In February 1956, I took Timmy into New York to see Dr. Hoen. All seemed well.
On February 21, after we decided to separate, Paul wrote a very loving letter to me.
Teddy Boo,
It does seem strange doesn’t it, after all these years! I’m so glad that there was so little publicity and no quarreling or recrimination. Little Teddy Boo, is, as always, a thoroughbred.
I think of the old days, really the young days, very often.
Love, Paul
A day later, he wrote this to Timmy.
Feb. 22, 1956
Darling Timmy,
You are my treasure.
I was very glad to get your letter.
I hope to see you soon.
Love Daddy
In March, I received another letter from Paul.
March 18, 1956
Dearest Teddy,
Your letter was most welcome. I hope to see you and Timmy in the U.S. in May.
All love to you both,
Paul
Sadly, Paul was unable to keep that promise, so when summer came, I accepted Bill’s offer for us to spend any weekend we could at his home in New Canaan, because he was planning to be at his island with his sons in the summer. While there, I bought a large screened tent, and placed it out on the lawn overlooking the river in front of Bill’s house. That way Timmy, his nurse Louella, and I could spend time outside, for it was very hot in Connecticut and there were lots of bugs flying around. Sometimes he’d sleep out there with our beloved puppy, Clover, who would always go along with us in the ambulance up the Merritt Parkway on our way back and forth from University Hospital. Spending the summer at Bill’s house with his puppy dog and different friends from school coming to lunch and play with him was just what Timmy needed. By September, he was back in school.
Paul’s letter to Timmy dated December 8, 1956, from Geneva showed how much he seemed to miss us and how he wished we could all be together at Christmas.
Darling Timmy,
I wish we could be together this Christmas. I wonder what Santa Claus will bring you. I remember our Christmas together in Santa Monica and how handsome you looked and how well you sang during the Christmas song and the march to the Christmas tree. Happy Days!
With all love to you and your dear Mother,
Father
Upon receiving this, I felt Paul was for the moment longing for the simple days of Santa Monica and the beach he loved.
In July of 1957, we returned to New York and were seen by Dr. Hoen and Dr. Wright, the very loving woman doctor who had created the serum made from the tumor that they had taken from Timmy.
Later, Dr. Wright asked to see me alone. She came to my room, sat down, and said, “Teddy, I’m leaving soon for Africa and want you to know if for any reason an order for serum is given, the platelet count must register over one hundred (one-hundred thousand platelets per liter of blood) or it must not be given. All the doctors know this.” I thanked her so much and wished her a happy trip.
In the meantime, Timmy seemed to be doing better, and back we went to Bill’s home in Connecticut with his puppy and Louella, his nurse, for the rest of the summer. Then, sometime in August, Timmy began having nausea and headaches. Dr. Hoen suggested I bring him to the University Hospital.
On the way back to New York in the ambulance that early morning of August 15, 1957, with little Clover curled up beside him, Timmy looked up at me, smiled, and said, “Mom, have you a pencil? If so, please write this down.”
And he proceeded very slowly to say these words, as if he were reading them.
God protects me through the night
God will help me win each fight
I know that God is ever near
I know in God, I cannot fear
God will show me day by day
If I follow in His way
“Timmy, where did you get this?”
“I just made it up, Mom. It’s my prayer.”
“It’s so beautiful.”
I wrote it down, handed it to him, and he folded it up carefully and put it in his pocket. Months later, Arden Clar, the composer and father of Timmy’s friends from Daycroft, came by to pick up his children from Bill’s house. Sitting down at the piano with Timmy by his side, he put this little prayer to music. It was published in 1959 under the title “Timmy’s Prayer,” with the credit line “Words by: Timothy Getty. Music by: Arden Clar.”
Arriving at University Hospital, Timmy saw Dr. Hoen, and though nothing seemed to be wrong, he asked us to stay. He wanted to run tests. I slept in the room next to Timmy’s. To keep cool during those hot New York summer days, I’d run down the street and bring back ice cream every afternoon, which we shared with his nurses, Louella and Scarlett.
During this summer, Ware and his family were up at the Vineyard; Bill was in Maine, Mom and my sisters out on the Coast sent messages of love . . . but from Paul, no word.
On Thanksgiving and through Christmas of 1957, Timmy’s headaches and nausea returned, so I stayed very close to him and prayed. Though we didn’t know it at the time, we were in the hospital when it was announced that “J. PAUL GETTY HAS BECOME AMERICA’S FIRST BILLIONAIRE.”
By New Year’s 1958, hope filled my heart when Timmy overcame these attacks. In February he started rehabilitation, and in April, he asked Louella to turn the shades in his room down as the light was too bright. I remember Louella and I looking at each other shocked, but so happy.
Dr. Hoen decided Timmy was making such progress that we could start making arrangements to go back to California. We had a calendar on the wall of Timmy’s hospital room, and with each passing day we were getting closer to going home. Sometime in July I made our plane reservations, and wrote on the wall, California or Bust!
Then Dr. Hoen suggested that, before we leave, Timmy have plastic surgery to smooth out the bump on his forehead caused by all of his operations.
“Absolutely no, Doctor,” I said. “Wait a year. Please give Timmy a chance to get his strength back, just let us go home.”
Paul, who was in Europe when questioned by Hoen, firmly said, “No,” but finally agreed, giving the order that “nothing but plastic surgery be done.” I agreed with Paul, and reluctantly gave my consent. The operation was scheduled for Thursday, August 14, 1958.
About the first week in August we were sent to the Rusk Institute, where Timmy was reevaluated. It looked good. While there, Timmy met the famous baseball player Roy Campanella, who was also a patient at the Rusk Institute, due to an automobile accident that left him paralyzed.
Mr. Campanella recounted the meeting this way in his memoir, It’s Good to Be Alive:
I was sitting outside on 34th Street one day when a nurse came over and said, “Mr. Campanella, will you be here for a while?” I said I would and she came back with a boy who looked to be about eleven or twelve years old. He was a fine-looking youngster, but he had a cut from the top of his head right down between his eyes. He was wearing dark sunglasses. He was very friendly and spoke very intelligently and I liked him right away. He was a real little gentleman. He was very much interested in baseball, and we talked quite a bit about it. I was so impressed by him I had a baseball up in my room autographed by all the Dodgers that I wanted him to have. He was very happy about that, so I had the nurse wheel me to the elevator and we went to my room.
The baseball was on the dresser and the nurse took the ball and gave it to the boy. He held the ball in his hands and told me he would say a little prayer for me that night before going to bed. I told him I would do the same.
“I’m sorry I can’t put my name on it, too,” I told him as he was about to leave. “I can’t hold a pen in my hand yet.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Campanella,” he said. “I can’t see.”
It was like someone hit me over the head with a baseball bat. It never had entered my head that he couldn’t see. I didn’t even know who he was. He told me his name was Timmy, but that didn’t ring any bell. He was just a nice kid. It was not until later that I learned his name was Timothy Getty, the son of the oil and railroad tycoon, Jean Paul Getty, who had been called the richest man in the world.
Timmy was released from the Rusk Institute a week before the scheduled surgery, so back we drove by ambulance along the Merritt Parkway with his puppy, nurses, and luggage to Bill’s home on the Silvermine River to wait for the day of Timmy’s plastic surgery and freedom. We had a fun time that week out at Bill’s. Timmy’s school friends came to see him, Ware and his family, too. Paul called from Europe, regarding the plastic surgery, and was just as furious with the doctors as I was, for to us there was no urgency.
We should have just left on a plane. However, Dr. Hoen had insisted, “You should do this before you leave for Santa Monica.” So Paul and I finally agreed for Timmy to have the operation, but absolutely they were to do nothing more.
On Wednesday, August 13, we left the countryside and drove back into New York. That morning I got up very early, walked over to Timmy’s bed, knelt down, and said, “Timmy, dear, Mommy has made many mistakes, and if ever I’ve made one that’s hurt you, please tell me. I only know I’m trying to do what’s right for you, and I get afraid my judgment isn’t too good and I might hurt you. I’d die if I did.”
He leaned up, kissed me, and said, “You’re the best mommy in the whole wide world—you couldn’t do wrong—and if you did, I’d forgive you even before you did it.”
I gave him a kiss and a hug, then said, “Thanks, Tim.”
The next few days, he seemed so well. Everyone came in to see him. Bill brought him a pair of moccasins from Maine. Ware brought him a boat carved out of wood that someone had made. Then on Thursday morning, I kissed him, and they took him down to the OR.