[ssba]
Dan, and the Permutations of Hope
By Steven Leigh Morris
Director Dan Bonnell and I were called into a second meeting concerning my play about the press, Red Ink, on Monday night at Sacred Fools Theatre, with the theater’s artistic board, Bryan Bellomo, Scott Leggett and Danielle Ozymandias, as well as the company member, Vanessa Stewart, who was championing the play for production at her theater.
To give some context, Vanessa and I had been called into an initial meeting a month prior. This was followed by a hastily called cold-reading for the company a couple of weeks later, followed by the meeting on Monday night with Dan.
Yet more context: Dan and I had been working on the play for years – refining it, shopping it around theaters. So it was quite a moment when we both learned that we’d found a champion in Vanessa who was as enthusiastic about the work as we were.
We’d been given a fair amount of false hope. In a similar cold-reading of the play at a different theater, the artistic director went into ecstasies about the play’s quality and relevance. That theater then brought in Dan for a more rehearsed public reading, after which one audience member went up to the artistic director and said, “You’ve got to produce this play!”
He didn’t.
So to say that we were both skeptical would be an understatement. Such are the permutations of hope.
Back at Sacred Fools, after I’d opined about the most recent changes I’d made to the play, Dan, whom the theater didn’t really know, went into high gear explaining his approach to the play, why he loved it, how he would approach its many layers. There was animation, humor and laughter in the room.
Dan cut his teeth in theaters such as New York’s Circle Rep, home to the late playwright Lanford Wilson. Dan explained how the theater leaned towards Wilson’s lyric realism, while Dan, as a director in that Circle, was an outlier, preferring the kind of larger social context and ribald theatricality evident in Red Ink. Dan was lucid, Dan was cogent, Dan was on fire. And then Dan paused.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not . . . Something’s going on. I’m not feeling well at all.”
Somebody offered him a cup of water, which he accepted. I commented that the theater was perhaps a bit warm. Dan sipped from the water before continuing with his explanation with striking calm:
“My right arm has gone completely numb. I think I’m having a stroke.”
Without missing a beat, somebody offered to call 911.
“Yes,” Dan replied. “I think this is serious.”
With his one working hand, Dan pulled out his cellphone and struggled to find the code to open it. “I’ve got to call my wife,” he said, but he couldn’t remember the code to open his phone. He understood that time was now of the essence, as he was slowly losing memory, losing control. His good hand was trembling. He muttered curses under his breath. A kind of jaw-dropped panic enveloped the room: Not an iota of hysteria, but a stoic, silent realization that something was going terribly, tragically wrong.
I offered to call his wife, Lea, on my phone if he could simply recite the number. Dan got through eight digits, but couldn’t come up with the last two – at which time he had opened his phone and dialed Lea’s number on speed-dial. She picked right up, a small, great mercy for both of them. I held the phone up to Dan’s ear, and he struggled to speak to her as his diction was growing slurred.
When I took back the phone, I was explaining to her what was unfolding when we could hear the sirens of the LAFD ambulance and a fire truck pulling into Lillian Way. They’d arrived within two minutes of the summons.
The medics understood immediately what was happening and slapped an oxygen mask onto Dan’s face, while running a battery of tests. He told them he’d had a heart attack four years prior, and that he was on blood thinners from that event. This was to be the medicine that would compound the damage being inflicted by the blood vessel that had burst in his brain. The blood simply wouldn’t clot, and kept leaking.
“A massive bleed,” as various nurses would later describe it.
As the medics packed Dan into the ambulance, he was beginning to suffer seizures. After they whisked him to Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital, the five of us stood around together in the theater, shell-shocked. We hugged. Bryan suggested we all “go away . . . I mean you’re welcome to stay here, but maybe we need to re-center.”
I said I thought I should go to the hospital, at least until Lea showed up. And that’s what I did.
Lea arrived with a friend. Dan was upstairs having tests run. The terror of the situation was obvious, countered by attempts at humor:
“When you see your husband, when he regains consciousness, can you tell him I’m not going to work with him if he keeps having strokes in the middle of important meetings. It sets such a bad tone.”
Lea had the good grace to laugh out loud. She is the embodiment of grace.
At 5 a.m., she said later, they started the procedure to drain some of the blood from Dan’s brain. By the time he was transferred to USC’s Keck Hospital, he was “unresponsive.” Even his breathing was dependent on a ventilator.
Lea said she was struck by the dire tone of the nurses, though she’s fully aware that they are trained not to give hope to the family, as protection from potential liability – an unfortunate policy given how the only source of sanity for families in such circumstances is hope.
Within 48 hours of the trauma, Dan was capable of breathing on his own. His daughter Katie, who had flown in from New York, now whispered into Dan’s ear that she loved him, and a tear formed in his eye. The next day, Lea said, a doctor had instructed Dan to wiggle his fingers. His thumb moved slightly. As the doctor walked away, two fingers were moving.
I later asked a nurse about this. She told me that until Dan does that repeatedly, they can’t affirm that he’s “responding.” But of course he is.
I visited on Wednesday, when Lea and Katie were both with Dan. Only two visitors are allowed at a time, so Katie and I were leaning over Dan on opposite sides of his bed. I told him to cut this shit out, that we have a play to do. “It’s time to get with the program,” I said.
Katie smiled and gently whispered, “You’re getting with the program, daddy. We’re so proud of you. You’re doing so well.”
I recalled from earlier conversations with Dan how proud he was of Katie, whom I met for the first time at his hospital bed. He’d regaled me with the stories of them looking for a college for her to attend, how she’d gotten into and now graduated from Columbia. How could any father not be proud to have reared such a daughter? – not just because of her accomplishments but because of the quality of her character. A chip off the old block.
Bryan later wrote me how, at that cursed meeting, he’d found Dan to be smart and decent. Yes, exactly.
That night made me realize what we’ve been fighting for, as a community. Our humanity. Sometimes blood vessels burst when we all least expect it. How we respond defines who we are.
Lea and Katie believe with unwavering conviction that Dan will recover. They are not stupid. They are not naïve. They know exactly what they’re up against. They see incremental, early signs of hope, and they go from there.
We are fighting for the best in all of us. We are fighting to do the work that’s most meaningful for us. We are praying. Some are chanting. We are fighting the odds. We are fighting for miracles.
Barbara
April 27, 2017 @ 11:04 pm
My prayers and all of my passion as an artist I offer you and Dan- We have been fighting like HELL. I wish you all the best.
Sarah
April 28, 2017 @ 12:15 am
Thanks so much Steven LM.
Breathe xxxswz
Susan Rubin
April 28, 2017 @ 12:25 am
Such a beautiful explanation Steven. All of us are saddened and probably a little scared. If this can happen to Dan so suddenly…. etc. I produced one of the earliest readings of Red Ink at Bootleg. Remember? Dan was everything you’ve described, and though Bootleg couldn’t produce any play then, the reading was great, and I was proud. I was also glad to have met Dan. I don’t claim to know him well, but all of my hope is with him and his family. Because the last several months have made me more aware of the fragility of everything I have always assumed were forever. Thank you and Jacqueline Wright for keeping us informed. In your next update, I would like to hear that Dan asked for some extra jello cubes. Or asked for anything. Please.
Jeannine Wisnosky Stehlin
April 28, 2017 @ 12:32 am
Steven, as usual, you pour your heart and soul and your yes- decency too, into everything that you write. Thank you for sharing these very intimate moments of humanity with us. Through tears and recognition, I send thoughts of hope, strength and recovery through the internet to the loving hearts of Dan and his family and friends. Humbly,
Jeannine
Annie Abbott
April 28, 2017 @ 1:32 am
Thank you for the reminder- documenting the split second, the hardly perceptable moment- when everything can change forever. We need to never forget, that it exists for all of us! Thank you, and sending loving thoughts and prayers to Dan, Lea and Katie Bonnell.
Isabel Storey
April 28, 2017 @ 2:51 am
Thank you, Steven. I am hoping as well – and thinking of Dan and his beautiful family with love.
Wendy Worthington
April 28, 2017 @ 3:56 am
Wow. What a powerful reminder of both fragility and hope. Am sending good thoughts and hoping to hear great news all round very soon.
L. Trey Wilson
April 28, 2017 @ 4:34 am
Thank you so much for sharing that. So glad that you were there to assist the way you did. I hope you know what a tremendous help you were in that moment for him. Thank you!
Bernadette
April 28, 2017 @ 4:44 am
Thank you for this, Steven. I am sending love and light to Dan and his loved ones.
Stephanie Shroyer
April 28, 2017 @ 4:58 am
Thank you so much for sharing this Steven…I’m holding Dan and his family in my thoughts and prayers and I’m clearing space on the calendar to attend the marvelous play Dan and your are collaborating on…it must happen!
Amanda Carlin
April 28, 2017 @ 6:10 am
Thank you, Steven L. Morris, for the gift of including me (us) in the micro/macro of those moments. Yes we’re all sending, and Lea is telling us that they’re receiving. I have been seeing the sights of my days (for the past two and a half-) as if Dan were taking the photos. That one. And ooh, that ! Quite exhilarating.
Phillip Curry
April 28, 2017 @ 7:02 am
I don’t know Dan, however many of my good friends do and regardless, he is a man in need of prayer, so he is in mine. Speedy recovery, Dan.
David Dean Bottrell
April 28, 2017 @ 2:04 pm
Thank you for posting this. Dan is an incredible guy. And (like a lot of people) I’m praying for a complete recovery. In the meantime, let’s all offer Lea and Katie our love and support.
Jay McAdams
April 28, 2017 @ 2:08 pm
thanks for this, Steven, and for being at Dan’s bedside. He is one of the good people, and Lea, and you. All of us in the theatre community are touched by this and are pulling for him while we are reminded of the fragility of life, and the bonding power of live theatre.
Ann Warren
April 28, 2017 @ 4:12 pm
Thank you so much for posting this. My daughter Lulu has been a student of Lea’s for several years and has also worked with Dan. We are all so sad that this has happened to such a wonderful family. But we are hopeful. As you remind us, hope and belief are our most powerful weapons, and we are sending all we have to Dan.
Chet Grissom
April 28, 2017 @ 6:39 pm
Thank you for this…it’s full of heart. All of us at the Road Theatre love Dan (he directed two plays there last season) and I am producing a piece that he is directing in our “Off Road” series. We go into tech next week. We are all worried about him and have just gotten scraps of information, but enough to know that he will have a long recovery and we need to press on…it’s what Dan would want. It’s what we all want. It’s what we do…press on.
June Stoddard
April 28, 2017 @ 8:11 pm
My heart is with you all. I know this stage too well. The only thing you can do is be in utter denial and hope. Sometimes miracles happen. Hoping for one.
Nancy Youngblut
April 28, 2017 @ 9:11 pm
Thanks for this. We will continue with this circle of hope. Beat the drums of Hope. Hope is what we as a community DO.
Michael C. Mahon
April 28, 2017 @ 11:37 pm
Thank you for sharing this Steven. Thoughts and Prayers to Dan, Lea and Katie.
Chris Grove
April 29, 2017 @ 12:31 am
Thanks Steven. I worked with Lee and Dan (too long ago.) It was a wonderful experience. I remember their magnificent smiles (and laughs.) Though I haven’t seen them in nearly 20 years, since this event, I’m thinking about them and their daughter all the time. I pray for the best result possible.
Dan Berkowitz
April 29, 2017 @ 3:01 am
I only know Dan by reputation — and a shared first name — but I wish him the best. And thank you for a beautifully written reminder of our humanity.
Sam Anderson
April 29, 2017 @ 3:11 am
Steven:
I can’t remember when I had a reaction like this. I’m sure all of us who know Dan have been trying to piece together what could have happened, how did he deal with it, how did the people around him deal with it and how did he get to where he is. You not only told us, you did so with compassion and heart and an honesty that so described him to me that I almost felt like I was there with you. A year ago, Dan came to the Road and directed two plays for us by the incomparable Julie Marie Myatt. I had the great and complicated pleasure of doing “John is a father” with him. Complicated not because of him — I had a severely broken leg and when we started, wasn’t sure I’d even be able to walk, much less do the play. His calm, easygoing, no-nonsense “we’ll take it all as it is” approach and his love and respect for the art simply gave this cast permission to live and breathe and to be dangerous. Your description of him dealing with this emergency is just that. I send him back all the positive energy he sent to me, and I can’t wait for him to come back stronger than ever.
Thank you, Steven.
Brenda Varda
April 30, 2017 @ 1:17 am
Steven, Thanks for this – in all the raw honesty and total compassion for a wonderful member of the theatre community.
All goodness to Dan and family.
Sofie Calderon
April 30, 2017 @ 4:32 am
Thank you, Steven. I needed this. Many of us did. Prayers to kind, fair, calm, wonderful Dan and his lovely family.
Liz Ross
April 30, 2017 @ 6:53 pm
Thank you, Steven. We’re all standing by to see how we can be of help to Dan, Lea, and Katie.
Risa
May 6, 2017 @ 4:14 pm
Very moved. Very hopeful. Thank you.
Anne Flournoy
June 13, 2017 @ 12:16 am
Thank you for this!
Mirirai
November 11, 2022 @ 10:24 am
Thank you writing this. Thank you for honoring Dan and his family and hope. Fighting for miracles inDEED.