Tribute to My Favorite Mann
Anne Coscarelli, Ph.D.
What do you give a mann for the holidays who seems to have everything? What do you give a mann who delights in stories of how individuals overcome the obstacles of cancer and its treatments with the help of caring individuals? What do you give a mann who is bold enough to change the name of a Hollywood landmark, and soft enough to reach out and listen to someone else's suffering? What do you give a mann who tells us that he turned down millions of dollars rather than break a deal that he sealed with a handshake? What do you give a mann who built a 276 screen theater chain, produced feature films, wielded incredible power during his lifetime, and later used his resources to build a safe haven for women undergoing cancer therapy so that they would not have to experience this alone?
This was my dilemma this holiday season, as it had been for many years. On December 22, 2000, the first night of Hanukkah, I sat by Ted Mann's side, and placed a small pewter stone in his hand. It was a product of endless hours of thought and shopping. The stone was inscribed with the word "Gratitude." While his eyes could no longer read the words, and his bold voice was replaced with a whisper, he acknowledged the gift with the smile for which he was known. It was a smile of satisfaction and lovingness. He whispered, "Thank you, Anne. Thank you, Anne." Ted then asked, "How is the Center? Did you help today? How are your daughters? How is your dad?" I did not know that this would be the last time that I would answer these questions, a standard beginning to our many meetings and visits over the past decade.
Ted Mann died on January 15, 2001. Ted Mann's body finally gave out after many years of treatments following a lymphoma diagnosis and the final blow, a stroke weeks before.
Ted Mann's last years were not much different than those of many of the patients that we see each day. He endured medical treatments, side effects, changes in physical ability, loss of function, and loss of activities that he loved. He responded to these in the way that many people do, he fought against loss and met them with a fierce commitment that he would not give up. I witnessed this as I attended doctor visits with him to offer support and serve as a second set of ears.
Ted's family mobilized around him, offering love and care. He sought every opinion and medical treatment in an effort to restore as much function as possible. His family worked hard to keep his spirits up and surrounded him with a team of doctors and nurses that provided the best quality care and nurturance. After each set-back, side-effect, or complication, he bounced back with a tough exercise regimen to rebuild strength, and involvement in charitable and business activities to keep his mind active. He looked for ways to find happiness and joy in what was left. He found the love of his family, friends, children, and grandchildren. He was courageous, in the way that so many people who come through our doors are courageous. He endured the loss that he feared the most, independence.
Throughout Ted's horrific journey, he never forgot about others. He never failed to ask about my personal life, my mother's illness, my children and later my widowed father. He mentored and gave personal comfort and advice, even when he was suffering himself. He stayed involved in the lives of family members. He continued to actively participate in the Center's activities and wanted to hear regular reports about the Center. Ted had always been interested in how our Insights Into Cancer lecture went each month. He continued to want a report of how many attended. For a mann whose career was in theaters, a full house was a full house and he was enthusiastic when we were "sold out," even though we didn't charge admission. He continued to meet with Sarah Godfrey and me whenever his health made it possible to discuss budgets, future plans, and day-to-day operations. While Ted always treated us with tremendous respect, he often referred to us as "the girls," and protected us from the bureaucracy of UCLA. Sometimes he ordered us to his hospital room for meetings because he just couldn't get discharged on schedule. He made plans for the future and savored the letters he received from patients and the stories about the work that we did. But like many of our patients, Ted's world got smaller, and life became more basic.
When we first started the Center he was a healthy and robust mann who did not look nor act his age. We often had philosophical discussions about life, and he marveled at the strength of our patients in the face of obstacles that he saw as immense. He often asked me about dying and how people manage their fears. While telling me that he never wanted to go through the experiences of dependency, he also wondered what he might be like should serious illness overtake his health. He talked in terms of bravery and courage. What I know from many patients is that the act of bravery and courage is not in the moments of dying, but in the moments of living in the face of illness which often goes over many months and years. Ted did this. He lived fully with his illnesses. He fought for life, at the risk of enduring physical and emotional suffering. He accessed resources to the best of his ability. He lived as fully as possible even though his independence was quietly and slowly taken day by day. Ted had a phrase, "Rules are made for fools" and whatever rules his illness tried to impose, he defiantly broke them.
Many people do not realize that Ted was actively and fully involved in the Center on a daily basis. Ted participated in the initial meetings that ranged from structuring the budget to hiring the contractor and approving final furnishings. While he had his eyesight he reviewed monthly reports of numbers of patients, and discussed budget issues. He wanted to be informed of staff changes, salaries, and ideas about the future. He used to say, "First we will crawl," and always cautioned us to be wise in decisions and budgets. While he actively participated at many levels in the Center's developments, he knew when to let us take the reins and served as a cheerleader to programs and innovations. When something new came up, he would always say, "Let's take a meeting and put it under the microscope." Ted embraced growth in the Center as long as it was reasoned and wise, and Reflections is an example of something new that he supported wholeheartedly. Ted was committed to the mission of the Center and believed that these services should be present without cost to patients. When we asked for donations back to the Center, he cared about whether people appreciated the service even more than the actual amount. Although he was pleased with the large gifts, one of the most meaningful gifts to him was from an elementary school class that donated $30.00 that they raised in a bake sale. It came in memory of one of the kid's moms who had died and had been cared for by the Center.
Ted always told us that he did not want recognition for his generosity. He didn't do it for his own fame, however, he did find great satisfaction in knowing that his money, his time, and our dedication made a difference. He asked for qualitative information about our work, and could always be found smiling after hearing one of the many stories that have passed through our Center. He cared about patients, and while he left most of the public appearances to his wife, Rhonda, he remained an active participant.
I will miss that bold voice on the other end of the telephone or across his big desk. I will miss sitting quietly by his side reading numbers from reports to a mann that wasn't able to see them himself anymore. I will miss our many meetings, long talks, private counsel and the knowledge that someone so great in life cared about me as an individual.
I will remember him for the ways in which he touched my life. We at the Center will remember Ted, for the ways in which he touched so many lives and for the meaningful work that he has given us. All of us will think of him not for how illness changed him, but for the extraordinary mann that he was to us. He was a proud mann. He was honest, loyal and a mann of integrity. His word was his promise not to be broken. He liked to laugh and enjoyed other's laughter. He cared deeply about others and found joy in helping. He was a mann who wanted to ease the suffering of those with illness. He was a charitable mann. He was a mann of strength and sensitivity. He was our friend and mentor. He was a mann that enthusiastically met life's challenges.
On behalf of all of us, thank you, Ted Mann. We will carry you in our hearts and always remember your lessons.
Anne Coscarelli, Ph.D.
Wallis Annenberg Director’s Initiative in Psychosocial Oncology
© Anne Coscarelli, Ph.D. All rights reserved.
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