Then Again - Diane Keaton [64]
I don’t know what she was protecting. Romance maybe, but not love; not real day-to-day ordinary love with its ups and downs and compromises and demands and shortcomings. I have no idea what she thought of Warren and Al. Or of me with them. She adored Woody. He took a real interest in her creative endeavors, especially photography. As for Dad, when I asked him what he thought about men he would say, “Women love bums.” That’s all he could come up with.
Godfather III had a lackluster, middle-aged feel. Everyone was older but not happier. Francis Coppola preferred to direct from the Silver Bullet, his trailer. Things picked up the day Winona Ryder arrived—with her fiancé, Johnny Depp—to play Kay and Michael’s daughter. Winona was rushed into the makeup trailer while we were shooting. Her tiny head looked lost in the black wig the hairdresser tried to adjust. It was almost like reliving the blond wig with Dick Smith when I was twenty-three. That evening Francis was notified Winona had collapsed, which gave him the opportunity to put his daughter, Sofia, into the role of Mary Corleone. Francis told us he had written the role for Sofia in the first place. When word got to Paramount’s CEO Frank Mancuso and Sid Gannis, his Number Two, we were told they would “handle it.”
The next day, “Two” flew to Palermo. At dinner, Gannis confided to Al his concerns about the Sofia Problem. Paramount didn’t want her. He, Sid Gannis, was personally going to have a no-nonsense chat with Ellie, Francis’s wife. Ellie? What about Francis? Needless to say, Gannis left a few days later and Sofia played my daughter, Mary Corleone.
On our way back to the hotel, Al’s phone rang. Robin was on the line. It was Dad. He was acting confused. He couldn’t remember Randy’s name. He forgot his wallet and he wasn’t even concerned. It was so not Dad. When I called a few days later, Mom told me a biopsy had revealed a stage-four glioma the size of a grapefruit lodged in his frontal lobe. She put him on the phone and I asked how he was doing. “They’re going to put a brace on my head until they come across the growth. It’s swollen. I have a tumor on my mind, or rather, a tumor in my brain. One of them. They tell me I’ll be sitting in a class. I’ll be in a program. They say they’re going to radiate me. I don’t know, Di-annie, I don’t know. When I turned sixty-eight it all went to hell.”
In a magnanimous gesture, Francis insisted I catch the next plane to L.A. When the 747 landed, I drove to UCLA Medical Center, where I found Dad looking the same, except for the bandage covering the top of his shaved head and the plastic tube filled with fluid that was attached to his arm like a leash. It made me think of the bird feeders you buy at Builders Emporium. He was pulling his pants up, while the television set hanging from the ceiling played his favorite show, Major Dad. I asked him how he felt. “Oh, I’ve lived long enough. Sixty-eight years is plenty, Di-annie.”
Dad was given a treatment option: In conjunction with radiation, he could also become part of an experimental program led by a well-known UCLA doctor, who told us Dad was a ripe candidate at the right age. His cancer was fast-acting and very invasive, but he was healthy in every other respect. His doctor at UCLA felt he was a good choice for the new treatment. Robin called it the “immunvert” stimulation of the immune system or something like that. Dad decided to give the double whammy a try. Loaded with pills, Mom drove him home to get a few things before they checked in to the Royal Palace Motel in Westwood and he began radiation.
Dr. Copeland, Dad’s internist and old friend, had a different take. “It’s bad. The older the age, the more aggressive the tumor. The frontal lobe controls our ability to concentrate. The likelihood? No matter what therapy