Read Online Behind the Candelabra: My Life With Liberace by Scott Thorson, Alex Thorleifson - Free Book Online
Authors: Scott Thorson, Alex Thorleifson
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night, and the group that had booked the room wanted to see Liberace despite the day’s tragic events.
Lee was astonished. He couldn’t believe anyone would want to go to a show the very day the president had been shot. But Lee was a trooper. Shaking with weakness and fatigue, he dragged himself out of bed and laboriously made his way to his dressing room to prepare for his act. By then the performances depended on costumes as much as they did on piano playing. That night Lee attempted to make his normal lightning quick changes in a makeshift dressing room in the wings while the singer, Claire Alexander, entertained the audience. Lee didn’t remember how much of his act he managed to complete but, during one of his changes, he collapsed. His powerful will couldn’t drive his failing body back onstage.
“I can’t go back on,” he told Ray Arnett, his producer.
Ray, who’d been with Lee for years, knew something was terribly wrong. Lee lived for his act and his audiences; he’d never missed a performance before, let alone walked out in the middle of one. A simple case of flu wouldn’t be able to sideline him, Ray thought. But he had no idea just how sick his boss really was. It was a day for ill omens and unpredictable events; a day in which the stars seemed malevolently misaligned.
Lee had been felled by the most bizarre set of circumstances. During his act he worked under blazing lights which caused him to sweat profusely. Consequently, his costumes required frequent cleaning. Before arriving in Pittsburgh one of his costumes had been cleaned with tetrachloride. Sweating heavily on opening night, Lee absorbed the deadly chemical through his pores. Lee wore that costume for part of each performance on all the ensuing evenings, absorbing more and more of the lethal chemicals. By the time he collapsed, his kidneys had shut down completely.
The doctors at St. Francis Hospital diagnosed his ailment as uremic poisoning. Their prognosis sounded ominous. Waste fluids had already collected in Lee’s tissues. His feet and legs were already swollen. If the swelling couldn’t be halted before it reached his vital organs, Lee would literally drown in his own body fluids. Kidney dialysis, a relatively new treatment, was the only thing that could save him. Lee, expecting to die, began spending money from his hospital bed. “What the hell,” he told me later, “you can’t take it with you.”
He ordered jewelry from Tiffany’s, furs and many other things he hadn’t yet gotten around to buying. He also made arrangements to give away many of his possessions. It must have been weird in that hospital room, as he bought things and gave others away in frantic haste to squeeze the last ounce of pleasure from all the money he’d earned.
His worst fears were realized when the first dialysis treatment failed to improve his condition. The doctors told him he’d die if they couldn’t get his kidneys working again. But they didn’t dare administer another dialysis treatment for thirty-six hours. During those hours Lee’s life would be hanging by a thread. He was given the last rites.
Said Lee, “I knew prayer was the only thing that could help me, so I began to pray harder than I ever had in my life.”
Barely conscious, he directed his prayers toward St. Anthony, whom he described as the patron of the underdog. Sometime during the thirty-six hours between treatments, Lee woke to find a nun dressed all in white seated by his bed. The nun, whom he assumed to be one of the nursing sisters at the Catholic hospital, told Lee that he mustn’t waste his strength worrying because of his illness. She assured him that he was going to live.
Twelve hours after the second dialysis Lee’s kidneys began to function again. Afterwards the doctors told Lee they’d almost given up hope for his recovery. In their opinion he was a living, breathing example of a miracle. He owed his life, not to their skills, but to divine intervention. As
Lee was astonished. He couldn’t believe anyone would want to go to a show the very day the president had been shot. But Lee was a trooper. Shaking with weakness and fatigue, he dragged himself out of bed and laboriously made his way to his dressing room to prepare for his act. By then the performances depended on costumes as much as they did on piano playing. That night Lee attempted to make his normal lightning quick changes in a makeshift dressing room in the wings while the singer, Claire Alexander, entertained the audience. Lee didn’t remember how much of his act he managed to complete but, during one of his changes, he collapsed. His powerful will couldn’t drive his failing body back onstage.
“I can’t go back on,” he told Ray Arnett, his producer.
Ray, who’d been with Lee for years, knew something was terribly wrong. Lee lived for his act and his audiences; he’d never missed a performance before, let alone walked out in the middle of one. A simple case of flu wouldn’t be able to sideline him, Ray thought. But he had no idea just how sick his boss really was. It was a day for ill omens and unpredictable events; a day in which the stars seemed malevolently misaligned.
Lee had been felled by the most bizarre set of circumstances. During his act he worked under blazing lights which caused him to sweat profusely. Consequently, his costumes required frequent cleaning. Before arriving in Pittsburgh one of his costumes had been cleaned with tetrachloride. Sweating heavily on opening night, Lee absorbed the deadly chemical through his pores. Lee wore that costume for part of each performance on all the ensuing evenings, absorbing more and more of the lethal chemicals. By the time he collapsed, his kidneys had shut down completely.
The doctors at St. Francis Hospital diagnosed his ailment as uremic poisoning. Their prognosis sounded ominous. Waste fluids had already collected in Lee’s tissues. His feet and legs were already swollen. If the swelling couldn’t be halted before it reached his vital organs, Lee would literally drown in his own body fluids. Kidney dialysis, a relatively new treatment, was the only thing that could save him. Lee, expecting to die, began spending money from his hospital bed. “What the hell,” he told me later, “you can’t take it with you.”
He ordered jewelry from Tiffany’s, furs and many other things he hadn’t yet gotten around to buying. He also made arrangements to give away many of his possessions. It must have been weird in that hospital room, as he bought things and gave others away in frantic haste to squeeze the last ounce of pleasure from all the money he’d earned.
His worst fears were realized when the first dialysis treatment failed to improve his condition. The doctors told him he’d die if they couldn’t get his kidneys working again. But they didn’t dare administer another dialysis treatment for thirty-six hours. During those hours Lee’s life would be hanging by a thread. He was given the last rites.
Said Lee, “I knew prayer was the only thing that could help me, so I began to pray harder than I ever had in my life.”
Barely conscious, he directed his prayers toward St. Anthony, whom he described as the patron of the underdog. Sometime during the thirty-six hours between treatments, Lee woke to find a nun dressed all in white seated by his bed. The nun, whom he assumed to be one of the nursing sisters at the Catholic hospital, told Lee that he mustn’t waste his strength worrying because of his illness. She assured him that he was going to live.
Twelve hours after the second dialysis Lee’s kidneys began to function again. Afterwards the doctors told Lee they’d almost given up hope for his recovery. In their opinion he was a living, breathing example of a miracle. He owed his life, not to their skills, but to divine intervention. As
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