I'm Not Dead... Yet! (38 page)
I had been hired to shoot a pilot for a lot of money that started the following week. I would work on the pilot for two straight weeks and then (on the schedule in my
Man-is-Stupid
head) after we finished shooting, I’d have open-heart surgery to repair my torn valve. Then back to work, asap. In the meantime, if anyone had learned how to hide symptoms, especially shortness of breath, it was I. Again, my best acting was always off-screen.
But what makes this worse (more stupid; outrageously ‘human’) is what I did next.
The Experiment
When we returned from skiing
in Park City and came back to Los Angeles, physically, I knew I was in trouble. But in
one of the most boneheaded moves I have ever made in my life,
I wasn’t going to do anything about it… yet. I had a plan. And if this bonehead plan were to work, I had to be smart with my stupidity.
By sheer coincidence, I had a scheduled appointment for my yearly cardiac checkup as soon as I got home. I had changed doctors when we moved back to LA. I was told this new doctor was the ‘best cardiologist west of the Rockies’ which also made him the busiest in Hollywood. (Like most doctors in the United States, he is paid
by the volume of patients he sees
. This is
not
the case at The Cleveland Clinic. More on them later.)
Those in the know called him the ‘cardiologist to the stars’ which in Hollywood meant not only bankable stars and minor luminaries, but also the star agents, studio moguls, etc., so his schedule was jammed. He had a great sense of humor and his entertaining repartee down cold. He should’ve been the actor and I should’ve been the cardiologist.
When he finally came into the examining room on the day of my check-up, to listen to my heart, I launched into a performance with a scenario that got his attention.
ROBBY
(With feeling:)
“If someone had a bovine valve in their heart and let’s say it ripped, but because it’s not stenosis—it’s leaking, not tightening—that person could continue to live with a torn valve for how long? Would you say… a month? Weeks?”
The cardiologist looked at me and began to scold (on cue).
Cardiologist To The Stars
(Barely paying attention:)
“I don’t know. I suppose as long as it’s not constricted there would be some time because it’s not a cardiac emergency, per se. But it is truly dangerous. (Suddenly faux compassion:) Hey, if you are
ever
in a situation like that, you’d better not try any funny stuff. You’d be playing Russian roulette. Understand, Robby?”
Again—my best work was off-screen. I nodded my head, said thanks, and
began to put on my shirt back on
(sound familiar?)—knowing he was so busy that he might forget that he didn’t give me a check-up or even listen to my heart. And you know what?
It worked
. I could go to work.
Control freak behavior comes in all varieties and flavors and one doesn’t have to be a director to behave like one. Why do we do this? (Why did I?) In my case it ranged from ignorance, to fear, to denial, to wanting to make a big payday by directing a pilot.
It was the first time in my career where I was making real money. When I was starring in films, young actors were poorly paid—before the ‘Brat Pack’ came along. The moment Karla got pregnant with Lyric we started a college fund rather than buy furniture. Same with Zephyr. So I wasn’t going to turn down that payday if deep inside of me I truly believed I could live through the pilot, then have the operation—and all would be fine.
This particular motive was driven by my ego: thinking I knew better than God/fate/whatever you believe in/ all of the above—or Stephen Hawking. If something happened to me during this next surgery, at least I had peace of mind knowing I had banked an extra financial cushion for my family. Who says a control freak can’t be well meaning? That was my one purpose in life: to take care of my family. We don’t live in The United States of Utopia. I never had job security. To me, it made sense. It shouldn’t have. But ever since I knew I had a serious heart problem as an adult, every choice I made was motivated by love—and the fact that I could drop dead at any second.
My understanding about how fragile life is and how
all of us
are living on borrowed time may seem like a lame excuse—but it wasn’t to me because I confronted death when I was 28 and death had become my shadow ever since. So my thought process wasn’t as screwed up as it sounds. Immature? Juvenile, yes. But I was passionate with a resilient spine (and body) that conveniently wore blinkers, which made all of these decisions so dangerous—even though I could perceive and present the
concept
as noble. The reality is ludicrous, inane (very selfish and indulgent) and irresponsible.
And that explanation makes me even more of a misguided imbecile because it’s also so hypocritical: if someone told me that was how they were going to deal with a similar situation, I’d take them hostage and personally strap them into an ambulance. But for me, playing under my rules, I had to be sure that my family
always
had a roof over their heads. My accountant Ed Lieberman, a great guy and one of my oldest friends who still handles our finances, always knew to never put our money in medium or high risk areas of the stock market. I worked too hard for my money. No gambling.
Ever. I’d gamble with my own body parts because I knew I’d win that gamble. My motto was: ‘If you’re going to bet, bet on yourself.’ There was only one problem with this bet: I still didn’t realize that being there for my wife and kids was more important than any roof over our heads.
I soon realized because of my condition
I couldn’t put up with the the usual crap that comes with shooting a pilot. This includes the studio sitting in the corner on every shot, whispering how the show wasn’t funny and that I might be the one to blame (in TV,
there always must be someone to blame
).
Because the script was not working, the powers that be decided to fire the lead and recast. I had begged them to hire another actor earlier in the process, but they said no. They couldn’t live without him, and now they wanted to fire him. While they were auditioning other actors in the bungalow next to the sound stage, they wanted me to keep rehearsing with this poor kid (in his early 20s). They wanted me to pretend all was well so we wouldn’t lose rehearsal time with the rest of the cast. This would fall into the realm of the ‘crap I couldn’t handle’ category, even if my heart was perfect. I refused and took the kid aside. I told him the truth.
I said, “Look, this really sucks but you are being fired. They want you to stick around so we don’t lose rehearsal time. And just for the record, your manager is in the office with them at this very moment, negotiating for another actor—
her client as well.
I’d think about firing her if I were you. And, if it were me, I’d walk right now. If you do, you have my respect and I’ll stick up for you. It’s bad enough to get fired. It’s worse when you’re being fired and manipulated.”
The actor needed to sit—immediately. I got him something to drink. I walked him out to his car and told him to not look back, and if anyone challenged this move, “I want you to tell them I’m the one who told you to leave. That way, you can’t get sued. I’ll take the hit—don’t worry. Go.”
As I was talking to him, I began to feel a horrible pain in my chest worsen with every word. Was it my heart, or was this project giving me these pains? Maybe one of my well-intentioned plans would finally fail me and I’d lose the gamble.
When I finished directing the pilot, I came clean to Karla and she called my cardiologist. I had a lot of loved ones very upset with me (rightfully so). I had done it before: ‘It just hurts a little. Why call 9-1-1? It’ll get better. I’ll be fine, you’ll see. I can
control
this.’ I now understand the people we love don’t deserve to be manipulated the way I manipulated my family, just to shoot a lousy (okay—even if it were great) TV pilot. It was grossly unfair to my wife and children. I know
everyone
pays a price in the long run. Trying to make money this way is much more expensive to the soul, let alone the heart.
My cow valve (bovine as opposed to porcine or mechanical) was supposed to last eight to twelve years. It was now 13 and a half years old. The thought of its demise never dominated our existence, but about nine years in, the 800 pound gorilla in the room had both Karla and me silently looking over our shoulders wondering exactly when and how
it
would happen: Would it be a slow progression? Would it be a dramatic 911 call straight into emergency open-heart surgery? Would it be like a horror movie and my chest would explode and my heart would get a close-up as it was beating inside my rib cage? (Cool…) Would I be one of the small percentages who, even in the most perfect situation, happens to die on the table?
(The house and the proverbial roof would be fine. What an ass!)
I had gone through yearly cardiac check-ups with stress echoes. A couple of times over the years I had to be wired with a Holter Monitor
hidden under my bulky sweatshirt to work, trying to catch the ‘on switch’ of tachycardia arrhythmia on tape (without scaring my children or my actors), and many other heart tests, including my least favorite—the Transesophogeal Echo (TEE).
More important than keeping that movie star smile, heart patients must take care of their teeth and gums because there is a direct link from bacteria leaked into the bloodstream from dental work to bacterial growth in the heart, especially on repaired valves. Back in the 80s and early 90s, the protocol for a heart patient with an artificial valve was every trip to the dentist meant going to my cardiologist first, having several shots of penicillin in the muscles near my hip, and then taking large doses of oral antibiotics after the dental procedure. Not fun for the ‘good guy-bacteria’ in your lower digestive track. (Karla had me taking acidophilus long before any mainstream media talked about needing it with antibiotic therapy. She’s always been ahead of the curve when it comes to health—and other very cool things that I can’t put in the book.)
Any time I was sick with a fever for too long they would do many blood tests; if my kids had strep throat I had to take antibiotics to make sure strep didn’t attack my valve.
Once I passed a kidney stone
in my parent’s bathroom. Because I didn’t want them to worry, I had to chew on a towel while I was in the long process of passing the stone. (It probably sounded like I was making love to Karla when I tried to keep my painful screams down a few notches and they came out as moans. But Karla wasn’t there. Lord knows what my parents thought I was doing in the bathroom. I looked like the old coach Jerry Tarkanian from the UNLV Running Rebels, always chewing on a towel during the game like a homicidal, rabies-infected psychopath. It’s a good look.) I passed the kidney stone and came out and watched more football with my father, but tears from the pain kept coming down my cheeks. I said my contact lenses were bugging me. (Don’t ask. Don’t tell. I am such a moron. Don’t be a moron!) I guess karma or whatever you believe in struck back—the kidney stone caused
a bladder infection, and they kept me in the hospital for 36 hours on an antibiotic IV to protect my valve and heart. (The man on call, my doctor du jour, a brilliant doctor who took wonderful care of me, is infectious disease specialist Jeffrey Galpin. Jeff is a sage; a profoundly intelligent doctor who is also a compassionate man. He is one of the finest men I have ever met.)
Back to the plan,
or the manifestation of Karla’s theory: ‘Man Is Stupid.’
I was at my cardiologists taking every out-patient test possible short of an angiogram to find out what exactly was going on with my heart.
An echocardiogram is a breeze, but a TEE (Transesophageal Echo) on the other hand, is an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Even Mel Gibson. The next thing I knew, I was given a drug called Versed. (I never took recreational drugs—remember, I’m soft. But if I was suddenly ‘Hollywood edgy,’ Versed would be the substance to land me in the tabloids. Wow—I had never been so happy to feel so lousy.)
I was told Versed would make me feel woozy, but more importantly, it would act as an amnesiac so I wouldn’t remember what happened next. Well, here is exactly what happened next: they sprayed a wickedly bitter topical anesthetic in my mouth and aimed it at the back of my throat and told me to swallow. Then they made me gargle with a disgusting pink liquid anesthetic for two minutes and told me to swallow. When my gag reflex was finally subdued, some ‘dude’ told me he was going to put an ultrasound camera, tethered to a thick black cord, “...down your throat, dude,” and they would take ultrasound pictures from inside my stomach of the back side of my heart, which is not visible using a regular echocardiogram. “Open wide, dude,” and I
swallowed
the echo transducer and at least a foot of endoscope.