Death
In 1980, Grahame was diagnosed with stomach cancer but refused surgery, insisting that she did not have the disease. In 1981, she traveled to England to perform in a play. While there, a procedure to have fluid drained from her stomach resulted in a perforated bowel. This became apparent only after she collapsed during a rehearsal.
Peter Turner heard the news that Grahame was ill in a hotel in Lancaster, England. Accompanied by members of his family, he collected her and took her to his home in Aigburth, Liverpool. There, he and his family nursed her until some of her children arrived to take her back to New York where, at the age of 57, she died.
She is interred in Oakwood Memorial Park Cemetery in Chatsworth, California, as Gloria H. Grahame.
Read more about this topic: Gloria Grahame
Famous quotes containing the word death:
“There are confessable agonies, sufferings of which one can positively be proud. Of bereavement, of parting, of the sense of sin and the fear of death the poets have eloquently spoken. They command the world’s sympathy. But there are also discreditable anguishes, no less excruciating than the others, but of which the sufferer dare not, cannot speak. The anguish of thwarted desire, for example.”
—Aldous Huxley (1894–1963)
“Life springs from death and from the graves of patriot men and women spring living nations.... They think that they have pacified Ireland. They think that they have purchased half of us and intimidated the other half. They think that they have foreseen everything, think they have provided against everything; but the fools, the fools, the fools, they have left us our Fenian dead, and while Ireland holds these graves Ireland unfree shall never be at peace.”
—Patrick Henry Pearse (1879–1916)
“But, when nothing subsists from a distant past, after the death of others, after the destruction of objects, only the senses of smell and taste, weaker but more enduring, more intangible, more persistent, more faithful, continue for a long time, like souls, to remember, to wait, to hope, on the ruins of all the rest, to bring without flinching, on their nearly impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory.”
—Marcel Proust (1871–1922)