Catching up

Dancing across the sky. 4:00 PM. Photo: JH.
Thursday, September 20, 2012. Beautiful early autumn day, yesterday in New York.

It was Wednesday. I went down to Michael’s to lunch with Tracey Jackson, the writer (traceyjacksononline.com for her daily blog). Traffic midtown was light, comparatively for a Wednesday. My driver, who was an African man from Ghana, asked me how New York looked when I was much younger.
I'm talking to Steve Millington who'd just taken my Canon so that he could get a shot of Bonnie Fuller and Gerry Byrne's table just around the corner from me and Tracey. Steve was saying, "shouldn't I take a picture of you two too?" Ok, I said, and Tracey was about to put herself in place when he took the shot, and so ... we did it again ...
Good question. Oddly, considering his question: it looks the same to me although so much has changed especially a long the avenues. On Third Avenue and 55th Street where PJ Clarke’s still stands, you can really see the shocking contrast because that little building is surrounded by skyscrapers on that side of the avenue. When PJ Clarke’s first opened there and up until the late 1950s, the EL ran up and down the middle of the Avenue. Today that’s unimaginable.
PJ Clarke’s in the late '50s.
Yesterday morning’s New York Times featured on the front page, a view looking at the entire Central Park and its west, north and east sides from the 85th floor of One57, the new tower a-building on Fifty-seventh Street near the corner of Seventh Avenue. The developers plan to sell an apartment for $90 million.

I got my first glimpse of it riding in the cab. It’s so much higher than all the buildings surrounding it. Someday perhaps that will look ordinary, but that now that look is radical, even extreme. That is how the way the city looks has changed for me.
Walking up Fifth Avenue I see there are now seats on the sidewalk in front of the Apple Cube to accommodate what are at times large crowds of people from the offices and from out-of-town, relaxing on the plaza, overlooking the Plaza across the avenue and the grand parade that goes on moment to moment at these stellar crossroads of midtown Manhattan.
Down at Michael’s: At Table Four in the corner, Calvin Klein was lunching with Grace Coddington of the flaming tresses and Vogue magazine. I don’t know Ms. Coddington but I saw the documentary on Anna Wintour a few years ago where she emerged as an especially magnetic personality. We know Mr. Klein is a special personality. Both notable characters in the drama of American 20th century fashion history, they probably were probably just enjoying catching up on their daily lives like the rest of us. Although ...

At Table One, Bonnie Fuller of Hollywoodlife.com was holding forth with Gerry Byrne, the vice-chairman of Penske Media. Rosanna Scotto was there in rosy pink; Jennifer Zucher, star of Bravo’s LoveBroker; Dee Hilfiger, wife of You-Know-Who and designer of handbags (Deesigns by Dee Ocleppo), Ethan Nelson, Exec producer of Good Afternoon America, Aliza Licht of Donna Karan International, Rachel Sterne, Chief Digital Officer for New York City, Adam Lublin of AEG Live, Sandi Mendelson (literary and media PR).
Standing from left to right: Carlos Lamadrid, Adam Lublin, Ethan Nelson, Gerry Byrne, Sandi Mendelson, Dee Hilfiger, and Jennifer Zucher.
Fuller does this lunch at least once a month, although with different guests. I don’t know what they talk about but you can bet it’s business, or at least a lot of business going on at that table. This isn’t happening because the editor wants to treat everyone to the delicious Michael’s menu, although that’s a good reason to go. This is happening because she wants to be seen and be seen doing business. Her guests get it and are glad for it. This is called building a brand and Bonnie Fuller knows how to do it.

Around the room: Andrew Stein and guest; Nikki Haskell and two guests; Robert Zimmerman with Today show producer Deb Huberman; Fern Mallis, Peter Price; PR guru Maury Rogoff with Deb Fine; Boaty Boatwright with Emily Mortimer of The Newsroom; Piers Morgan with Cindi Berger, and Bill Carter of the New York Times; Lucianne Goldberg; Henry Schleiff with Ed Bleier; Peter Asher; Hearst’s Deb Shriver with Liz Kaplow; Diane Clehane with Andrew Amill of Weightwatchers.com; Anthony Cennane of the WSJ; Danny Lufkin and Hugh Freund; Brian Terkelson; Mark Rosenthal Jon Patricof; with Jeff Stewart; Peter Asher; Melina Bellows and Marcus Dohle.

Channing Chase at Swifty's.
Sunset followed by a coolish very autumn evening. I went to Swifty’s to dinner with my friend Channing Chase who was in from Los Angeles for a few days seeing shows including “Red Dog Howls” at the New York Theatre Workshop now in previews but opening on October 14, with Kathleen Chalfant. An extremely intense drama, as Channing described it. Putting her hand to her chest and exhaling as if she’d been holding her breath in fear, she said that Chalfant’s performance was extraordinary, and when the curtain came down the audience jumped to its feet with an ovation.

Channing and I met as acting partners in the late 1960s, accompanying each other on auditions where a scene had to be performed for an agent. To no avail in this department, I wasn’t long in realizing it was not the path for me. Channing, however, has made a nice career for herself.

She moved to Los Angeles with my encouragement (I was already living there) in the early 80s. It was out there thirty years ago where, when staying with me while she worked on her career, that she dropped dead on Good Friday morning on the kitchen floor. That experience for those of us around her (she wasn’t aware of it at the time obviously) was very memorable for several reasons, the main one being that although she had literally died for several minutes, she was revived by hero paramedics, and by the follow (Easter) Sunday, she regained consciousness in Cedars-Sinai Hospital.

I wrote about the extraordinary incident at the time in my journals, and many years later published it on these pages. If you haven’t read it, there are a couple of   important lessons in it for everyone, one of which came serendipitously from Joan Collins, whom I did not know at the time but had seen in an interview by Barbara Walters.

I reminded Channing of this “30th anniversary of her death ...” at dinner, and although we didn’t “have a good laugh” over the matter, we both continue to be amazed by  life-and-death incident and its effect on our lives ever after.
Channing Chase at home in Los Angeles, September 2003. Photo: JH.
9.2.03: One early afternoon last week we went over to Los Feliz to visit an old friend Channing Chase, an actress who lives with her husband Dan Saxon in a beautiful hillside house built in the early 1930s in a style known out here known as Monterey Colonial.

Many years ago, in another incarnation,
when I had dreams (illusions really) of being an actor, Channing and I were partners in auditioning for agents. We never succeeded in getting me an agent and I eventually got the message (give it up) but Channing stuck with it and did very well.

In New York she built a very prosperous career for herself especially making television commercials (and lots of dough) playing a character she jokingly liked to refer to as “Mrs. Know,” hawking anything and everything you might buy in a supermarket.

By that time I’d moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career as a writer. In my enthusiasm for the place, I encouraged my friend to come out to Los Angeles to look for work. Eventually with enough prodding and goading, with more than a hundred commercials to supply residuals for income, Channing made the leap and moved into an extra bedroom in a house I shared with a couple of friends on Doheny Drive.

It was there on Good Friday morning in 1982 about ten o’clock that Channing dropped dead on the kitchen floor.

I was in my bedroom on the first floor of the house making my bed when I heard Channing come downstairs and go into the kitchen. A few moments later hearing what sounded like a glass jar fall onto floor of the kitchen, I made a smartass remark about my friend’s klutziness, loud enough for her to hear.

Since she always picked up on such remarks with repartee, I was surprised to hear no response. Then it occurred to me that perhaps she had returned to her room upstairs, and that one of the dogs had knocked the bottle out of kitchen wastebasket. So I went to have a look.

There on the narrow galley-kitchen floor, in front of the sink, lay Channing in a heap, as if she’d fallen knees first.

I thought it was some kind of joke. Don’t ask me why; but it was the only explanation my mind could come up with.

So I made a joke about it. But again no response. Her hands, I noticed, were splayed out, palms up; clearly not a “planned” fall.

Alarmed, confused, I spoke to her. No response. Now at her side, I could see the skin color around her nostrils and lips had turned a purplish blue. Was this what “turning blue” was? I lifted her arm. It was limp. I repeated her name louder and louder. Nothing.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to leave, leave the room, the house, to flee, to run away. Instead I called a housemate, Sara Romilly, who was working for a producer down on Sunset. Sensible, stable, she would know what to do.

She didn’t. “Call the paramedics and I’ll be right home,” she said.

I looked at the clock, the minutes ticking by. I dialed “operator.”

The operator came on the line. I said, now in a state of alarm, “A woman has just collapsed on my kitchen floor and I don’t know what to do.”

She asked for my address. Within seconds she connected me to paramedics.

A man’s voice came on. I repeated the phrase: A woman has just collapsed on my floor and I don’t know what to do!!

What was she doing? he asked.

Preparing some breakfast.

Did she aspirate on her food?

I don’t know.

Put your fingers in her mouth; see if you can feel anything.

I hate this stuff. I’m squeamish. I still wanted to run away. But I did as I was told. Nothing there, as far as I could tell.

Does she have a heartbeat?

I put my ear to her heart. I couldn’t tell; I couldn’t tell!

Does she have a pulse?

I put my fingertips near where I’d been taught the pulse was. I couldn’t tell.

Now I was scared. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I can’t tell."

You’re panicking; stop it, the voice at the other end of the line said.

Okay okay.

Do you know how to give CPR?

"No!"

DON’T PANIC! He stated hard and clear.

The CPR. Lay her out flat on the floor. Lift her head slightly by the back of her neck, letting her head rest backward, and put your mouth over her mouth and breathe in ...

Okay. Now, with both hands press down on her chest.

Okay. Now hold her head up again by the back of the neck, put your mouth on hers and breath in ...


Okay ... Now the chest ... Keep repeating those steps; you are giving her artificial respiration.

Okay ... We are on our way.

"Don’t leave me," I said to the man on the phone.

Within moments I could hear the sirens coming up
the hill. Sara Romilly arrived having dashed home. The sirens grew closer and closer.

Eight or ten firemen, arrived. Two trucks and a car. I got out of their way to let them into the tiny kitchen. Standing in the hallway I heard one say to another: “it’s a total arrest.”

“A total arrest;” I was too dumfounded to know what that meant.

Two of them picked the lifeless Channing up by arms and the feet, like a sack of potatoes, and moved her into the dining room where there was more space.

As the men opened their kits and cases, brought in their equipment, oxygen, masks, with what looked like an oversized pair of shears, they cut open her pullover, all the while firing questions at me.

Was she on drugs? No.

Drinking?
No.

What was she eating?
I don’t know. She ever do drugs? No.

You sure? I was sure.

There were so many around her, I stood in the doorway to stay out of their way, listening to their exchanges as they attempted to revive her.

Having failed with the oxygen, they took out what looked like two large rubberized paddles (called electronic paddles, I later learned) placing one on each side of her upper torso.

With these they were attempting to jolt her into a heartbeat. I could tell that she wasn’t responding. Wasn’t responding, wasn’t responding. But they kept at it.

I knew now that she had expired, was dead. I was thinking about things like out-of-body experiences that we hear so much about, wondering if she were indeed in that state, still in the room, floating above in the ether; and thinking that if she were: “Come back Channing,” I said under my breath, over and over, “come back Channing, come back Channing ...”

When suddenly, one of the firemen said aloud: “She’s coming back!”

The energy in the room was fiercely focused by these men who really are heroic members of our community, working totally as a unit with selfless certainty, with speed, with precision and efficiency, and with what I can only describe as care and sincerity, far more than I had experienced within myself before their arrival.

“She’s coming back, she’s coming back ...” another man repeated, and suddenly the mood in the room changed to a quiet exhilaration.

Within minutes, Channing was breathing again, although unconscious. Out of the house went two of them. In they returned with the stretcher. Now with an oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth, they removed her.

One of the men, dressed in an officer’s uniform and cap said to me, “you saved her life.”

I had no idea what he was talking about; I done nothing but panic and then follow some authority’s instructions.

“What was it happened to her?” I asked.

He said he didn’t know.

“Will she be all right?” I asked.

“Usually it’s one of three things: they don’t survive or if they do, they remain a vegetable or in a coma for the rest of their lives. She was gone for close to ten minutes; there’s usually damage to the brain because of lack of oxygen.”

All I could hear was the “don’t survive, coma or vegetable for the rest of her life ..."

Within minutes, the men were gone, along with the unconscious Channing who was taken to Cedars-Sinai.

Die, coma, vegetable.

“But this woman is a very determined person,” I said to the fireman.

"Couldn’t that make a difference.”

He wasn’t optimistic. “I’ve seen too many of these,” he said.

Two weeks before this incident,
my other housemate, a man named Kenyon Kramer and I had watched Barbara Walters interview Joan Collins on television. We’d really only tuned in because Kenyon had been working on a project that involved Collins. In the course of the interview, Collins told a story about one of her daughters who had been in a terrible car accident, had come close to death and ended up in the hospital in a coma.

Collins related that the doctors had told her and her husband at the time, Ron Kass, that the child would either die, or be a vegetable or remain in a coma for the rest of her life.

Unwilling to accept the doctors’ prognosis, Collins and Kass decided to stay by their daughter’s bedside and talk to her and stroke her until she came out of the coma.

No one around WAS hopeful except Collins and Kass
but they stuck with it. Within days, the girl emerged from her coma and, according to Collins in her interview with Barbara Walters, the girl had survived completely and is a functioning, healthy human being today.

Thinking of that, I asked the officer if we could visit Channing in the intensive care unit. He said we could, asking us to give them a couple of hours to get her checked in and set up.

When Kenyon returned from his office we went down to the hospital. Once she was set up in her cubicle, all wired and plugged in to the life support systems, Kenyon and I stood on either side of Channing, holding her hand, while I did most of the talking.

She and I had taken a class a few years before called Silva Mind Control which taught a process of meditative relaxation, and involved instructing oneself to relax by concentrating on one part of the body at a time – the top of the head, the forehead, eyes, eyelids, mouth, jaw, neck, shoulders, etc.

So with that in mind, I began the process on Channing, talking to her unconscious self, identifying myself, Kenyon identifying himself, and then quietly instructing her, exhorting her, to concentrate and relax each part of herself where I placed my palms.

Doctors and nurses came by, as we began this process. They were curious and not discouraging although quick to add that they had “seen many of these cases, and ... Die, coma, vegetable.

“But this is a very determined woman,”
I always interjected, hoping that would bring a light of optimism from the professionals. Not really.

About eight o’clock that night, one of the nurses came by and suggested that we go home and get some rest, adding that Channing needed to rest also (“even people in a coma need to rest”).

We both went home that night physically exhausted by the five or six hours we’d spent at Channing’s side in the CICU. The following morning, for the sake of efficiency we decided to take shifts by her bedside.

When I arrived at the CICU about nine, the nurse told me they’d had to anchor her down during the night.

Why?

Because she was thrashing and flailing, the nurse replied, adding, “that means she’s fighting,” and she gave a sly wink.

I knew it, I knew it. I went back to work at her side. Same thing.

Relaxation exercises. Channing, this is David, I’m by your side, this is my left hand on your forehead, relax your forehead; all very quietly and deliberately, consistently, persistently, over and over.

By late morning, her eyes were open, darting around unseeing, although she remained comatose. And she was moving, trying to move, more and more, struggling under her bondage. And as I implored her to relax, occasionally she, the body as it were, would stop the struggling, and quiet down. I knew we were getting somewhere.

About two o’clock, Kenyon showed up for his shift. After telling him about the progress we’d made, I left the hospital.

By that time, my own body was burning with the sensation of a million pinpricks covering me from head to toe, a sensation I’d never experienced before (or after). When I got back to the house, I put on my bathing suit and went into the pool, hoping to relieve myself of this odd tension. No such luck. Out of the pool, unrelieved, I lay on the lounge hoping to relax myself into sleep.

About an hour later the phone rang. It was Kenyon, his voice quaking, but with exuberance. He blurted it all out. While at Channing’s bedside, working his healing hands and voice, a nurse came in to change the bedclothes. Kenyon stayed to assist her to continue talking to Channing in her open-eyed yet comatose state.

“Channing,” he said to the nurse in keeping his monologue with the patient, “has beautiful green eyes ...”

And just then the body on the bed suddenly said in a loud, awkward, tongue-tied sound, said: “greeeee—nnn-eyesssss."

“Beautiful green eyes,” Kenyon repeated, astounded, the nurse astounded ...

Again, the voice, “Greee-nnn-eyessss.”

Within twenty-four hours, on Easter Sunday, Channing was removed from the CICU to a regular hospital room. I went to see her the following day. She was quiet but conscious. Her mind and memory were coming back slowly, reminding me of a computer bank turning on. She had no memory of the incident and for the first few days believed herself to be in Connecticut where I had a house that she often visited before I moved to California.

A neurologist told us that patients who have traumatic episodes often have no memory of the experience and even mentally remove themselves physically from the environment where it occurred. This turned out to be true for Channing.
DPC and Channing 21 years later in 2003.
Two weeks after entering Cedars, she checked out of the hospital. Her sister Lorna had flown in from the East and took Channing back to New Hampshire where their parents lived, for recuperation.

In August, almost four months later, Channing returned to Los Angeles. When I picked her up at LAX, she was her beaming self, looking very rested, obviously, and anxious to get on with her life.

Back in Los Angeles she underwent a thorough examination by the doctor who had taken her case that Friday at Cedars. Given a clean bill of health, he told her it was the first time in his career that he had ever written “Sudden Death Syndrome” on a live patient’s chart.

It seems that on the morning of her fatal collapse, Channing was suffering from a grippe, with diarrhea, as well as her monthly menstruation.

Because of those circumstances, when she came downstairs to make herself some breakfast, she had naturally eliminated all the minerals in her system. One of them, potassium, is needed to make the electrolytes that charge the heart. Without that potassium, her heart just stopped beating. Had she eaten just a banana, she would have provided herself the nourishment to keep that heartbeat. But she hadn’t, and had she not knocked over the glass bottle that fell to the floor with her, she would never have had another heartbeat again.

Determined as usual, after her full recovery (no detectable incidents to the brain — we could joke that that was what came from my being so full of hot air) she stayed in Los Angeles and resumed her work. A few years later (now my memory fails) she met and married Dan Saxon, a former advertising executive who manages talent and has an art gallery in Los Angeles.

Industrious and determined, Channing has an actor’s resume that covers pages with its credits on film, on television, on commercials (she’s appearing currently commercials for Paulix and Triple A; recently on Detrol), and plays (most recently in the Pacific Resident Theatre’s West Coast production of Edward Albee’s “A Delicate Balance.”)

She has no memory of the incident/episode of twenty-one years ago. I’ve recounted it to her dozens of times, and it continues to amaze her, although because she is by nature self-reliant and responsible in her life she does seem to be slightly embarrassed by the fact that something went totally awry. And as far as the out-of-body experience, we always hear so much about, she didn’t have one. She just came back to be with us.
 

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