I Was Acting Like An Hysterical Woman
By
Cameron Shipp
Magazine Writer
I had been working very happily in the publicity department of the Warner Brothers
studio in California for several years. I was a unit man and feature writer. I wrote stories
for newspapers and magazines about Warner Brother stars.
Suddenly, I was promoted. I was made the assistant publicity director. As a matter of
fact, there was a change of administrative policy, and I was given an impressive title:
Administrative Assistant.
This gave me an enormous office with a private refrigerator, two secretaries, and
complete charge of a staff of seventy-five writers, exploiters, and radio men. I was
enormously impressed. I went straight out and bought a new suit. I tried to speak with
dignity. I set up filing systems, made decisions with authority, and ate quick lunches.
I was convinced that the whole public-relations policy of Warner Brothers had
descended upon my shoulders. I perceived that the lives, both private and public, of
such renowned persons as Bette Davis, Olivia De Havilland, James Cagney, Edward G.
Robinson, Errol Flynn, Humphrey Bogart, Ann Sheridan, Alexis Smith, and Alan Hale
were entirely in my hands.
In less than a month I became aware that I had stomach ulcers. Probably cancer.
My chief war activity at that time was chairman of the War Activities Committee of the
Screen Publicists Guild. I liked to do this work, liked to meet my friends at guild
meetings. But these gatherings became matters of dread. After every meeting, I was
violently ill. Often I had to stop my car on the way home, pulling myself together before I
could drive on. There seemed to be so much to do, so little time in which to do it. It was
all vital. And I was woefully inadequate.
I am being perfectly truthful-this was the most painful illness of my entire life. There was
always a tight fist in my vitals. I lost weight. I could not sleep. The pain was constant.
So I went to see a renowned expert in internal medicine. An advertising man
recommended him. He said this physician had many clients who were advertising men.
This physician spoke only briefly, just enough for me to tell him where I hurt and what I
did for a living. He seemed more interested in my job than in my ailments, but I was
soon reassured: for two weeks, daily, he gave me every known test. I was probed,
explored, X-rayed, and fluoroscoped. Finally, I was instructed to call on him and hear
the verdict.
"Mr. Shipp," he said, leaning back and offering me a cigarette, "we have been through
these exhaustive tests. They were absolutely necessary, although I knew of course after
my first quick examination that you did not have stomach ulcers.
"But I knew, because you are the kind of man you are and because you do the kind of
work you do, that you would not believe me unless I showed you. Let me show you."
So he showed me the charts and the X-rays and explained them. He showed me I had
no ulcers.