As he rambled on, I couldn’t help but think that, were it not for Mom’s generous if ill-defined efforts, Randy would be on the street, abandoned, drunk, or even dead.
Still talking, he went on: “Recently, I’ve thought of suicide, but came to the conclusion that it’s inherently wrong. It’s better to hurt, because when you hurt you learn. I think I’m learning. I still believe a small, personal life can produce heroes.”
I agreed. Taking Dexter’s hand, I left Randy sitting inside his apartment drinking a beer, while watching Joseph Campbell and Bill Moyers discuss man and myth on PBS.
* * *
—
Mom called a few weeks later. “Diane, Randy came by in the van. Honest to goodness, I can’t tell you what I thought. He did come here, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know, Mom; you tell me.”
“I think he was here. Anyway, gosh, I hardly knew him. He’s older. He looked a lot different. It’s the age thing, the movement of time. I was so happy I went to bed in tears. I’d like to hear what he thought of me. He has the same laugh, and that same humor I love so much. But I have to tell you, I didn’t recognize him at first.”
Scattered and troubling conversations like this were beginning to become more and more frequent. She’d begun to leave open cans of Cyrus’s unfinished cat food inside the kitchen cabinet. She’d drop her clothes on the floor and forget to pick them up. A couple teapots had to be replaced because she’d turn the burner on and forget it.
When she called about a visit to Randy’s, I begrudgingly agreed to drive her. As he slowly opened the door, we were greeted by a pale phantom with a distended belly who didn’t invite us in.
“Here’s Mom, Randy.”
His response was “Yeah.”
Between the two of them, I didn’t know what to do. Somehow, I managed to convince Randy to let us enter.
Soon after, I found myself filling out one of his insurance forms. “What’s your Social Security number?” He didn’t know. “Okay, don’t worry about it. We’ll get it later.” Mom stood there, oblivious.
Later, as I held her hand walking down the stairs, she whispered, “He looks worse for the wear.”
Several weeks later, Dorrie called to describe an afternoon she’d spent with Mom. “Of course, the only way to get her out of the house so her housekeeper could clean was to promise a visit to Randy. It broke my heart, how up for it she was. All I had to say was ‘We’re going to see Randy.’ She burst into tears of joy, then promptly forgot. Once there, I noticed his hands shook, while she wandered around. He complained that his feet didn’t work. She gave him her shoes. When I dropped her off, she took my hand in hers and said, ‘Are you sure I live here, Dorrie? Are you sure I live here alone? Can’t somebody come live here with me?’ ” After that, Dorrie, Robin, and I decided to take over all of Mom’s affairs.
* * *
—
In February 2003, I was in the Hamptons with eight-year-old Dex and three-year-old Duke, taking a few days off from filming Something’s Gotta Give, when Randy called and left a message on my answering machine. “Diane, I gotta get my car fixed. I’m waiting for the Triple A guy. Then I got to go to the DMV and get my license. But I feel dizzy. I get confused. The confusion is getting worse. I don’t know….I jumble things. I can’t talk to people over the phone. I’m not eating a lot. I don’t have the fat legs like I had before. Anyway, why doesn’t this Triple A guy show up and get my car towed so I can get a battery?”
Dorrie drove down to his apartment, where he stood before her, looking like an apparition from a Grimm’s fairy tale. He showed her the fluid that was oozing out of his stomach. Apparently, he’d taken a needle and pushed it into his belly button, figuring it was the only way to get the stuff out. He was hobbling like an old man. His shirt was drenched. His mattress was soaked. He wasn’t making sense.
She told him to weigh himself. He came back and said he weighed eighty pounds. She told him it was impossible to weigh eighty pounds, and he should go back into the bathroom to try again.
When he came back, he said, “I weigh one eighty; that means without clothes I’d weigh one eighty-five.”
In a panic, she drove him to nearby Mission Hospital in Laguna Beach, where they waited for hours in the emergency room. After they admitted him, the doctors told Dorrie that Randy’s problem was not only the fluid that had built up as a result of his drinking, but also that the needle he’d pushed into his belly button to relieve the pain could have killed him.
With Robin in Atlanta and me still at work, Dorrie was left to bear the brunt of responsibility. I called Randy at Mission Hospital to hear how he was doing, and he did nothing but complain. “Before they threw me in the hospital, I went to Ralphs. I was leaking when the cashier said I had to leave. I was leaking all over the floor, Diane. They thought I was a drunk. Fuck them. I’m never going back there.”
When I called Dorrie about his condition, she said she highly doubted he was up for the battle. He would have to pass a battery of tests, quit drinking, and apply himself to a rigorous routine. If Randy wanted to live, he was going to have to fight hard. But fighting had never been his preferred method of dealing with difficult situations.
A couple of weeks later, Robin and Dorrie called. Randy’s lung had collapsed. The doctors at Mission felt our only chance was to try to get him evaluated at UCLA, where, if we were lucky, they might consider taking Randy as one of their patients. It was suggested that I personally get in touch; they felt it might be more effective.
But before I could do so, Dorrie called, sobbing, as Frida, my hairdresser, was blow-drying my hair. Randy had been diagnosed with end-stage cirrhosis of the liver. “Mom can’t ever know, Diane. We can’t ever tell her. It’s too sad. Too sad. It’s too sad.” When she checked in with Dr. Markson, Randy’s longtime psychiatrist, his response was “You didn’t know? Randy never had a chance.”
Feeling responsible, but also guilty, I called several surgeons at UCLA. After introducing myself as Randy Hall’s sister, I gave them a highly revised version of his life. I talked of his artistry, his sensitivity, even a little bit about his drinking issues, which our family knew we could get under control with help. Their response seemed accommodating. Dorrie, Robin, and I were hopeful.
After three weeks in Paris and a brief stay in the Hamptons to complete filming of Something’s Gotta Give, my on-location gypsy life was over. The movie was finished. Back in L.A., Dorrie and I were lucky enough to meet with a highly regarded surgeon at UCLA. “Randy is a very sick man,” he said. “The problem is whether he’ll be able to withstand the intense procedure required to receive a liver transplant.” The conversation ended with a warning that, certainly, Randy could never drink again—not ever. We were grateful for his time, and reassured him that no, no, of course Randy would never drink again. It was painfully clear that a transplant was the only way to save his life.