incorporate the brief cut of Danny, because in the best take you couldn’t be sure if he was dying or merely drifting off to sleep. I thought the ambiguity captured this crucial moment perfectly. I also thought that if I stayed on Glenn throughout it might seem as if I was servicing the star rather than telling the story.

  In January I developed a blood clot behind my left knee and had to be hospitalized for a week on IV blood thinners. Kathy and David brought the computer to the hospital so we could continue working. As soon as I was out of danger, I returned to the editing suite; but in February I developed another blood clot in the same leg and had to go back to Northern Westchester Hospital (my home away from home) for five more days.

  The film was scheduled to air on April 20. All the disagreements that had made the editing process so challenging were now behind us. Dave Grusin had provided the final touch with his simple but eloquent score. I was tremendously relieved that the final result was satisfying to everyone.

  HBO (and especially Colin Callender) now gave their full support to the film and threw a lavish screening and reception at the Museum of Modern Art on a Monday evening a few weeks before the television premiere. Dana and I looked forward to an exciting night out.

  But on Saturday afternoon, as I was being transferred from my exercise bike back into my wheelchair, the nurse and the aide working with me had trouble with the lift. Instead of landing smoothly in the center of the seat, I came down on the front corner, balanced precariously for a moment, then fell straight over the side onto the floor. Dana helped the two of them pick me up and put me back in the chair, but I could sense that something was wrong with my left arm: it seemed looser and far too flexible.

  The next morning we went back to Northern Westchester for an X ray, which revealed that the bone between my shoulder and my elbow, the humerus, had broken cleanly in two. The doctors decided that the best thing to do would be to drill a hole through my shoulder and insert a titanium rod inside the bone to hold the pieces together.

  The problem we faced was that I was still on blood thinners and might lose a critical amount of blood during the operation. All day Sunday I sat around hooked up to an IV designed to reverse the thinning process, waiting for the clotting factor to reach a level that would make it reasonably safe to operate. Finally at 8:00 P.M. I hit the magic number. The surgeon was paged at home, left his dinner table, and scrubbed in. I stayed in my wheelchair, and a plastic sheet was draped over me so that I wouldn’t end up looking like a victim in a splatter film.

  At first they tried 10 milligrams of Versed, a mild anesthetic. This dose would be enough to make most people quiet and comfortable, However I was still chatting away and looking rather apprehensively through the sheet, watching Dr. Levin assemble a hammer, a chisel, and a drill. They kept increasing the dosage of Versed until they reached 22 milligrams (probably enough to sedate a 300-pound gorilla), but I still showed no signs of drowsiness. Tracy suggested they bring out “the good stuff,” meaning Diprovan. Five minutes later I was out cold, which was a good thing, because I had been all too aware of what was coming. I’m glad I didn’t have to watch the actual procedure.

  First Dr. Levin entered the shoulder and the top of the humerus with the drill, spraying blood on the floor and all over himself and the team of nurses. Once he had access to the inside of the bone, he literally tapped the titanium rod into place with the hammer and chisel I had watched him prepare. But in less than forty-five minutes it was all over, and I was relaxing in the recovery room. The operation had gone flawlessly, and the postop X ray showed that the bone had been perfectly reconnected. I was free to go home.

  The next morning I told Tracy that I was more tired than usual. She wasn’t surprised, because I had lost four pints of blood—one-third of normal capacity. She suggested I relax in bed until it was time to get ready for the evening gala. I was only too happy to comply, which was unusual for me, because normally I hate having to spend a beautiful day indoors. At about four-thirty Tracy and one of my aides began the process of getting me up and out the door. I was still not quite myself but was eager to go because the whole cast would be there, as well as many friends, relatives, and acquaintances, some of whom I hadn’t seen in years.

  So many people had accepted the invitations to the screening that the film was shown simultaneously in two theaters. Colin Callender and Fred Zollo made generous introductory remarks. I particularly appreciated Fred’s observations that I had been “as difficult and opinionated as any other director” and that he would work with me again in a second. Dana, Alexandra, Ben, and my mother, all seated in the row next to me, gave me looks of encouragement as the film came up on the screen. I worried that since it was made for television, it wouldn’t play in a theater, but it held up well. Fred Elmes’s cinematography looked much more beautiful than it had on the computer-generated Avid display, and I saw nuances in the performances that I hadn’t noticed before.

  At the end of the film the camera pulls away from the house as Dana sings the title song. The final credits begin halfway through the second verse, over a shot of the now empty bench where mother and son had some of their most intimate conversations. I was surprised and deeply gratified when no one moved or started talking, even as the credits continued to roll silently over black for nearly two minutes. When the lights came up the audience turned toward me and the cast and gave us a standing ovation. To be given such a reception less than two years after I lay in a hospital bed wondering if I would ever work again was overwhelming.

  At the party a steady stream of well-wishers stopped at our table, including a few directors with kind things to say. Calvin Klein came over and was just about to talk to me when he caught sight of Alexandra, sitting on my left, looking absolutely stunning in a dress bought especially for the occasion. I could almost see the dollar signs rolling around in his eyes as I introduced them. Peggy Siegel, the publicist who had organized the party, practically had to drag him away. On the way home Al and I joked about Klein’s reaction to her. I asked her how she felt now about modeling, a subject that had come up before, and I was relieved that she still had no interest in it. How lucky I am to be the father of such a beautiful but unspoiled teenager.

  In the Gloaming premiered on April 20. It got respectable ratings, but the reviews were extraordinary. As an actor I sometimes felt that my choices were wrong or that I had failed to do justice to a role; I often wished I could do a part over again and fix my mistakes. But in my first outing as a director, there were no such regrets. I had thoroughly enjoyed making dozens of decisions every day, relying mostly on instinct. I loved making suggestions to the cast and crew, and never minded making changes or deferring to someone with a better idea. My experience working with Jim Ivory had served me well.
I even found a way to pay tribute to one of my favorite scenes in The Bostonians: every day Glenn came to work with her little dog, Gaby, who followed her everywhere. As soon as I noticed this, I cast the dog in the film.

  When I told Dick Donner that I was going to direct a film, his response was, “So what’s new?” Obviously he remembered that during the seemingly endless shooting of Superman, I had bombarded him with questions about lenses, camera angles, and lighting. In my spare time I had driven around in my golf cart to the various departments—the flying unit, the model unit, the mechanical effects unit, and especially the editing suite—making a nuisance of myself as I tried to learn all I could from the experts who were working with us. That year and a half was like going to him school. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, it helped prepare me to be a director.

  With In the Gloaming I made a transition from one aspect of my career to another. So many people who sustain injuries like mine are forced to give up what they love doing most. Musicians or painters or carpenters may never work in their chosen fields again. But I was lucky enough to find another creative outlet and to do something that had interested me since I was a teenager. The fact that this new venture succeeded so well was just the icing on the cake: we were nominated for five Emmys and won four Cable Ace awards, including Best Dramatic Special. Even though I was still in a wheelchair, I had taken a big step forward.

  Chapter 11

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  The door to our bedroom slides open, and Will comes in just as it’s light enough to make out the trees above our skylight. He knows I can’t speak to him because my trach has been inflated for the night, cutting off the air to my vocal cords. He waves to me, and I make a clicking sound in return as he passes by and jumps on Dana’s bed, telling her it’s time to get up and play floor hockey. They go out together, and soon I hear Will’s play-by-play of the action as he and Dana go one-on-one with plastic golf clubs for sticks and a bottle top for a puck in the family room down the hall. It’s just past six o’clock, too late to go back to sleep. Sometimes I try to doze, but mostly I watch the trees taking shape above me and prepare myself for the day.

  Will continues playing hockey by himself while Dana makes him breakfast and the lunch he takes to school. At eight the nurse and aide on the morning shift come in. The nurse counts out my twenty pills, which I take in one swallow of cranberry juice: some are vitamins, some are to help control my spasms, the rest are to keep my bladder from shrinking and to maintain the proper functioning of my bowels. I treat myself to a single cup of coffee, which I drink all at once through a straw, and then we begin the painful process of moving my body from the position I’ve been in all night.

  My joints and muscles are frozen, and I can barely turn my head because my neck is so stiff. Usually I have a tingling, burning sensation in both legs and pain behind my left knee where the blood clots were. I sleep with splints on both feet to prevent foot drop; if the tendons and ligaments are not flexed and are allowed to atrophy, it will never be possible to stand or walk. There are splints on my arms, too, which keep my fingers in a natural position. Otherwise they would clench into fists and ultimately never straighten out.

  Once everything is removed I am rolled onto my back. But my body rebels no matter how gently they try to move me; my arms and legs flail wildly, and my chest tightens, making it difficult to breathe. The nurse turns on the oxygen that is always ready at the bedside. Because my muscles are still strong, it often takes the full weight of both the nurse and the aide to control these spasms and force my body to lie still.

  Will comes in, carrying his lunch box and wearing my purple knapsack, which is now his. He climbs over the side rail of the bed and gives me a kiss. I tell him what my plan is for the day; maybe when I’ve finished my work, late in the afternoon, I’ll watch him play basketball in the driveway. Or maybe after supper we’ll watch a hockey game together, or maybe I won’t be back ’til after his bedtime because I have to fly somewhere to make a speech or attend a fund-raiser. If it’s a city with a professional sports team, I always bring him back a jersey or a puck or a helmet. Whenever I’m away I always miss our morning hug and our little conversations about sports, or whales, or the solar system. To stop myself from brooding about these missed moments, I ask whoever is on duty that morning to turn up the radio just to have some noise to distract me.

  Then we begin ranging, very slowly moving all four limbs. The nurse holds down one leg, while the aide stretches out the other one, first working it almost ninety degrees out to the side, then pushing my knee up to my chest, then straight up, and finally doing the “frog”: pushing the knee from side to side in a bent position. All the while the nurse is looking intently for any red spots that might indicate the first stage of a skin breakdown. The redness is almost always caused by some kind of pressure: the heel of a shoe, or the outside of a knee pressing too tightly against the wheelchair. If these pressure sores aren’t immediately given proper treatment, serious problems, like the decubitus ulcer I had in my sacral area, can develop very quickly.

  In June 1997 a red spot appeared on the outside ankle of my left foot, probably caused by irritation from a shoe. A dermatologist and Dr. O’Hanlon, my podiatrist and a specialist in wound care, both examined it but did not recommend a course of treatment. By the middle of July it had opened to a little more than the size of a quarter and was nearly half an inch deep. Then the wound became infected. When the infection penetrated the bone, I had to face the possibility of having my foot amputated to prevent it from spreading through my body. We were in Williamstown at the time, just a short distance from the Albany Medical Center, where Scott Henson is now the chief of neurosurgery, I called and asked for his help.

  Two days later my ankle was examined by an orthopedic surgeon, a physiatrist, a wound care specialist, and a vascular surgeon, all assembled by Dr. Henson as a personal favor. I watched him cut away the dead tissue, a process known as debriding. As he worked I noticed how delicately he held the scalpel and how carefully he cut into my skin. I kept thinking: This man, one of the top neurosurgeons in the country, who had assisted Dr. Jane in the unprecedented operation on my shattered vertebrae, is treating my ankle himself.

  I was put on a ten-day course of industrial-strength IV antibiotics that my nurses could administer at home. Although I hated sitting out on the deck in Williamstown attached to a pole while Dana, Will, Matthew, Al, and various friends played soccer or volleyball on the front lawn, the treatment worked. There were ups and downs, including allergic reactions to the medication, but by mid-August there was no more infection in the bone, and the wound had begun to shrink. By December, through proper nutrition, elevating the leg, and wearing T.E.D. hose to prevent swelling, the ankle was just about healed.

  The morning ranging typically takes about an hour. If we’re on a tight schedule, as we were most days during the filming of In the Gloaming, we can do it in half the time, but then I’m likely to have more spasms during the day. After the ranging I’m given a sponge bath from head to toe. The bandages around the trach are changed, and new dressings are applied to my ankle and at the site of my superpubic catheter. This kind of catheter is surgically inserted directly into the bladder and allows for continual drainage, eliminating the need for a catheter change every four hours. It also allows me to drink as much as I want, which is essential for the health of my kidneys.

  By this time I’ve been worked on for nearly an hour and a half, and I’m finally ready to be dressed. Because my clothes have to be put on while I’m still in bed, I particularly hate days that end with a black tie gala. These events are definitely worthwhile, but I have to admit I wish there weren’t quite so many of them. The aides are only available for the morning and nighttime care, so on formal occasions I have to dress for the evening at nine in the morning. Sometimes I rebel and wear more comfortable clothes. When I arrive at the venue I apologize profusely for having misunderstood the dress code.

  Even on
days when I can stay at home, getting dressed takes time and, more important, the ability to accept not being able to do any of it by myself. When two people have to roll you back and forth in order to put on your underpants at age forty-five, it’s a difficult lesson in patience and acceptance. I pick out my wardrobe, but I have no choice about one part of it: to promote better circulation in my legs, I always have to wear the hated T.E.D. hose. Finally I’m ready to be lifted into the chair. The entire ordeal of getting up can take as much as three hours.

  And there are times I have to stay in bed longer than required by the regular routine. Every three weeks the trach has to be changed, which involves pulling the old one out, cleaning the site thoroughly, and putting a new one in. Tracy does this better than any of the doctors who used to perform the procedure. I will never forget the first trach change, attempted by two pulmonologists a week after I came home. I was given a mild anesthetic; the doctors pulled the trach out, cleared away some granulation (healing) tissue in my throat, then couldn’t get the new trach to go in. By this time I had been off the hose for nearly two minutes; my lips were turning blue, and my eyes were bulging. I couldn’t breathe because the air I took in through my mouth escaped through the open hole in my throat instead of getting to my lungs. One of the doctors ran to the phone to call an ear, nose, and throat specialist; the other one kept asking, “Are you all right?” Tracy stepped in and with one hand shoved the new trach down my throat and into place. As she reconnected the hose from the ventilator and I started breathing again, one of the doctors berated her for interfering with their work and for touching the trach without a glove. Matthew and Al, who had just arrived for the Christmas holidays, watched in horror from the kitchen; they had never seen an emergency before. The two pulmonologists packed and left in silence, taking their egos with them.