Sammy Davis Jr(13)

“How’s Dad?” I asked Shirley. “Is he getting better?”

“Not exactly, sweetie.” Shirley prepped me: It turned out Pop’s second radiation treatment did not work. He was not in remission at all. The doctors were starting him on chemotherapy through an IV and fighting some other infection that was ravaging his body. “And don’t be alarmed, they have a trachea tube down his throat. He can’t speak unless he holds his hand over the trach hole,” said Shirley.

How could this be? I thought to myself. What kind of quagmire was this? I remembered the fights I had with my father when he was first diagnosed with throat cancer. I wanted him to have surgery, cut out the tumor. The doctors said if they cut out the tumor he would lose his voice box. Pop refused to have the surgery. We had two options: surgery with a seven in ten chance to live, or radiation that gave him a three in ten chance to live. He would never, under any circumstance, have surgery and risk losing his singing voice. “It’s my decision,” he kept telling me. Then there we were, two radiations and chemo later, and Pop has a trachea tube down his throat—his voice snatched from him anyway.

My father quite simply and honestly was scared when he was first diagnosed with cancer. He was scared to die, of course, but more scared to lose his gift: the Sammy Davis, Jr. voice, his God-given talent. That would bare him naked in a way. His talent, his voice, had gotten him where he was: 12,600 square feet smack in the middle of Beverly Hills, a lifetime of performing, dedication to charities, and still performing to packed houses. Without his voice, what would he have? He would be a superhero without a cape.

All I thought about was making certain that he would not die. Pop had us, his family, his friends, his fans, we all loved him and refused to live without him. Sam was going to be born, and Pop was determined to be the best grandfather ever. He was going to make up for lost time. He was going to learn to change diapers. All of the “regular” stuff parents and grandparents do every day. In short, my father was going to be “normal.” Ha! What the heck was I thinking? Pop normal? Pop was anything but.

I truly believed the radiation would work. The doctor said he was getting better. Now he was worse. It was a race to the finish line—would Dad die first or would I have the baby first? Everyone thought giving birth to Sam was going to be the miracle cure. The pressure was incalculable. Sam was safe and sound in my tummy, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that was unfolding each and every day. Thank God for that.



My “Pop,” 1962



My father’s identity was so completely tied up with his ability to perform. As I watched him grow more and more ill at the end of his life, my mind often drifted to scenes like this of him solo in the spotlight, 1961.


As for me, I had no idea if Sam would be the miracle cure. I vacillated back and forth, swinging like a pendulum. On the one hand, I was begging my obstetrician, Dr. Karalla, to take Sam out early, so Dad would get that chance to hold his grandson. On the other hand, I was afraid for my baby to be born, for fear that Pop would die shortly thereafter. It was the best of times and the worst of times.

Shirley snapped me out of my hole of despair with a big bear hug. She tried to cheer me up by showing me the myriad flowers and cards from fans, family, and friends that encompassed the outer room of Pop’s private hospital suite.

Evidently, Denzel Washington had just left, having given my father a copy of his film, Glory. She mentioned that Bill Cosby, Eddie Murphy, Arsenio Hall, and a few other celebrities were planning to stop by to visit Pop in the next few days.

All I could think of was how much my father would hate having all those visitors. He liked to be seen in his glory, certainly not the way he was at the hospital.

A nurse came out of Pop’s inner room, announced that he was sleeping, but I could go sit by him if I cared to. I was terrified to go in, panic-stricken that this could be the beginning of the end for Pop. But I took a deep breath, hoping it would send a message to my brain to calm down, stood valiantly tall, and walked in.

I was greeted by an ominous collection of tubes that were attached to my father like living, breathing parasites. He had a trachea tube protruding from his throat, an IV in his arm, and machines everywhere. As I pulled up a chair next to my father’s bed, I noticed his face as he slept. It was hauntingly thin, but not quite as bad as I had expected. Unfortunately, the menacing odor from that tumor on his neck threatened to attack. During my pregnancy I was extremely sensitive to smell, and his tumor seemed to have a sinister odor all its own.

I picked up an old record a visitor had placed as a gift on a bed table next to him. It was one of the first singles Pop ever released, “The Way You Look Tonight.”