When Surgeons Removed Wayne’s Lung September 1964 — Dean Martin Caught Him Collapsing at 6,200 Feet

September 27th, Mil Novvicanto Ceanto Yaquatro, Good Samaritan Hospital. The wheelchair rolled into the press room. John Wayne sat there 23 lb lighter, face gray, breathing like he’d run a marathon. 10 days earlier, surgeons had cracked his chest open and removed his entire left lung. Four ribs gone. The doctor said 3 months minimum before he could walk without [music] oxygen.

 The studio executives whispered he’d never work again. His insurance company cancelled his policy. Wayne looked at the cameras and said two words, lung cancer. Then he made a promise that would save thousands of lives. But first, he had to survive the next 8 weeks. September 27th, Good Samaritan Hospital, Burbank.

 September 16th, 10:47 a.m. John Wayne stands in the parking lot. A Winston burns between his fingers. [music] The cigarette tastes wrong. Metallic off. He’s been chain smoking since 6 this morning, waiting for Dr. Jones to finish the X-rays. 36 years of six packs a day. Now his lungs are trying to kill him back.

 The studio called twice already. Paramount wants to know if he can start in harm’s way by November. Otto Premier is holding the schedule. The insurance company needs an answer. The contracts need signatures. Wayne told his secretary to tell them he’s got a cold. A bad cold. The lie tastes [music] worse than the cigarette. He stubs the Winston out with his boot heel. lights another.

 His hands shake slightly as he brings the lighter up. He pretends not to notice, pretends he’s just cold. It’s 78° in Burbank. He’s not cold. Inside the consultation room, Dr. Vern Mason spreads four X-rays across the light box. The tumor in Wayne’s left lung looks like a fist, a white, [music] angry fist punching through healthy tissue. Mason doesn’t say cancer yet.

 He says mass. He says concerning. He says [music] we need to operate immediately. Wayne asks how long the surgery takes. Five, maybe 6 hours. How long before I can work? Mason looks at him like he’s insane. Mr. Wayne, we’re removing your entire left lung. You’ll be lucky to walk across a room without oxygen.

 Wayne stands up. 6’4, even sick, even scared. He fills the room. How long? 3 months minimum. Probably six. You’re 62 years old. Your body needs time, too. How long before I can work? Mason takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes. He’s dealt with stubborn men before. Cowboys, stuntmen, war heroes. But Wayne is different.

Wayne is all of those things at once. If everything goes perfectly, 8 weeks. But that’s if you follow every instruction. Do the breathing exercises. Don’t push it. Don’t try to be John Wayne. 8 weeks. Got it. Mr. Wayne, I don’t think you understand. I understand. 8 weeks. The surgery is scheduled for September 17th.

That night, Wayne sits in his study at home. Pateller is asleep upstairs. He pours himself a scotch, doesn’t drink it, just holds the glass. On his desk is a photo from the searchers. 1956, 8 years ago. He looks strong in that photo. Invincible. The kind of man who could survive anything. He doesn’t feel invincible now. He drinks the scotch.

Pours another. September 17th, 1964. surgery. They crack Wayne’s chest at 7:34 a.m. Dr. Mason works with Dr. John Jones. Jones did Humphrey Bogart’s esophagetomy 7 years ago. Bogart died anyway. 57 years old, dead from cancer. They don’t mention this to Wayne, but Mason thinks about it the entire surgery.

 The tumor has invaded deeper than the X-rays showed. It’s wrapped around blood vessels, touching the bronchial wall. Aggressive, hungry. They take the entire left lung, both lobes. They remove four ribs to access the mass. They find suspicious tissue near the diaphragm. Take that, too. The surgery runs 7 hours. Mason’s hands cramp twice. He doesn’t stop.

 Can’t stop. This is John Wayne. If Wayne dies on his table, the whole world will know. When Wayne wakes up in recovery, there’s a tube in his chest draining fluid, a morphine drip in his arm. Parel is holding his hand. Her face is [music] pale. She hasn’t slept. His first words, “Did they get it all?” The nurse says the doctor will be in soon.

 Did they get it all? Pelar squeezes his hand. They think so. Wayne closes his eyes. He can feel the empty space inside his chest. Like someone hollowed him out with a spoon, like he’s half a man now. Every breath is work now. Every breath is a choice. The morphine pulls him under. He dreams about horses.

 Wide open spaces running. When he wakes up again, it’s dark outside. Mason is standing at the foot of his bed. We got it all, Mason says. Clean margins. No sign of spread. Wayne doesn’t cry. Doesn’t smile. Just nods. How long before I can work? Mason almost laughs. Almost. Mr. Wayne, you just woke up from a 7-hour surgery.

 How long? We’ll talk about it in a few days. I need to know now. Mason sits down in the chair next to the bed. Why? Because I need something to aim at. Give me a target and I’ll hit it. Mason considers this. 8 weeks minimum. If you do everything I tell you, if you don’t smoke, if you let your body heal. Done. Mr. Wayne, I said done.

 September 27th, 10 days post up. Peeler finds him in the hospital bathroom at 6:00 in the morning. He’s trying to shave. His hands are shaking. He’s nicked himself twice. Blood runs down his jaw, drips into the sink. The white porcelain is stre with red. He’s wearing the hospital gown backwards, ties in front.

 He can’t reach behind himself anymore. The scar tissue pulls. The missing ribs make his chest feel wrong, unbalanced. Duke, what are you doing? Shaving. His voice is raw from the breathing tube. Rough as sandpaper. Press conference at 10:00. You’re not doing a press conference. You just had major surgery. I am already called the studio. You can barely stand.

Then get me a chair. Polar doesn’t move. She’s been married to him for 9 years. Knows when to push. Knows when to step back. This is a step back moment. Why are you doing this? Wayne rinses the razor. Looks at himself in the mirror. He looks old, gray, thin. Because if I hide, they’ll think I’m dying.

 And if they think I’m dying, the studio won’t hire me. And if the studio won’t hire me, I am dying. He goes back to shaving. At 10:15 a.m., John Wayne sits in a wheelchair in the hospital’s conference room. 18 reporters are crammed in. Flash bulbs pop. Cameras click. The room smells like cigarette smoke and cheap cologne.

 He’s wearing a button-down shirt Pelar brought from home. It hangs loose. He’s lost 23 lb. The fabric pulls around his shoulders. A reporter from the Los Angeles Times asks if the rumors are true. Wayne doesn’t make them wait. Yeah, lung [music] cancer. They took the whole left lung out. Four ribs. Some other tissue. We got it all.

 He pauses, takes [music] a breath. You can see it costs him. His chest rises unevenly. The right side working, the left side empty. I’m going to beat this. Someone asks if he’ll retire. Wayne’s jaw tightens. Hell no. Another reporter, Mr. Wayne. Most people [music] keep this kind of thing private.

 Most people are afraid of the word cancer like it’s catching. Wayne leans forward slightly, winces, continues. It’s not. It’s a disease. You can fight it or you can hide from it. I’m not hiding. If some other guy out there has this and sees me talking about it, maybe he goes to the doctor instead of pretending nothing’s wrong. Maybe that saves his life.

 That’s worth more than my privacy. The room goes quiet. A young reporter in the back. When do you start shooting again? Wayne grins. It looks like it hurts. Pinger’s holding the schedule. I’ll be on set in 8 weeks. The reporters laugh. They think he’s joking. Wayne isn’t joking. October 1964. Rehab.

 The physical therapist’s name is Karen Moss. She’s 26 years old, fresh out of UCLA. Doesn’t give a damn that Wayne is a movie star. Breathe in through the spyometer. Hold it. Hold it. Wayne’s face goes purple. His hand grips the chair arm. knuckles white. The veins in his neck stand out like cables. He exhales immediately starts coughing. Deep wet coughs that sound like something tearing, like fabric ripping.

He tastes blood. Karen hands him the oxygen mask. You’re pushing too hard. I need to build capacity. You need to not die in my rehab room. 10 more minutes, then we’re done. Wayne takes the oxygen, breathes. The cool, clean air fills his remaining lung. It helps, but not enough.

 By the end of October, Wayne can walk 50 yards without oxygen. By early November, he’s doing stairs, five flights, then 10. The doctors are shocked. The therapists are shocked. Polar is terrified. He’s going to collapse and die out of pure stubbornness. You’re going to kill yourself, she tells him one night. I’m already dying, he says.

 Might as well die doing something. On November 19th, Wayne shows up to the in harm’s way set in Hawaii. Otto Premer takes one look at him and goes pale. Wayne is gaunt, moving carefully, breathing through his mouth. He looks 20 years older than he did 3 months ago. Duke, you should be in a hospital. I’m here to work.

 You can barely walk, so give me scenes where I’m sitting down. Preangerer does. Wayne spends most of the film behind desks, in cars, in close-ups that hide how shallow his breathing is. Between takes, he sits in his trailer with an oxygen tank. The crew pretends not to notice, pretends not to hear the hiss of the valve, the ragged breathing.

 One afternoon, Kirk Douglas watches Wayne film a scene. Wayne has to cross the room and deliver eight lines. Just cross the room. Eight lines. Wayne makes it through the first take, then immediately sits down, reaches for oxygen. They do it again and again. Five takes total. Wayne refuses to quit until Premier says it’s perfect.

After the fifth take, Douglas walks over. Duke, you okay? Wayne nods. Can’t speak yet, just nods. Douglas tells a reporter years later, I’ve never seen anything like it. The man had one lung. He could barely breathe. And he refused to give up. That’s not acting. That’s not even bravery. That’s something else.

That’s deciding you’re not done yet. June 1965, Durango, Mexico. The altitude in Durango is 6,200 ft. Wayne is on location for the sons of Katie Elder. His doctors told him not to go. The altitude could kill him. The thin air, the stress on his remaining lung. He went anyway. It’s 4:30 p.m. on a Tuesday. The sun is brutal.

 The temperature is 104°. Wayne is supposed to ride his horse through a canyon and dismount for a scene with Dean Martin. First take. Wayne rides in. Dismounts. Takes three steps. His face goes gray. He grabs the saddle to steady himself. Cut. Director Henry Hathaway jogs over. Duke, you okay? Wayne waves him off. Fine.

 Just need a second. We can use a stunt double for the ride. No, Duke. It’s just a dismount. I said no. They do the scene again. Same result. Wayne gets off the horse, walks three steps, staggers. His vision tunnels. He can’t get enough air. Third take. This time, Wayne makes it five steps before his knees buckle.

 Dean Martin catches him, holds him upright. Jesus, Duke, sit down. Wayne shakes his head. One more. Martin looks at Haway. Haway looks at the crew. Nobody knows what to do. Nobody wants to be the one who tells John Wayne to quit. Fourth take. Wayne rides in, dismounts, walks six steps, delivers his line, stays on his feet. Cut. Got it.

 Wayne immediately sits on the ground right there in the dirt, breathing hard. Each breath sounds like a saw cutting wood. Martin brings him water and the oxygen tank from Wayne’s trailer. Wayne waves the oxygen away, takes the water, drinks. His hands are shaking again. Martin crouches next to him.

 Why are you doing this? Wayne looks at him. Because if I don’t, I’m done. And I’m not done yet. They sit there for 5 minutes in the dirt, in the heat. Wayne breathing. Martin waiting. Finally, Wayne stands up, brushes the dust off his jeans. Let’s go again. They don’t go again. Hathaway already has the take, but Wayne doesn’t know that.

 He’s ready to do it until it’s perfect. That night, in his hotel room, Wayne coughs up blood. Not a lot, just a little. He rinses his mouth, doesn’t tell anyone. 1966 to 1968. The work for the next three years, Wayne works constantly. Cast a giant shadow in 1966, the War Wagon in 1967, The Green Berets in 1968, all while functioning on half his lung capacity.

 Stuntmen notice he doesn’t run in scenes anymore. Directors notice he takes longer breaks. co-stars notice he sometimes disappears between setups, comes back smelling like medical oxygen, but he doesn’t stop. On the set of The Green Beretss, a young actor asks Wayne why he keeps working so hard. Wayne is 61 years old now.

 4 years since the surgery, he’s smoking again. Not six packs, but enough. A pack a day, maybe two, he considers the question. They’re sitting in director’s chairs between takes. Vietnam set, fake jungle, real heat. I love this work, he says finally. I hate age because it’s taking this away from me. Every year I get slower, weaker, can’t do the stunts I used to.

Can’t ride as long. Can’t work 14-hour days anymore. He pauses, breathes, but I can still work. So I do. The day I can’t work is the day I die. The young actor doesn’t know what to say to that. Wayne stands up. Let’s go. We’re burning daylight. 1969. True grit. In June 1969, Wayne wins the Academy Award for best actor. True Grit. Rooster Cogburn.

 The role he was born to play. He’s 62 years old, 5 years postsurgery. His acceptance speech is short. If I’d known what I know now, I’d have put that eye patch on 40 years ago. The audience laughs. Wayne grins, holds the Oscar up. He doesn’t mention that he filmed True Grit while dealing with recurring pneumonia.

 He doesn’t mention that every scene in the Colorado cold felt like drowning. He doesn’t mention that his doctors told him filming at altitude with one lung was borderline suicidal. He just holds the Oscar, says thank you. Walks off stage. Backstage, a reporter asks if this feels like vindication. Wayne thinks about it.

 This feels like getting to do what I love for as long as I can. [music] That’s all the vindication I need. 1976, The Shootest. 7 years later, Wayne makes his final film, The Shootest, about an aging gunfighter dying of cancer. Wayne is 71 now. The cancer has come back. This time in his stomach. He knows this is the end.

 On set, he’s slow but precise. He knows every mark, every line. Director Don Seagull says Wayne never missed a cue, never asked for extra takes, never complained. In the script, there’s a scene where Wayne’s character is told he has two months to live. The doctor, played by James Stewart, [music] says, “I’m sorry.

” The line written for Wayne’s character, “It’s all right.” Wayne changes it on the day, says instead, “Don’t be. I’ve had a hell of a life.” When they finish the scene, Stuart walks over. The two men stand there for a moment. Two old pros who’ve been doing this for 50 years. Stuart says, “You okay?” Wayne nods. Yeah, just thinking about what? About how lucky I got.

 Most men don’t get to go out doing what they love. The Shudest wraps in November 1976. Wayne lives three more years. He dies on June 11th, 1979. 72 years old. His last words to his family. Of course, I know who you are. You’re my girl. I love you. He dies at 5:35 p.m. The sun is still up. Epilogue: What it meant. In the weeks after Wayne’s cancer announcement in 1964, hospitals across America reported a significant increase in lung cancer screenings.

 Men who’d been ignoring symptoms for months suddenly went to doctors. Early stage cancers were caught. Lives were saved. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Dr. Vern Mason, Wayne’s surgeon, said in a 1980 interview, “John’s decision to go public was one of the bravest things I ever witnessed.” In 1964, “Cancer was something you whispered about.

 People hid it, denied it, died quietly.” John stood up and said, “I have cancer. I’m going to fight it. Watch me.” That changed the conversation. Wayne never talked about the screenings, never claimed credit. When reporters asked about his courage, he’d shrug it off. “I just didn’t want to lie,” he said once. “Lying takes more energy than the truth, and I needed all my energy for work.

” 10 days after they removed his lung, Wayne held a press conference in a wheelchair. 8 weeks later, he was on set in Hawaii. 5 years later, he won an Oscar. 12 years later, he made his final film. He worked until he couldn’t, and when he couldn’t, he died. That wasn’t cancer winning. That was John Wayne deciding when the fight was over.

 And it wasn’t over until he said it was.