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.