“Hello!” I say, though there is nothing but silence on the other end. “Hello?” I repeat, but still no one says a thing.
Finally, a man in a deep, gruff voice comes on the line and asks me if I am Ron Kovic.
“Yes,” I say, “this is Ron Kovic.”
“Well, we’re calling today to find out when your funeral is. We’d really like to know when it’s going to be so we can all attend.”
I immediately wonder if it’s someone from the LAPD Red Squad or one of the undercover cops who threw me out of my wheelchair during a protest in front of the Reelect Nixon campaign headquarters in 1972. Determined not to let him frighten me, I respond in a calm voice, “Thanks so much for calling me today, I’ll definitely let you know when my funeral is!” Suddenly there’s a loud click on the other end of the phone. My heart is still pounding in my chest when one of the aides finally comes by to take the phone away.
I realize at this moment how cruel these people can be, how even a marine combat veteran paralyzed from his midchest down, strapped to a gurney trying to heal a bedsore, is not exempt from their dirty tricks. Regardless, I am proud that I maintained my composure and that he was the one to hang up the phone. Not me.
I know now that I’m a target and that they can come in at any time, walk up to my bed when I’m sleeping, and kill me. How easy it would be for them to enter an open ward at any hour of the day or night and shoot me. I imagine them paying off a nurse or an aide who despises me for my political views to give me the wrong medication. Or perhaps they will get to one of the troubled vets from the psych ward and send him in to harm me.
I can hardly sleep and decide not to tell the others about the call—afraid that it might frighten them and keep them from continuing on with the struggle. I do my best to put on a brave face, but the thoughts of what could happen at times threaten to overwhelm me.
I eventually tell Bobby Mays about the phone call and he begins sleeping by my bedside every night, determined to keep others from harming me. I tell him it isn’t necessary but he insists.
This is the third time my life has been threatened for protesting and speaking out. The first was at a high school on Long Island in the spring of 1971 when my very first speech against the war was interrupted by a bomb threat. The second time was after my arrest in front of the Reelect Nixon headquarters in ’72 when the arresting officer threatened to throw me off the roof of the LA County jail.
When I first came to the hospital I thought, well, at least I’ll get some rest from all the protests and madness going on outside this place—the demonstrations, police informants hounding our every move, our phones being tapped, etc.—but after that call, I realize this is not to be the case at all.
The following morning I push my gurney to a quiet garden in back of the ward. I feel helpless and afraid. After everything I went through in the war and the hospital, I have begun to wonder whether there is a God or not. Yet, out of sheer desperation, I start to pray. I ask God for His help and guidance, telling Him that I feel weak and frightened and don’t know if I can go on. I remember pushing my face into my pillow on my gurney so no one would see me crying. I ask God to forgive the person who threatened my life and to give me the strength to continue organizing despite the threats. With tears streaming down my face I reach out, telling God how frightened I am. “I’m so scared, God. I’m sick with fear. I feel so vulnerable, so overwhelmed by all of this. Please help me, God. Please protect me.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes as a feeling of peace like I have never felt before sweeps over me and I leave the garden no longer afraid, knowing now that what I am doing is the right thing. I can’t explain it, but something deep within tells me that what I am doing is right, that I am in the right place at the right time and God wants me to continue my work and He will protect me . . . that I mustn’t be afraid . . . I will continue to organize the Patients’/Workers’ Rights Committee and hold our meetings every Thursday night, and if anyone wants to harass me and threaten my life, they can, but from now on I will not be afraid.
Whether there is a God or not, the talk today in the garden seems to have at least temporarily calmed my fears and given me a sense of strength and well being that up until this point I have lacked.
The Threats and Intimidation Continue
Several weeks later that newfound faith and strength is tested when during one of our Thursday-night gatherings, Marty Stetson tells me there’s a rumor going around the hospital that someone is planning to poison me.
“They’re going to put poison in your water pitcher when you’re away from your bed,” Marty whispers.
I take this threat seriously though try my best not to let Marty know how frightened I feel, brushing it off and telling him to “consider the threat a compliment.” And that it is clearly an indication of how effective we are becoming as an organization.
The following week someone rips the windshield wipers off my car in the SCI parking lot and a day later they flatten all my tires. I am careful not to drink from my water pitcher by my bedside anymore, choosing instead to purchase cans of Coke from the hallway vending machine. This is crazy, I remember thinking. Here I am in a hospital trying to heal, to get better, and people want to kill me!
* * *
By Memorial Day weekend 1973, my bedsore has finally healed and I am able to get into my chair again. I feel very weak and out of shape but still thrilled to be sitting up in my chair. I was trapped on the gurney for nearly ninety-three days, but finally I am free and it’s a wonderful feeling.
As time passes, I grow more and more confident, and by early June I’m finally ready to leave the hospital.
At my last meeting with the Patients’/Workers’ Rights Committee before I leave, I wish the others well, telling them how proud I am of them and all they have accomplished. I promise to stay in touch and let them know that if for any reason they need me, they can call at any time.
My plan is to head back to my hometown of Massapequa, Long Island, for some much-needed rest. The following night Joe Hayward and another member of the committee drive me to the airport to make sure I get on the plane safely.
Massapequa
Burned out and exhausted, I spend most of the summer at my parents’ house in Massapequa, resting up in my room and taking notes in a black-and-white composition notebook for what I hope will be my first book.
In July I receive a collect call from Nick telling me that the Patients’/Workers’ Rights Committee has fallen apart, and that many of those involved are being punished. “Woody and Jafu are on the psychiatric ward. Willy and Danny are confined to their beds, being punished for complaining, and the rest of the guys are afraid to say anything! You gotta come back and help us. They really came down hard after you left and things are worse now than ever. You gotta come back, brother!” shouts Nick over the phone, sounding desperate.
I patiently listen to him, promising to return right away, but I know I won’t be going back anytime soon. I am still exhausted, and besides, why would I want to return to all that madness at the VA, all the threats and intimidation?
It is summer on Long Island and I am home in Massapequa and there seems to be no better place in the world to be at this moment. I spend the remainder of July and August in my room continuing to rest and taking notes for the book that I hope to write as soon as I get back to the West Coast.
Hurricane Street
By the end of the summer, having rested up sufficiently, I head back to California, where with the help of my friend and real estate agent Sally Baker, I rent a small house in Marina Del Rey along the ocean at 24 1/2 Hurricane Street. It is there that I hope to finally settle down and begin writing my book.
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