TV Radio Mirror (Jan - Jun 1963)

a malignant tumor. The section of the lung containing the tumor is being removed." 10:22 a.m. The word is flashed to the world. Cancer. 10:23 a.m.-12:25 p.m. The actual operation continues. The entire left side of the patient's chest is opened to the surgeon's scalpel for removal of the cancerous section of his lung. The lobe and the cancerous tumor are found to be adhering to the aorta, the large vessel of the heart. Carefully, oh, so slowly, the cancer is cut out. 12:30 p.m. An official announcement by Alvin J. Binkert, executive vicepresident of the Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center, after consultation with the attending physicians: "The upper lobe of the lung was successfully removed with the contained tumor." 12:47 p.m. An unofficial statement by a doctor. "It could have been worse. It could have been inoperable." Three hours after the operation, the patient opened his eyes, blinked for a second, was given heavy sedation to relieve his pain, and immediately fell back into sleep. The next day his physicians, his wife and his lawyer were with him when he was told that because of cancer a portion of his left lung had been removed. "Did they get it all out?" he asked one of his doctors. "Yes, we think we did," the physician replied. His lawyer inquired, "How do you feel?" The patient roared back. "I feel like hell!" Everyone smiled. That sounded like the old Arthur Godfrey. He was going to be all right. It wasn't quite the same old Arthur Godfrey who prepared to leave the hospital fifteen days later. He smiled when a photographer asked him to smile. His clothes were natty and colorful: a twotone, greenish-gray sports jacket and slacks outfit and a green-flowered Hawaiian shirt. But his face — as he sat, leaning on a black cane, in an easy chair in the hospital lobby — was haggard and drawn. And his powerful voice quavered and broke as he talked to the crowd of almost 100 reporters, photographers and television cameramen who surrounded him. "I don't know if you know this — that 'thing' — that damnable 'thing' — was not only in my lungs but was also wrapped around the aorta, which is the large blood vessel," he revealed. "The surgeon was within his rights to have said that he was sorry, sewed me up and let me go. But because of his confidence and courage I got a break. He got it out. "It was so trying that with one slip of the knife one way or the other, I wouldn't be here. I don't know why I got a break, but I'm grateful for it, and I'll do my damnedest to deserve it." He knew why he got his break, of course. "My doctor performed a miracle," he stated. A miracle made possible by messages of good wishes from two hundred thousand men, women and children, and by the prayers of millions. "I know why I got the break. I got it because so many people prayed for it." A letter to Dick Those were the words, the scenes, the feelings that Arthur Godfrey might have recalled as he sat there in the cockpit and thought about cancer and about life and about death. But when he spoke again, his words were directly about Dick Powell. "He's a good soldier," he said. "He's facing a very tough situation with great courage. I know." Then he bowed his head for a few seconds. Perhaps he was thinking of the contents of that letter he had written to Powell. The letter in which he might have written about June, and about Dick's and June's two children, 13-year-old Pamela and 12-year-old Ricky, and about the new granddaughter which his son Norman's wife (Dick's son from his marriage to Joan Blondell) had just brought into the world. The letter in which he might have repeated his words about how it feels to be a graduate of the Cancer Club. "I do everything better than I ever did before. I fly better, I ride better. And I am twenty times the performer I have ever been. It can be fun to live on borrowed time." The letter in which he might have echoed the message he delivered to people, through the reporters, that day he left the hospital after his operation. "The reason for fear is because you don't know. I figure this way : I had the finest surgeons, the best nurses, and thank God I live in this age." The letter in which he might have restated his feelings about death — and about life. "Don't let me give you the idea that I don't give a hang about death. I don't want any part of it either, but let's face it. Death is something nobody ever escapes. "But anyone who neglects to live in the full meaning of his life makes a mockery of it. I try to live life to its fullest. That's something most of us don't do until we've been on the brink of death. I have. I feel as if I'm living on borrowed time, and sometimes that makes me do silly things. I can look at a bouquet of flowers, for instance, and get all choked up. I become grateful to God for the privilege of being alive to enjoy it. If you look at a bird, a tree, the miracle of birth, how can you deny the existence of God? Everywhere you turn, you see this everlasting life. "Every year in winter, I look out at the bare woodlands, and then in spring I see it all bloom into the most beautiful mass of greenery ever conceived. Everlasting life? You're darn tootin'. What is will nurture what is to be." The letter in which he might have cited the hopeful statistics brought about by the magic of modern medicine: 170,000 cancer patients are saved each year; there are more than 1,500000 men, women and children in the United States who once heard the dreaded diagnosis, "cancer," but who after treatment have lived on to hear a doctor say, "Well, you've passed the five-year checkup. Guess we can both relax." Or perhaps, when Arthur Godfrey bowed his head for a few seconds there in the plane, he was praying for another miracle — this time for Dick Powell, even as a few years before millions of people had said a prayer for him. — James Hoffman "Arthur Godfrey Time" — heard on CBS Radio, M-F, from 9:10 to 10 a.m. est. "The Dick Powell Show" — seen on NBCTV, Tues., 9:30 to 10:30 p.m. est. ERNIE FORD (Continued from page 48) its move from Hollywood, as far as Ernie is concerned. And the move was none too soon, he feels. "It's very easy for your children to become impressed with what other people say you do, rather than becoming impressed with you as a father," he emphasized again. "And this is bad. It draws you further and further away from your family. Another bad thing is the attention that's T directed toward one member of the v family, excluding the other members." R He smiled wryly. "Then, too, the op posite can be just as bad. When your kids start getting attention for some thing that's none of their doing — when photographers are all over the house taking pictures of them — that's unhealthy, too. First thing you know, your boys are tearing out pages of magazines and carrying them to school. "Then what happens? The other kids resent it, of course. I mean, here's a little guy who's just as good as my kid, but his dad happens to pump gas in a filling station. That shouldn't make any difference — the boy should have as much respect for his dad as my son has for me. Or take the son of a realestate man. How does that boy feel toward my sons, when he sees that their dad is getting all kinds of publicity? His own dad may have just swung a five-million-dollar deal with a six-percent commission, hut does his picture get in the paper? No, sir! Kids notice these differences, and it can leave a lasting impression on them — a bad one. "But now things are different. The boys are in school when my show's on the air and they don't get to watch it. We don't have any more photographers out to take their pictures, even though I appreciate the value of publicity. I'm home every evening, and they can be with me and talk to me about anything that's on their minds." His voice grew warmer, and he was smiling. "And when the boys are showing the calf, or playing baseball, I can be there to watch. And if there's a school outing that includes the parents, I don't have to apologize and say, 'I've got to go to a rehearsal.' I think this is very important to them.