With Robert, I had everything that fuels dreams. I had an incredible home, we traveled the world, he waited on me hand and foot, and as outlandish as it sounds, he would have died for me with nary a harsh word. I know this to be true because I almost did kill him.
We were showering together, getting ready to go out to celebrate our anniversary. I was standing in front, facing Robert, who was standing in the back on the tub, and we were kidding around, playing with each other. I laughed and smacked him playfully on the chest. But I didn’t realize how close I was or how quickly I smacked him, and he was caught off guard. He stumbled, placed a foot slightly on the slope of the tub, but still slipped and fell backward.
His eyes shot up to mine. He reached out his arms in an attempt to catch his fall but succeeded only in ripping open his right forearm as it crashed onto little pottery bowls filled with seashells and stones from our trips up the coast that sat on the back of the tub. Both of us jumped out of the tub, naked, with water flying everywhere. Robert grabbed a hand towel, applied pressure to his forearm, and raised it above his head. Even so, blood was everywhere.
The guesthouse that we had was off in the backyard, and his friend had been living there for some time. They had been friends long before Robert and I met and even had some personal history together, but they were platonic by now. Robert stood there opposite me, holding his arm up with the towel, blood still dripping and the towel beginning to soak through, and he told me I needed to call her. I also needed to call 911.
But I froze. I was always someone who had loved biology and anatomy and physiology. I even spoke of Zakaria Erzinçlioğlu’s book Maggots, Murder and Men: Memories and Reflections of a Forensic Entomologist on The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. I could watch television or movies that showed operations or gory parts of nature. Yet, as Robert stood hurt in front of me, I lost it. Eventually, I called 911, but I managed only to blurt our address on repeat to the operator, who kept asking me questions and finally told me to get a grip.
An ambulance meant for us turned onto our street but was flagged down by a neighbor who all of a sudden had a massive emergency. The chances of which were incredible! The paramedics looked down the road to see Robert standing with his arm wrapped in a towel and not looking as dire as this unexpected, new patient, whom they took instead. So we waited for the next ambulance and sped to the nearest hospital. Once there, Robert refused the treatment. Though he needed immediate surgery, he didn’t trust the doctors at this hospital. He had severed seven tendons in his forearm and almost severed the median nerve. It was gruesome. The pottery bowls had exploded up into his arm, leaving it mangled, and he didn’t want just anyone sewing it up. He needed an expert.
In the meantime, I had called my agent, Chuck, and he showed up outside the hospital and drove us across town to UCLA, where Robert could get the expert help he needed. Chuck had become a brother and hero to me. This was proof. Robert needed to be operated on by the best surgeons in Los Angeles, and Chuck, though he had been hosting a dinner party at his house, dropped everything, told his guests to enjoy themselves, found the experts, and chauffeured us to the ER drop-off. We walked in and the nurse already knew who Robert was.
Chuck took me home and I picked up Robert a few hours later. He was operated on early the next morning. I felt guilty and gutted. How could I say I was sorry enough? I never expected anything like that would happen, and I was terrified for Robert. Remarkably, after many hours in the operating room, the surgeons were able to repair his arm, literally weaving and sewing his muscles and even his nerves back together. I thought the most remarkable thing was that he never held that moment against me.
That was love.