Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [153]
Determined to outdupe them, I planted a row of ficus trees in pots across the front of the patio so that we could at least sit outside to eat and get some sun. I told Frank the trees were for shade, but I think he must have guessed their real purpose. In his growing confusion and with an onslaught of people trying to invade our privacy, he became vigilant about security and insisted that he carry a handgun. He’d even take it out onto the dunes and shield it under a sunhat on the bench next to him. Afraid he might actually shoot someone, I had a member of the staff take the pin out so the gun wouldn’t fire.
Keeping my husband alive and his spirits up became my primary focus. So much so that when I broke my back, in January 1996, I decided not to tell Frank. It was six in the morning, and I’d been woken by the crying of our new puppy, a Weimaraner named Shadow. I got up and took her out onto the terrace, but on the way back, she ran between my legs and I tripped and fell down four steep steps, twisting as I crashed to the floor. The pain tore through me, and I could barely move. I cried out for help, but there was no one around. I could see the telephone ten feet away but didn’t know how to get to it. In the end, I crawled across the floor, reached the cord, and pulled the phone down on top of me.
The doctors told me that I’d broken my T12 thoracic vertebra along with just about every bone in my right foot. Having had a cast put on my leg up to my knee, I was fitted into a steel brace that held me rigid all day and that I could take off only to sleep at night. It was extremely painful, and I got through each day only with the help of pills. I had to wear that darn thing, which dug into my chest and back, for three months, but Frank never even suspected. I wore loose clothing or a housecoat so that the brace couldn’t be seen, and I didn’t let on. He was being looked after by nurses around the clock by then, and although he was fully aware, he slept a lot and he couldn’t focus as well as he used to, which was a blessing in disguise for me at that time. Even when I went to board meetings for the children’s center, I wore high-necked blouses so that no one would spot the brace. I didn’t want the news getting out in case Frank saw it on the television or read about it in the newspaper.
I wasn’t the only one struggling with the health problems of loved ones. One afternoon in 1996, Anne Douglas was at our house playing gin with me, Bee, and Quique Jourdan when she received a telephone call. Her face turned white; she didn’t speak, she just said, “I’ll be right there.” Kirk, who was eighty, had collapsed with a stroke. I offered to go with her or at least have someone drive her, but she refused and hurried to his side. Kirk was rushed to the hospital and they did the best they could for him, but the stroke was severe and—most cruelly for one so eloquent—it took away his ability to speak. Anne did such a great job taking care of him, though. To begin with, he was depressed and just lay in bed all day doing nothing. Then one day, Anne walked into his room and told him, “Kirk, you’re to stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not going to lie there for the rest of your life, so get off your ass. Your speech therapist will be here in an hour.” The treatment worked, and Kirk was soon much more understandable. Before we knew it he’d written a book about his experiences and was performing in a one-man show. That gorgeous young man whom I first met at the Racquet Club in Palm Springs all those years before never lost his drive or his incredible sparkle, largely because of the help and encouragement of his loving wife, who refused to let him go under. She was an inspiration.
In May 1997, Frank was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal, the highest award given to an American civilian. The 105th Congress passed an act to award him the medal “in recognition