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For my mom and dad and my wonderful supportive children, Kaya and Nora, whose own amazing stories are unfolding
Author’s Note
This is a true story, though some names and details have been changed.
Writing a book … compels you to want to sum up your life … I’m not going to give in to that urge. Let someone else sum up my life when it’s over.
—LARRY HAGMAN, IN THE POSTSCRIPT TO HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY
1
Dad’s Last Day
IT WAS THE MORNING after Thanksgiving, and everything had changed. Dad was still in the Dallas hospital room where my brother, Preston, and I had sat beside him for the last two days. But now there was no doubt that he was dying. My father had been close to death several times before. On one of those occasions, I was so sure we were losing him that I had cried nonstop until my mother told me, “That’s enough. He’ll get better.” I thought she was delusional. But within a week he was well again, and I understood that I still had things to learn from my mother: she never gave up on Dad, nor should I. But this time was different. This time he was not going to recover.
He had been still and quiet in the middle of the night when I left him in Preston’s care while I went back to the hotel to get some sleep. As I had promised my brother I would, I returned as the sun was coming up over the Dallas skyline. Amazingly, I had been able to sleep for a few hours. I felt ready to face and to cope with what was about to happen.
When I entered my father’s room in the intensive care unit, I could see him turning and tossing. I immediately sensed his agitation and fear. He was talking a mile a minute, words pouring out of him, fast, as if he had so many things he needed to say while he was still able to say them.
He had been like this for some time, Preston said. We exchanged a few words before he left, utterly exhausted, hoping to get a bit of rest.
I approached the bed and stroked my father’s forehead. I moistened his cracked lips and leaned into him, straining to understand what he was saying. His words came out jumbled. He seemed to go from mood to mood, changing inflections and even accents, and tossing in a giggle now and then. Though much of what he said was unintelligible, I could easily make out the two words he repeated breathlessly, over and over again. The words were: forgive me.
Why was he saying this? Did he mean those words for me? For my brother, who had just left? Was he asking forgiveness from some higher power? Whatever he meant, the words made me deeply sad. Anyone who has sat by the deathbed of a loved one knows the profound sense of sorrow you feel when you know there is nothing you can do that will make them better. You want to share every precious moment with them; you long to comfort them in any way possible.
As I sat on the bed and held him in that hospital room, I was taken back to a time when he had comforted me. I was eight years old when I was knocked unconscious because a horse had kicked me and sent me flying into a fence on which I’d hit my head. I was unconscious for three days but vividly recall coming to for just an instant when Dad was cradling me in his arms as he ran down the hospital corridor. I know he stayed with me day and night until I was well enough to come home. He would never leave me by myself in a cold, institutional hospital. So now I tried to reassure him, to reach him, so he would know he was not alone.
But I had a surreal thought: though I could touch his failing body, I was not sure he was in that hospital room at all. His consciousness was somewhere else. He called out to my mother, “Maj, we have to do this … Majsy, let’s go…” I wished my mother could have been with him. She loved him so much, but by then, she was far too debilitated by Alzheimer’s disease to even be told of his condition.
Every few minutes the nurse would come in to measure his oxygen level. “Take a deep breath for me, Larry,” she would say in her sweet Texas accent, but he just kept talking, talking, talking. He addressed his own mother, who had been dead for twenty-two years. “I will, Mom. Sure, Mom…” and then more words I could not decipher.
From that point on, the only words I could make out were the words he just kept saying over and over, “Forgive me … forgive me … forgive me.”
* * *
I had sat alone with my father in intensive care twice since his liver transplant nearly twenty years ago. On those other occasions when he seemed close to death, I had made sure to tell him I loved him, to let him know that I had seen him struggle in his marriage and I too knew how hard that could be; I told him about my hopes and fears for my children and my desire to get back to being an artist when they were old enough to stand on their own. Most of all, I let him know how grateful I was to him for holding me so close my entire life. On those occasions, I had said everything I wanted and needed to say, and now there was nothing more I longed to tell him, nothing had been left unsaid. We had done the hard work of sounding each other’s emotions. Now the only words I wanted to say were words that would put him at peace. I told him everybody loved him, and the image of Dad surrounded by his lovely granddaughters came to mind; I told him they adored him. Three of them were Preston’s daughters, two were mine, and we had brought them to his hospital room just yesterday, before his condition turned dire. When they had arrived in Dallas a few days ago, they had been so excited to see him, crowding into the room and sitting on the bed with Granpa to tell him all their news. When we visited him again, we knew for sure that Granpa Larry was not going to join us for the Thanksgiving dinner he had so carefully planned. That day, each of his granddaughters had the chance to be alone with him.
Dad was delighted by these five lovely girls; he called them the Blondies. He loved being with them. He had not been the kind of grandfather who came to school sporting events or did projects with them. He just liked having them around at breakfast or cuddling with them on the couch to watch TV. He saw them as his team of beautiful girls. But I knew each of them well enough to understand that they would want to be recognized as individuals; it was important that each of them got to experience some time alone with him. Anyone who knew Dad well knew how wonderful it felt to have his whole attention. He had the ability to make you feel like the most important person in the world. Whatever he said would be theirs alone to know and reflect on in the coming years. For me, these private visits were lovely and bittersweet because I sensed this would be the last time he would be able to talk to them.
While each girl had her visit with Granpa, the rest of us sat on the floor outside his room. The nurses and the hospital staff were great, accommodating us by walking over our outstretched legs that took up the entire hallway. We were like some ancient tribe camped out in the hospital corridor, awaiting the next opportunity to visit with our king.
But now, there was only him and me and the words he repeated over and over: “Forgive me … forgive me.”
What was going on in his mind? Where was he? I
seldom feel helpless, but I felt totally helpless as I held him, knowing there was nothing more his doctors could do for him and all too aware that it was left to me to ease his mind. As a mother, I had always been able to find a way to comfort my children. Now I prayed those instincts would guide me to find the way to comfort my father. But no matter what I did, his agitation and monologue continued. I straightened his sheets, cooled and kissed his feverish forehead, put a wet towel to his lips. Again, I was taken back to memories from the distant past: I found myself thinking of how he had slept beside my bed to care for me when I had been sick with the chicken pox at three years old. He had been so worried that I would scratch my face in my sleep and leave permanent scars that he had made me wear gloves day and night. If I unconsciously pulled the gloves off, he gently distracted me and put them back on again. This was my dad, the man who often demanded my absolute attention and obedience but who could also be completely and selflessly giving. Whatever Dad’s flaws, he understood what love is.
I had to do something for him! When my children were distressed, I had often sung them to sleep, and so I sang the same soothing songs to Dad: “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” and “Amazing Grace.” After that, I could see by observing his breathing that he had relaxed a bit, and I was encouraged to sing more.
It came to me that Dad and I had been singing together only a month earlier at the New York memorial for our dear friend, the artist Barton Benes. The words to that song were fresh in my mind: “I’ll be loving you always, with a love that’s true always…”
As I continued singing, something amazing happened. It was as if his delirium had lifted. Without opening his eyes, Dad joined his weak and trembling voice with mine, “Days may not be fair always … that’s when I’ll be there always … not for just a minute, not for just an hour, not for just a year but … allllllwayyyyys.”
It was such an uplifting moment that despite my knowledge that he was in total organ failure, I caught myself thinking he might come back to us, that he would magically sit up and say, “Just kidding!” I could not help but wish he was pulling another one of the practical jokes he was famous for. But then he began asking for forgiveness again. Searching for another way to soothe him, I said, “I forgive you.” But my words did not penetrate.
Throughout my life, Dad’s indomitable spirit brought all of us so much happiness. He had often been able to turn a depressing situation into a joke that would make us all laugh at ourselves for being down or serious. Being glum was never a part of Dad’s game plan. For example, when he had visited his own mother in the hospital before she died, instead of searching for the right thing to say to her, they had whistled a Bach cantata together.
Because he had such a mischievous way about him, people would laugh at his antics instead of taking offense. If a woman came up to the table and asked to have her photo taken with him, he would playfully grab her breast just as the camera flash went off, leaving her with a picture that was not like any other celebrity photo. He was like a wayward but charming child who was never going to separate right from wrong. Dad was like Peter Pan in a man’s body; he had never wanted to grow up. What good were grown-up, serious words to him? So I smiled at him, and I was so filled with loving feelings for him that I found myself speaking to him as if he were my son.
I said, “You’re a very good boy.”
The words even surprised me. I didn’t know where they came from, but those must have been the words he needed to hear because, after that, he never spoke again. The constant asking for forgiveness had ended.
* * *
Though he was quiet, I could see from the way he grimaced and the way his body was contorted that he was in severe pain. When the nurse returned, she said I should ask the doctor to give him morphine. I told her I did not feel comfortable making that request.
“You have experience with what is done at the end of life,” I said. “If you think Dad needs morphine, could you ask the doctor for it?”
Within minutes, the doctor arrived. He examined Dad briefly, then ordered the morphine, which was administered right away, and I soon watched the tension in Dad’s body begin to ease. As his breath became more profound, I found myself taking fuller, deeper breaths along with him. But as the relaxation transformed his body, I realized that this change also meant that what little bit of his consciousness had remained was now gone forever.
Dad had been silent for a while when his girlfriend, who was just my age, came into the room. She looked like the millionaire she was: her dark hair coiffed, her makeup and nails perfect. She was dressed in skintight jeans, a flatteringly elegant shirt, and high-heeled boots. She was not at all like my mother, who was a few years older than Dad and had gained some weight over the last few years and wore minimal makeup and had towel-dried, frosty-white hair.
As the girlfriend crawled into bed with Dad, I could not help but note the irony of her timing. She came as soon as the tumult and the work of caring for him was over.
“Lukey honey,” she said in her purring Southern drawl, “squeeze mah hand if you know Ah’m here.”
He did not respond; she became more insistent. She was a woman who got what she wanted, and she was determined to get a response from him. I understood her desire. Hadn’t I been doing the same thing for hours? But now, with his urgent pleas silenced, I could feel how much that effort had taken out of me, and I was spent and grateful that he was calm at last.
I watched them together for a while. Dad couldn’t squeeze her hand or do anything else. He had gone from talking a mile a minute to barely breathing. Trying another way to reach him she placed her iPhone beside his ear and turned the volume up on what she said was his favorite music. “Sound is the last thing to go, you know,” she said with authority.
“Yes,” I answered quietly. “But I don’t think he can hear it.”
I was not familiar with the music she played; it must have been their favorite music together. It struck me that Dad had so many different lives, and I knew very little about this one. Dad had kept her a secret from me for about two years. The secrecy had made a wedge between us, separating us until he discovered I did not condemn him for his relationship with her, and we began doing things together again. I had been so relieved to be back in Dad’s life, and I was grateful that his girlfriend had not shut me out. I felt it was time to return the favor and let her be alone with him. I left the room. Maybe the presence of a loved one was the last thing to go, and Dad had recently told me that he loved her.
* * *
While they were alone in the room, Preston came back to the hospital bringing all our daughters with him. We were all close by as Dad slipped further away. Then Dad’s Dallas costars Patrick Duffy and Linda Gray joined us to give their support. They had long been two of his dearest friends. They had been watching out for him since the new Dallas had started shooting a year earlier. Linda had given him dietary advice. Patrick was always the guy who teamed up with Dad to play pranks on the set and in recent weeks had begun to stand by him at public functions as Dad became frailer, always ready to offer a steady hand in case he needed it. Patrick helped Dad in such a gracious way, a way that Dad could accept it since it was never obvious or embarrassing.
Having been through the last few hours with Dad, I knew he would not open his eyes ever again. I felt raw; I needed the solace of privacy. It was just after 3:00 P.M. when I kissed my father for the last time. He was peaceful and seemingly unaware as the final scene of his life played out, the actor surrounded by an audience of those who loved him.
The granddaughters must have sensed it was time for quiet too, and they all came back to the hotel with me. After hugging them repeatedly, I went to my own room and sat alone. I was trying to absorb what I had just gone through and face the fact that I would never be with my father again.
Preston stayed with Dad until he took his final breath. He said that breath came at 4:20 P.M. This particular time was significant because 420 is the unofficial symbol for the use and appreci
ation of one of Dad’s favorite substances: marijuana.
When Preston told me this I thought, Just as Dad would want it—scripted to the end.
2
A Forensic Study: The Search for My Father
RECENTLY, I WAS SENT a photograph of my dad that made me smile and tear up at the same time. He is walking on the beach, wearing a loose white shirt and white pants. His arms are wide open, his palms turned up, and he looks so happy; it’s a peaceful happiness, a contented happiness, the happiness of a man who had known what he wanted and got it.
Because I had been very close to my dad, when I was with him that contentment washed over me. We always stayed in touch, sometimes unintentionally; for example, he butt-dialed me all the time. I would get a call out of the blue as I was shopping at the grocery store. I would say, “Hello … Hi, Dad … Are you there?”
I would get no reply, and then as I was standing in front of cans of soup in California, I would hear the sound of a party at full tilt, going on somewhere in Texas.
Earlier when I lived in Seattle with my husband and daughters, Dad began to call me with increasing frequency as Mom’s vascular dementia took over her personality, causing her to lose her memory and her temper more and more each day. When he called, he would recount what was happening to them, but he was strangely taciturn when it came to expressing how he felt about the barrage of anger my mom threw at him daily. This anger began to consume all their waking hours together. It was hard to comfort him with words alone; Dad was the kind of guy who liked to just sit and watch the ocean with a friend or loved one. He was not someone who would get all verbally mushy. He liked having someone physically close to him, he liked to talk, but he didn’t like to talk about his feelings.
* * *
These calls from Dad as my mother declined made me want to be with my folks as they struggled with a disease that takes over whole families and has no cure. I came down to Los Angeles as often as I could to give Dad a break. But these short visits were ineffectual because, soon after I returned home to Seattle, any care plan I had worked on with Dad swiftly unraveled, and I would need to come back again a few weeks later for another visit that also had no lasting effect. Eventually, I realized that the only way I could be of help was to uproot my family from Seattle and move back home to be near both my parents. By then, Mom was in a facility where I went every day to spend time with her. At night, Dad often came over to our place for dinner. We went to the movies with him, and he took the girls out for frozen yogurt in the neighborhood. Dad liked to have me along when he ate meals with Mom. He would take her out someplace fun, like the Santa Monica pier. She could not really maintain a conversation anymore, but when we were all together, there was some feeling of normalcy.
The Eternal Party Page 1
