I'm Not Dead... Yet! (31 page)

But let’s put things in perspective. Show biz stories aren’t
deeply
painful. No one needs to be ‘saved’ in show business.

It’s not an emergency or a life and death situation. It can be
artistic
death, or ‘career suicide’—but, all in all, we’re still here to watch the sun rise and set with our loved ones, and hopefully add to the planet rather than selfishly take away.

In the summer of 1986,
Karla and
I were on the road doing theater in Ohio, for “The Kenley Circuit.”

The flamboyant and talented John Kenley was a true theater aficionado.
Mr. Kenley was an
extraordinary
man; he built a summer stock theater business throughout Ohio and into Michigan using the great old theaters that are now hopefully not parking lots or strip malls. He lured talent into his summer schedule with major bucks and gave the people of Ohio good theater. John Kenley worked as a child in vaudeville; he was part of the Shubert’s success in New York.

Mr. Kenley called and offered us a ridiculously large amount of money to do his summer stock tour of
Evita
. Although Karla had come close to starring in the film version, she had never done the show, and had only seen it once—when sent by Andrew Lloyd Webber and Ken Russell between her two screen tests in London in 1981. I hadn’t seen it on Broadway, and frankly hated learning new material unless I loved the piece. I wanted to do
Evita
for Karla, but asked her about the amount of work I would need to do for the part of Che. Karla said, “Che’s role is like the Stage Manager in
Our Town
—not that much to do.” We immediately got on the phone and told John Kenley we were on-board.

Cut to us taking a trip to see the National Tour of
Evita
in Long Beach. After the first fifteen minutes I turned to the woman I adored in the theatre seat next to me and said (as quietly as possible) , “You—will—not—live—past—intermission.” Che was a babbling, angry nutcase who also sang song after song. Yes, I thought—kind of like the Stage Manager in
Our Town
on crystal meth, running around and singing every line in intervals that made no sense.

Karla’s explanation was, “In London I had tunnel-vision; I only saw one thing: Evita!” She pleaded guilty to the classic actor analysis: My line. My Line. Blah blah. My line. My line. Blah blah. My line.

We contacted our friend and vocal coach, Marge Rivingston, and she recommended Kevin Farrell (who had conducted
Evita
for Lloyd Webber) to work with us. I studied the part—begrudgingly—at times questioning if Mr. Lloyd Webber had gotten bored and threw the cat on the piano searching for the intervals Che had to sing. I learned the part while cycling on a stationary bike listening to Mandy Patinkin. He had a gorgeous voice and I wanted to know I could get through the score while my heart rate was above 160. I had to test myself daily so that when I was onstage, what would be difficult for others would be a breeze for me.

We called Vivienne to see if she would consider taking another leave of absence from work to join us on the road spending time with her best little pal, granddaughter Lyric, turning three. She said yes!

My mother-in-law was the most selfless person
I have ever met (except for Karla—it all made sense now for me).
Vivienne was so joyous and full of life, with a great sense of humor, a laugh that could shake the rafters, and such a kind and giving heart that she was an inspiration to all who knew her.

Vibrantly beautiful at 18, with a great soprano singing voice, Vivienne was spotted by Jack Benny’s agent and offered a screen test in Hollywood. Her parents said no; they needed her to work in the family restaurant. With no regrets, Viv said if she’d had great ambition she would have gone anyway.

Viv made it clear she would support any career decision Karla made—only wanting her children to find happiness in life. Karla’s father Sebastian (who fought in WWII, looked like a combination of Tyrone Power and George Clooney, and was known for his great personality) was the love of her life. He died of cancer at 38 when Karla was eight, leaving Viv with four children to raise between the ages of three and thirteen. Viv was unstoppable—filling the house with love, laughter and music. Karla never felt there was anything a woman couldn’t do because her role model worked full-time, was smart and talented, and able to repair anything—from a broken lamp to a leaky toilet. Viv even helped Karla’s Uncle Bob and Aunt Marilyn build the house the family moved to in Mokena, Illinois after Sebastian died.

Vivienne never remarried. When we had Lyric, she came to live with us for a month, and then whenever she could, or if we were in a bind. She was in her glory—thrilled to be Grandma Vivi.

Evita
was such a success
that Mr. Kenley extended the season and offered us another show,
a favorite musical among Catholic audiences entitled
Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up?
Karla promised her agent in L.A. she’d be back in L.A. for pilot season. We decided I would stay on, while Karla, Lyric and Vivi headed back to California.

I was on stage rehearsing when I received a phone call from Karla, and when I heard her voice, I knew something was wrong. Karla’s mom Vivienne was in the hospital with heart pain.

I left telling Mr. Kenley I would be back when we all felt Vivienne was in good hands. He could’ve tried to persuade me to not leave (which wouldn’t have mattered) but he didn’t. Opening night was in five days, but John Kenley
understood
, even if it left his show without its lead actor.

In the early evening Vivienne had sudden, powerful chest pains. She was stoic—she wouldn’t have said anything if she didn’t know there was a real problem.

Karla called my cardiologist—she and Lyric had just spent the day with his wife and daughter at the L.A. Zoo. Should she drive Viv to UCLA?

He said no, get to the nearest E.R. immediately and have them call him from there.

Our house was in the winding hills of Tarzana, and Karla thought she could drive to the hospital faster than waiting for an ambulance—so she helped Viv and a naked Lyric (she didn’t stop to dress her fresh from a bath) into the car.

(Karla says this was her first mistake: she should have called an ambulance. The EMTs would have relayed their assessment to the hospital and Viv’s condition would have received immediate attention.)

She had Viv in the E.R. within 10 minutes of her first chest pain. Karla signed her in and gave them my cardiologist’s number saying he needed to speak with them to recommend a colleague to be Viv’s doctor.

They did not call him. They admitted Viv to their Cardiac Care Unit and assigned the doctor on call.

Karla met the assigned cardiologist briefly in her mom’s room. He gave her no information about her condition, not even committing to say whether she was having a heart attack or not, just that they were doing blood tests, etc.

Then she never saw him again. Karla asked a hospital official if Vivienne could be transferred to UCLA. He said no; not until her condition stabilized.

My parents lived nearby and came to support Karla. They took Lyric home with them.

Karla spoke to my cardiologist several times by pay-phone and asked him to speak with the doctor, but since he was not affiliated with this hospital, he was apprehensive about protocol and stepping on toes. He said for his colleague to take over, Karla would have to
fire
the doctor assigned. Karla balked. It was the ‘Cardiac Care Unit.’ Wouldn’t he be giving her the proper care? He told Karla to ask if Vivienne was receiving ‘everything possible given to someone having a heart attack.’

The doctor was nowhere to be found, so Karla asked the head nurse in the Cardiac Care Unit, and she responded, “Absolutely. Everything possible is being done for your mother.”

(Karla knows this was her second biggest mistake. The first 30 minutes of a heart attack are critical. If things don’t seem right,
immediately
ask for a another opinion.)

When Vivienne asked Karla why was she still having so much pain, Karla asked
again
to speak with Viv’s doctor. The Cardiac Care nurse said he had left the building, gave her his pager number, and sent Karla to a pay-phone.

When she finally reached him he said, “Miss DeVito, people experience pain for up to 48 hours after having a heart attack.” It was the first time anyone acknowledged Vivienne was having a heart-attack.

Karla told him she was firing him and hiring a new doctor.

Less than two and a half hours after Vivienne’s first chest pain, Dr. Oblath, my cardiologist’s colleague, walked in and looking at the situation yelled to the Cardiac Care nursing staff, “Why wasn’t this woman given Streptokinase?” It was then administered immediately, and Vivienne’s pain began to lessen.

The next morning the young resident who had been working in the E.R. when they had arrived came up to Karla and quietly said he would have given Viv Streptokinase if it was his call. Karla thought, ‘Protocol... Why didn’t you tell me this when I could have done something?’