It was going to be a wonderful Mother’s Day celebration on May 13, 1973. I, along with two of my friends, Mary Kay and Linda, who were also close friends of Doris and her Mother, Alma, wanted to do something for them on this special day . I was living with Doris at the time in her lovely Crescent Drive, Beverly Hills home. The girls and I decided to take Doris and Alma out to dinner at the Beverly Hills Magic Pan restaurant, a favorite of theirs. Alma had driven to Doris’s home and the three of us met Mary Kay and Linda at the restaurant. We had a grand time — good food and great conversation.
After a delicious dinner, I drove Alma and Doris back to Doris’s home. As per usual, Doris went to her bedroom to let her group of dogs outside onto her spacious patio back yard. I walked to the kitchen on the opposite side of her home to let my four out the back side door. Within seconds I heard Alma screaming that Doris was bleeding and her finger was coming off.
My God, what had happened, I wondered? I dashed through the dining room and living room to Doris’s bedroom. I found her at her sink running water on her bleeding left hand. There was blood everywhere—on her clothes, all over the sink and on some furniture. Her ring finger hung by a thread and she was in such pain that nothing in her medicine cabinet would help.
What happened?” I asked. In a sobbing whisper she said as she opened the sliding screen door to let the seven dogs outdoors, they all dashed to the open door. Two of them must have bumped each other and started to tangle. In an attempt to separate them and shoo them outside, one must have bitten her. Even though she was in horrific pain, she held no malice toward her “kids” and loved them all the more.
I knew we had to get her to a doctor as soon as possible. She wrapped her hand in a large towel and we jumped into her Lincoln and sped off to Mount Sinai the closest hospital to her home. It was about 9 pm. They did not have an emergency room and we sat in a dimly lit waiting room. I called her regular physician and he told me not to let anyone touch her until he could contact a hand surgeon. While we sat in the waiting room, she had her hand in a large bowl with antiseptic solution. She looked so pitiful, shaking and crying. I offered her a Valium and she took it, but that didn’t help much. We waited and waited for her doctor to call back.
It was Mother’s Day night, so most people were out with their families enjoying a wonderful day. Out of eight hand surgeons in the Los Angeles area, her doctor finally located one who would take the case. It was getting late and she was in such pain. I felt so sorry for her, so helpless.
Finally, Dr Nicholudius was contacted in Palos Verdes, about an hour away, with family. He agreed to come to the aid of the needy patient. Doris insisted on not dropping names so for all the doc knew, he was going to see an unnamed patient in severe pain. It took over an hour for him to arrive at the hospital and he took over like a pro and began to perform the needed surgery to repair the damage. By the time he was through, Doris had twenty stitches. He sent her home to be confined to bed and to keep her left arm elevated.
This was hardly a perfect ending to a wonde
rful Mother’s Day celebration. It was a horrific “night to remember.” The pain lasted for weeks. She was the perfect patient and I was at her beck and call and happy to be of help for whatever she needed. It was a very special time for both of us.
Photo taken several weeks after incident shows her wrapped left arm.
By Mary Anne Barothy, author of Day at a Time: An Indiana Girl’s Sentimental Journey to Doris Day’s Hollywood and Beyond from Hawthorne.