Sammy Davis Jr. Lost His Eye, Wanted to DIE — What Frank Did at Palm Springs SAVED His Life 

November 19th, 1954. 700 a.m. Highway 66 San Bernardino, California. Sammy Davis Jr. was driving his lime green Cadillac convertible from Las Vegas to a recording session in Hollywood when a car stopped suddenly in front of him. Sammy, who was new to driving, slammed into it. His face hit the steering wheel cone hard.

 When he woke up in the hospital, doctors told him his left eye was destroyed, would have to be removed. At 28 years old, Samm<unk>s career as a dancer and entertainer was over. Or so he thought. He became suicidal, refused to leave his hospital room. Then Frank Sinatra made a phone call.

 And what Frank did over the next 6 months at his Palm Springs home didn’t just save Samm<unk>s career, it saved his life. This is that story. Sammy Davis Jr. was born in Harlem in 1925. Started performing at age three with his father and uncle in the Will Masten trio. By 1954, Sammy was becoming a star. Nightclub performances, television appearances, recording contracts.

 At 28, his career was just taking off. He’d bought himself a lime green Cadillac convertible, brand new, a symbol of his success. But Sammy wasn’t a good driver. Never had been. Grew up in New York. Never needed to drive. Now living in Los Angeles, performing in Vegas. He was learning. November 19th, 1954.

 Sammy left Las Vegas early, heading to Hollywood for a recording session. His valet Charlie Head rode with him. They were driving through the Cajun Pass on Route 66 when Sammy saw a car ahead preparing to turn at Kendall Drive. The car stopped. Sammy tried to break. Too late. He plowed the Cadillac straight into the back of the stopped car.

 Sammi<unk>s face bounced off the cone in the middle of the steering wheel. The metal cone designed to hold the horn. It caught his left eye, crushed it. I had no control. Sammy said later, “I was just there totally consumed by it, unable to believe I was really in an automobile crash. Emergency personnel arrived. Saw two black men. Assumed they were indigent.

 Took them to county hospital. The hospital for poor people. County hospital was full. Sammy lay on a gurnie, blood covering his face in severe pain. Nobody knew who he was at first. Then word started spreading that Sammy Davis Jr., the entertainer, the dancer. A reporter from the Sun newspaper arrived, took notes. Wire services picked up the story.

 By 10:30 a.m., the hospital was flooded with calls. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Jerry Lewis, Janet Lee, all trying to reach Sammy. The hospital transferred Sammy to Community Hospital, a better facility, made room by discharging two patients who weren’t celebrities. The head surgeon, Dr. Fred Hull, examined Sammy’s eye. The damage was catastrophic.

 The eye was destroyed. It would have to be removed. Sammy was more worried about his leg, which had also been injured. Doc, I’m a dancer. I need my legs. Can you save the leg? Dr. Hull assured him the leg would be fine, but the eye was gone. At 6:00 p.m., they took Sammy to surgery, removed his left eye completely.

 When Sammy woke up, half his world was gone. Literally, no depth perception, no peripheral vision on the left. His equilibrium was destroyed. And Sammy, a dancer whose entire career depended on movement, balance, timing, couldn’t even stand up without falling over. He became suicidal, told visitors he wished he’d died in the crash.

 His career was over. What was the point of living? Frank Sinatra called the hospital constantly, every day, multiple times a day. How’s Sammy? What do the doctors say? When can I see him? The hospital became a circus. Visitors included Tony Curtis, Ava Gardner, Jack Benny, Eddie Caner. Caner gave Sammy a star of David necklace, told him about Judaism, about faith, about resilience, but Sammy was drowning in despair.

 He’d spent 25 years building a career, and one second on a highway had destroyed it all. Frank finally got through on the phone. Smokey, how you doing? Sammy hated the nickname at first. Frank called him Smokey because he smoked so much. But it became a term of endearment. Frank, I’m done. My career’s over. I can’t dance.

 Can’t even stand up straight. You’re Sammy Davis Jr. You’re the most talented man I know. One eye doesn’t change that. Frank, I have no equilibrium. I can’t even pour water in a glass without missing. Then you’ll learn. I’m not letting you quit. You hear me? When you get out of that hospital, you’re coming to Palm Springs, to my place.

 You’re staying with me until you’re ready to perform again. Frank, I appreciate it, but I’m not asking Smokey. I’m telling you, you’re coming to Palm Springs, and we’re going to figure this out together. 2 weeks later, Sammy was discharged from the hospital. He had nowhere to go. Was living in hotel rooms, had no permanent home, no family nearby.

 Frank sent a car, brought Sammy to his Palm Springs estate. For the next six months, Sammy lived with Frank, and what Frank did during those months saved Samm<unk>s life. First, Frank cut off the self-pity. Every time Sammy started feeling sorry for himself, Frank would make a joke. An eye chart arrived at the house.

 Inscription to Smokey, practice, practice. A gift arrived. Half a pair of binoculars. The other half had been sawed off. Frank sent that half to Jill Rizzo, another friend who had a bad eye on the opposite side. The card, “You guys should get together.” Sammy couldn’t help but laugh. Even in his darkest moments, Frank found ways to make him laugh.

 But Frank also did something more important. He made Sammy practice living. “What did they teach you in the hospital?” Frank asked one morning, “Did they give you that thing with pouring water?” Sammy nodded. The doctors had shown him exercises. Pouring water into a glass, learning to judge distance with one eye.

 “Show me,” Frank said. They went to the kitchen. Frank pulled out a glass and a picture of water. Made Sammy practice over and over pouring water. Missing at first, spilling, getting frustrated again, Frank said. Not mean, not impatient, just firm. Sammy poured again, missed again. Sammy poured. This time he got most of it in the glass. Better again.

They did this for hours, days, weeks. Frank refusing to let Sammy quit. Refusing to let Sammy feel sorry for himself. Then Frank took Sammy to the golf course. I can’t play golf, Frank. I can’t even see the ball properly. Doesn’t matter. You’re going to try. Frank handed Sammy a club. Put a ball on a tea. Step back. Hit it. Sammy swung.

Missed completely again. Sammy swung, missed again. Frank made Sammy swing at that golf ball for an hour. Sammy missed most of the time, but occasionally he’d connect. And when he did, Frank would celebrate like Sammy had just won a championship. See, you can do it. Your brain is learning. Your body is adapting. You just need to practice.

 The thing that struck Sammy most was Frank’s anticipation. Frank knew what Sammy needed before Sammy knew himself. Sammy would start to say, “Frank, there’s something I need.” And Frank would interrupt. I’ve taken care of that. And he had whatever it was, money, equipment, appointments with specialists, Frank had already handled it. That kind of sensitivity is rare.

Sammy said later, “Rare.” After 3 months at Palm Springs, Frank told Sammy it was time. Time for what? Time to perform. I’ve booked you a show. Small venue. Just testing the waters. You’re going to get back on stage. Frank, I’m not ready. Yes, you are. You’ve been practicing for 3 months. You can pour water.

 You can hit a golf ball. You can walk without falling. You can perform, but what if I fail? What if the audience sees me stumble? What if then you stumble? So what? You’re Sammy Davis Jr. You’re allowed to stumble, but you’re not allowed to quit. The show was small. A nightclub in Los Angeles. Sammy was terrified.

 Walked on stage with his glass eye, his destroyed equilibrium, his shattered confidence. He sang the first song, voice shaking, offkey in places. The audience was quiet, respectful, but not enthusiastic. Then Sammy did something that changed everything. He made a joke about his eye. Ladies and gentlemen, I want to address the elephant in the room.

 Or should I say the eye, not in the room. The audience laughed, nervous at first, then genuine. I had a car accident, lost my eye. Doctor said I’d never perform again. I told him, “Doc, I’ve been performing since I was three. I could do this blind. Now I’m halfway there.” Bigger laugh. Sammy relaxed, started moving, started dancing.

 Not the same as before. His balance was off, his movements more careful, but he was performing, really performing. By the end of the show, the audience was on their feet, not because Sammy had been perfect because he’d been brave. Frank was in the audience standing in the back smoking a cigarette. When Sammy took his bow, Frank was the first one clapping.

After the show, backstage, Frank hugged Sammy. I told you, you’re Sammy Davis Jr., nothing can stop you. Sammy’s eyes filled with tears. Frank, I don’t know how to thank you. You don’t thank me. You just keep performing. Keep being who you are. That’s all I need. Sammy Davis Jr.

 went on to have one of the most successful careers in entertainment history. Broadway, film, television, The Rat Pack, 50 More Years of Performing. But he never forgot those six months in Palm Springs, the months Frank Sinatra saved his life. In interviews throughout his career, Sammy would tell the story, “When I lost my eye, the first place I went was to Palm Springs.

 To Frank, you can have a tendency for self-pity.” Frank cut it off by making me laugh. The only thing Sinatra ever said of a serious nature was, “Don’t worry about nothing, and that’s the umbrella.” The gifts continued for years. Every birthday, Frank would send Sammy something related to his eye, half a pair of glasses, a pirate patch, an eye chart, always with a joke, always making Sammy laugh.

 But the real gift wasn’t the jokes. It was the 6 months of patience, of practice, of refusing to let Sammy quit. That kind of investment in a friendship is rare. Sammy said, “Frank put his life on hold to save mine, took me into his home, made me practice living again. That’s not just friendship, that’s love. When Frank Sinatra died in 1998, Sammy had been gone for eight years, but Sammy’s daughter spoke at Frank’s funeral.

 My father lost his eye in 1954, and he wanted to die. He was suicidal. His career was over. But Frank Sinatra said no. Frank brought my father to Palm Springs. Made him pour water. Made him hit golf balls. Made him laugh when he wanted to cry. Made him laugh when he wanted to quit. Frank saved my father’s life.

 Not once, every single day for 6 months. That’s who Frank Sinatra was. Not just a singer, a savior. There’s a photograph from 1955. Sammy Davis Jr. and Frank Sinatra on a golf course in Palm Springs. Sammy swinging a club. Frank standing beside him watching. Sammmyy’s wearing his glass eye. His balance is off, but he’s smiling. That photo hangs in the Smithsonian now.

 A reminder that sometimes the most important thing you can do for someone isn’t solve their problem. It’s refused to let them give up. Sammy Davis Jr. lost his eye and wanted to die. What Frank Sinatra did at Palm Springs saved his life. Not with grand gestures, with small ones, water glasses, golf balls, jokes, patience. 6 months of showing up.

6 months of saying, “Try again.” That’s not just friendship. That’s what it means to truly love someone. To see them at their lowest and refuse to let them stay there. To make them practice living until living doesn’t hurt so much anymore. Frank gave Sammy his life back. One golf swing at a time, one glass of water at a time, one terrible joke at a time, until Sammy remembered who he was and became him