Rita Moreno: A Memoir (31 page)

I pleaded with the supervisor to let me wheel Lenny to the
room, but of course the answer was no. “That will create an insurance nightmare,” they explained. “It’s against hospital policy.”

My patience was worn out. We must have passed at least six people on the way upstairs, still lying on their gurneys and waiting for rooms.

It was nearly midnight when we finally arrived at the room after a ten-hour ordeal. Lenny woke up and began to writhe and twist again as an army of doctors and nurses came in to ask him questions. It was so painful to watch. They needed answers, and Lenny needed morphine.

“No morphine until the workup is done,” they said.

His agony was only intensified by the puncture of needles and the prods of the examination. It was not easy for the doctors, as their patient was doubled over with pain, yet they asked more questions and then even more. Eventually he was given an injection of morphine. Mercifully, he went still again.

But it wasn’t over. Now I had to decide whether, after this ordeal, we wanted to transfer him to a “better” hospital a few blocks away and possibly go through this den of pain again, or stay put. I opted for staying. I was now in that space between a rock and a hard place. I’ll never know whether it was the right decision.

I asked for a cot and got a wooden chair that tilted, with leather pads for your bottom and back that made me sweat all night. For the rest of the night, my husband had occasional respites from pain, thanks to small doses of morphine, but whenever the drug wore off, he would start moaning and whimpering.

Let me say that no matter how exhausted you are, you can’t sleep through that. So I’d get up and try to soothe him and wait for the shot. I couldn’t sleep; I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for hours. I felt my stomach trying to consume itself for lack of food.
About two o’clock in the morning, a nurse came to give him a shot. I asked her whether I could have a cup of tea, and she returned, bless her, with the tea and two packets of graham crackers. It was a banquet! I had to hug her and ask her name: Mali.

I looked up Mali’s schedule so that I could call on her for help during the night shifts. And that is how you do it: You slowly find the schedules of the nurses who are kind and helpful, and, if at all possible, you wait for their shifts to ask for small favors or assistance. Small favors sometimes consisted of requesting broth, because Lenny’s stomach was now rejecting certain foods on his dinner tray; or I asked for extra towels to place under Lenny’s knees, or to use to wipe up his vomit when he unexpectedly projectile-vomited all over the bed and I couldn’t find a nurse to help me. She was probably helping someone else get through the night.

I really struggled to find a way to understand the failings of this overcrowded and understaffed ward, and concluded that it wasn’t in Lenny’s best interests if I flew off the handle with temper tantrums over endless oversights. The only solution was to swallow my anger and distress, and instead make friends with those among the staff who were amenable. My primary objective was to see to it that my husband got what he needed, when he needed it, and to be his ally and advocate.

At the end of the first week—actually on that weekend—a cot was delivered to my room. Oh, glory! That I could feel the floor with my back was almost immaterial. I simply put some towels and folded sheets under the bed and voilà! I had a real bed.

Lenny was worsening. He was routinely wheeled from floor to floor for test after test. He was delivered to what I call the “machine rooms,” for MRIs, CAT scans, and X-rays, where he had to wait in the freezing-cold hallways as he slowly moved up the line to be seen. On one occasion, he returned shivering after waiting
for three hours. That did it! I squirreled around, found the laundry closet, and grabbed three blankets for future journeys to other floors.

On one occasion while Lenny was away, I spilled my cup of cocoa on the floor of his room. I soaked it up with Kleenex and discovered the floor was filthy, even after the daily mopping. It made me wonder what was in that water and on that mop. So I went to a neighborhood grocery and purchased two spray bottles of Lysol. With paper towels from the bathroom, I wiped that floor clean on hands and knees and cleaned the sooty windowsill, too.
Never mind
, I thought: It gave me something to do while I was waiting.

Each evening, for the sake of my mental equilibrium, I would go out for dinner and, depending on the severity of the day, have a glass or two of wine. I did this after I had accompanied Lenny for his evening meal, where he was eating less and less. I ate alone, but it remained my one daily treat.

One afternoon as Lenny was napping, I went to my hotel room and showered. It was pure bliss. I hadn’t been there in days. I packed several pairs of pajamas, then purchased a bag of fashion magazines and the
New York Times
for Lenny.

“Your hair smells like a bouquet of flowers,” he told me as I handed him the paper.

I was on top of the world that day.

*   *   *

After all of his torments, the test results revealed that Lenny’s intestine had twisted and he needed surgery immediately. The diagnosis had taken a week. I called Fernanda and she came right away. She wanted to be there when her father woke from surgery.

The procedure went very well, and Fernanda and I were hopeful that all of us would be home soon. It was so good to see our girl again. Is there anything more moving than to look into your child’s face as she tries to be brave? I wanted to smother her with kisses.

Fernanda was concerned about her dad, but she was also considerably worried about me. Lenny, of course, was in Papa heaven just to gaze on her sweet little face when he awoke from the anesthesia. Believing all would be well, Fernanda flew home to California. In three days we could celebrate our forty-sixth wedding anniversary with Lenny on the mend. What a gift, I thought.

Time passed and our days acquired a rhythm. I read the
New York Times
to Lenny most days. We occasionally watched sports on TV, talked politics with an old medical colleague, and discussed at length the sorry deterioration of this once great hospital. We concluded more than once that the day of the great hospitals was probably over. We entertained ourselves by playing games like hangman, and did crossword puzzles. And, twice daily, we would walk the halls of our floor, Lenny using his IV caddy as a cane on wheels while I steadied him, holding his elbow on the other side.

I believed with all my heart that I would be taking Lenny home soon. Then he began to fail, just like that. People of his age are so susceptible to just about anything floating through the air, especially after surgery. He had entered the hospital with a bit of pneumonia and became a perfect petri dish for bacteria in search of a home. It happened so quickly; other infections invaded his vulnerable system.

Lenny became very fragile. He was always a slender man, but he began to look frighteningly thin and frail. His stomach rejected
any nutrition. Broth and more broth, and Jell-O was a positive feast. I grew alarmed by his extreme weight loss. At my behest, the doctors agreed to add intravenous proteins and vitamins.

My darling Lenny became frightened, too. He was a doctor, after all, and he knew that he was on a downward descent. He wouldn’t voice his fear, so I didn’t voice mine, either, but it was the elephant in the room.

From the beginning of the ordeal, Lenny continually thanked me for being by his side. He went into paroxysms of appreciation and appeared surprised at how well I was looking after him, thanking me over and over.

This surprised, pleased, and dismayed me. How could I
not
care for him? Did he think I would slip away to go shopping?

The sicker he became, the more Lenny pointed out my compelling fealty. It stung. I understood it: In his mind, I was still his little girl, and little girls aren’t capable of taking on difficult challenges. But it stung.

Well before this ordeal, I had become emotionally distant from Lenny. I had reached the point of giving up on our relationship. We were such different people. I had planned to live out the rest of my life by his side, but not necessarily on his side. One thing was certain: I would never leave him. When Lenny got sick, for the first time in our forty-five years of married life I was actually allowed to look after my husband. He had no choice. The man who could accept nothing from me for nearly a half century of marriage—the man whose control regulated the direction of giving so that it was always from him to me—was finally allowing me to take care of him and love him back, to pour myself into him as he had done for me all those years of married life. Until now, he hadn’t understood that receiving is the yin to giving’s yang in a loving relationship.

And here’s what happened as a result: I fell deeply in love with my husband all over again. I literally bathed in the glow of what felt like “first love.”

I couldn’t do enough for him. I washed Lenny, brushed his hair, cut his nails, and groomed his beard with delight. I sang to him. I was deliriously happy. I felt young again. I covered him with kisses and professed my love to him over and over. It was one of the best times of my life under the shadow of something dark and fearsome.

*   *   *

As Lenny’s sickness progressed, he constantly fought for air. He couldn’t draw one decent deep breath. It was torture for me to see him gasp and choke and cough. I often dreamed that I couldn’t breathe, either, and would wake up gasping.

The time had come: I had to make the most dreadful phone call of my life. I called Fernanda in choked sobs and said, “I think your daddy is dying.”

I could sense her fighting hard to keep her composure. She told me that she was on her way and would bring our grandchildren and her husband, David. I suggested that she leave the two boys behind, since they were, after all, only ten and twelve, to spare them upset and pain. She took serious umbrage. Of course she was right.

When they arrived, Justin, our firstborn grandson, observed Lenny’s frail body. This was his “Gramps,” with whom he had such an extraordinary relationship. His birth had provided Lenny with the son he had always wanted. They’d play chess and have long talks about life. Lenny would help with his math homework. And, oh, those wicked, sweaty games of Ping-Pong! Lenny was his best buddy and defender. But now those adoring grandpa eyes
were unable to follow the boy who had come to visit one last time.

I tried to welcome my boys as though it were a fine reunion. I put Lenny’s glasses over his eyes and roused him to see his beloved “little men” one more time. “Look, sweetheart, look who’s here,” I said as I brought the boys to his bedside.

When Lenny saw them, he registered the dearest and tenderest smile I’d ever seen on his face.

Cameron, the little one, touched his grandpa’s hand, lingered a moment, and then in stunned, tearful silence retreated to a chair.

“Give Grandpa a spoonful of water,” I asked Justin, because Lenny’s throat was so dry from the oxygen tube.

As Justin did, Lenny gave him a sweet smile and took the water like a little bird.

Afterward, Justin put the spoon down on the bed, went to his chair, and let out an enormous silent scream as tears cascaded from his eyes—a boy who never cried. I wanted desperately to bear his pain for him.

And then David did something that will stay with me always: He lifted Justin onto his lap and surrounded him with his arms. I shall love him forever for that.

David and the boys returned to California. Fernanda stayed with me. She offered many times to stand guard and stay with her daddy. She and David had brought a blowup mattress, which happily replaced the sagging cot. But I needed to be there for Lenny, for me. By now I knew the hospital’s routine well, and should Lenny wake up, I knew that he would want to see my face.

Fernanda and I talked earnestly about Lenny’s suffering. I shared how her dad would spend hours of each day gasping for breath, struggling for air. I told her how, every time Lenny’s
throat became dry from the oxygen tube, he would ask for water to ease the discomfort. A drink was not possible for him, so water-soaked Q-tips became the best delivery system. Even that bit of water in his mouth would produce a coughing fit. How could we let this go on?

*   *   *

As infections multiplied, the doctors added additional antibiotics to his intravenous tubes. Lenny struggled to keep up, but couldn’t. No! No! This could not go on! Wasn’t that why Fernanda and I were there, to ease his way through this painful journey?

After much deliberation, we both agreed with profound trepidation to ask the hospice people about ending Lenny’s suffering. No, not end his life—this was never our desire—but rather to ease his burden by giving him constant sleep. Hospice care workers were the most sensitive and thoughtful people in the hospital. They understood perfectly what Fernanda and I wanted for Lenny.

“This is what I want you to do for me when it’s my time,” I told Fernanda.

After the hospice intervention, Lenny slept peacefully twenty-four hours a day—no coughing, no gasping, no choking. I conversed with him in case he could hear me, relating stories about his adored grandchildren, his devoted daughter, and all of the latest news. Lenny had always enjoyed hearing the news; perhaps it would make him feel like he was still in touch with the world.

His body began to get very cold. For years, before he was sick, there were times when I used to banish him to his side of the bed, because his body temperature was like an oven, but now the warmth was leaving. His youthful hands still had not a vein in sight, but they were cold and dry. Oh, so dry.

One evening, as I was speaking to Lenny, I paused to hear his uneven breathing. I held his hand in mine and dropped to my knees. Aloud, I said, “Oh, my God! What have I done? What have I done?”

I spoke to Fernanda the next day, and she reminded me that he was now only sleeping, not suffering.

I used to go to sleep with Lenny’s steady breathing, but there came a time when the unevenness would wake me up with a start. On the twenty-sixth day of our hospital stay, I was actually getting some deep sleep when the night nurse came in and woke me up. It took a number of shakes.