Please know that I deeply appreciate all your concern, prayers, and warm thoughts and will convey them as soon as I am able to see her. I will also send more definitive updates as soon as I have more information.
a little bit of backstory
Since this whole saga is a love story of sorts, it probably makes sense to get to know the main characters a little better.
Susan and I met around Thanksgiving in 1988. We both lived in New York City, actually quite near each other. As we would learn, this was just one of the many coincidences we shared.
Earlier in the day of the night we met, I had gotten a call from a college friend of mine, Geoffrey. He told me that he and a friend from his acting class were going up to a party that night and, knowing I had just gotten out of a relationship, asked if I’d like to join them. I didn’t have anything going on, so I said yes. The plan was to meet at the Cooper Square subway station and head to the party from there. They would be coming from a show at the Public Theatre.
His friend was Susan.
As we took the subway up to the party, they told me about this avant-garde play they had just seen, laughing about how very little of it made sense to them. I hadn’t seen the show, but I had seen a lot of experimental theater, so I offered my analysis. Susan would later say that her first thought about me was that I was smart, hearing me analyze this crazy play. I remember thinking at the time that for my next relationship, I wanted to find someone like her. She was smart, funny, pretty, with a mane of curly hair and bright blue eyes, and an equally attractive, strong personality. She spoke her mind unapologetically, verbalizing thoughts most of us have but aren’t brave enough to express. This, I learned, was a quality most would love about her, though on occasion, some would find abrasive and be put off. In any case, I was really happy for Geoffrey. He seemed to have found himself a really great girl.
That party was fairly uneventful in terms of our future relationship, but a couple of weeks later, we found ourselves at another one. Geoffrey and Susan were presumably still a couple, which I was happy to see, but at the party, Susan and I found ourselves spending most of the time together. It wasn’t our riveting conversation that kept us rooted in the same spot; it was the loaf of Zabar’s cinnamon babka (a kind of coffee cake/bread), which we devoured together. It was gooey and cinnamony and irresistibly delicious, and we continued to cut slice after slice of it. As we stuffed our faces, we managed to get a few words in here and there. I asked her where she was from, and she said, “Massachusetts.”
“Me, too,” I responded, surprised. “What part?”
“Framingham?” she said, wondering if I’d ever heard of it.
Of course I’d heard of it. “My uncle and aunt live in Framingham.”
“Really? What are their names?”
“Joan and Bob Smith?”
I posed it as a question because the likelihood that Susan would know my uncle and aunt from what is considered the largest town in the United States was remote, never mind ones with the name Smith.
“Bob Smith the dentist?”
“Yeah!” (He was actually an oral surgeon, but I figured she was talking about the same one.)
“Oh, my God, they’re dear friends of my parents—”
“No kidding?”
“—who for years have been telling me that they have a nephew I would really like!”
(Needless to say, there were no happier people at our wedding than Joan and Bob Smith, who were proud to proclaim to everyone, “We knew it!”)
After spending most of the night talking (and eating), I unintentionally gave Susan my best and only pickup line ever. “You know, you’d be perfect for a musical I want to write.”
It actually was true. I was in the early stages of writing a show that featured a Bette Midler–like character, and that was Susan…brassy, sexy. She really was perfect. I told her a little about the idea, which, naturally, since I would be writing it for her, she loved. Twenty-five years later, she’s still waiting for me to write that show.
As the night wore on, Geoffrey and Susan were ready to go home. We all lived near one another in the East Village, so they urged me to leave with them and share a cab downtown. However, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to go just yet. Though I really loved talking to Susan that night, she was leaving with Geoffrey, and there were some other possible prospects at the party. They persisted, insisting I join them, and ultimately I relented.
We got into a cab, Susan sitting between us, and as we drove downtown, I rested my hand on my right thigh. Susan’s hand was resting on her left thigh, and lo and behold, our hands just happened to touch. I remember thinking that I should move my hand from its illicit position, but I didn’t. We weren’t exactly holding hands, but I was very aware of the electricity of the touch, and it was exciting. But I also felt extremely guilty. Geoffrey was one of my best friends, and here I was having a secret hand affair with his girlfriend.
We eventually reached our destination, and I said an awkward goodbye, not knowing when or if I would see Susan again. However, shortly thereafter, Geoffrey moved to Los Angeles, and just after New Year’s, I returned home from work to find a message from Susan on my answering machine. It went kind of like this…
“Hi, it’s Susan Roffer, Geoffrey’s friend. I just spoke to Geoffrey, who says that since we live so close to each other, we should hang out sometime.”
Interesting. Geoffrey suggested we should hang out? Maybe they weren’t together after all. I called Susan back that night, which I later learned freaked her out because I responded so quickly. I didn’t wait a day or three or whatever the appropriate amount of time to convey I’m not desperate is. Truth is, I didn’t even think about giving it a couple of days before I responded. One thing I had learned by that point in my life was to go for the things I wanted, especially when it came to romance. If a woman said no, then so be it; at least I’d know and could move on. If she said yes, then, great, more time we’d have in our lives to be together.
During the phone call, I asked Susan out for that weekend, but she said she had plans on Saturday night to see a play. She was going with another friend, but then asked me if I’d like to join them. When I told her that I didn’t want to intrude on her date, she insisted that it was “just a friend.” To her surprise, I think, I accepted.
That Saturday I met her at the theater and saw one of the worst plays I’ve ever seen in my life. It was a tiny production, so poorly attended that there were more people on the stage than in the audience. One of the actors was a little boy, who when he made his entrance, walked to the edge of the stage and began waving and mouthing “Hi, Mommy” to his mother in the audience. It truly was painful.
Quite the opposite from the agonizing performance was being there with Susan. The theater was freezing inside, so the two of us sat watching the show with our feet up on the seats in front of us, snuggled underneath her massive down coat. It was definitely a testament to the notion that it really doesn’t matter how miserable what you’re doing is as long as you’re doing it with someone you enjoy.
After the play, Susan’s friend politely excused himself and left. I’m not sure whether this had been set up between the two, with some sort of signal planned for him to bail if things were going well or to absolutely not leave her alone with me if things sucked. In any case, we were now on our own, and since we lived so close to each other, I asked her if she wanted to have a post-theater dinner in the neighborhood. She was into that, and so we had a plan.
It had begun to snow—big fluffy flakes, unusual for New York. If someone had been production-designing the date, they couldn’t have done it more romantically. The streets were fairly empty as we hailed a cab and climbed inside. Now, I usually hate cabs because of the crazy, erratic driving, but on this night, we lucked out. We had Radu as a driver, and whether it was the heavy snow falling or just his personal philosophy, he was in no hurry to get anywhere and neither were we. Maybe he sensed that in the back seat of his cab were two young
lovers, clearly enjoying life and being together. We laughed most of the way to our destination, and when we arrived, Radu did something no other cab driver had ever done before or since. He turned toward us in the back seat, clasped his hands together, and with a big smile said, “Bless you both.”
This was the first of our blessings.
Eight months later we were engaged, and seven months after that we were married. A year into marriage, we decided to pack up our newly purchased Honda Accord and drive out to Los Angeles to give the movie business a shot. We gave ourselves a whole month to make it. We very soon realized that this was a ridiculously short amount of time and that, instead, we would give it a year. If nothing came of it, we’d figure something else out.
For the next few years, we did all right. I was able to break into the movie business, working in development and growing into a producer on such films as Cool Runnings, City of Angels, and Three Kings. Susan had landed guest parts on pretty much every sitcom, including Seinfeld, Murphy Brown, Everybody Loves Raymond, and Curb Your Enthusiasm. When she shot Everybody Loves Raymond, she was very pregnant with our next blessing, Michael, and when she appeared in Curb, she was very pregnant with the blessing that followed Michael: Alyce.
For the most part, our cab driver Radu had called it: We’ve been pretty blessed. Married for more than twenty years—and that’s Hollywood years, which has a multiplier even greater than for dogs’ lives—with two beautiful and healthy children. Was our marriage perfect? I guess I’d like to know what that looks like. After all, with any marriage, regardless of its length, come the usual aggravations. In those twenty years, we had both come to know very well how to push each other’s buttons, and on occasion, those buttons definitely got pushed. Sometimes we’d fight on point, addressing real issues, which basically could be narrowed down to either taking each other for granted or not treating each other with respect. Other times we’d just fight, letting the stresses of life spill into our relationship.
More recently, the responsibility of financially carrying the family on my shoulders had taken its toll, and beyond that, I had been feeling that my overall role in the household was disproportionate to Susan’s, that in order to get things done right, I had to do them myself. This resulted in a load of resentment, which then led to fights over the pettiest of things. A typical rant of mine might center on the all-important dishwasher. “You know what would be great? If you could just take two extra seconds and rinse the dishes and not just pile them in on top of each other; then maybe they’d actually get clean instead of the food getting baked onto them, which then takes me like twenty times longer to get off instead of those two little seconds. That would be super helpful!” Without a degree in psychology, I’m guessing that these blowups weren’t exactly about the loading of the dishwasher.
And while after twenty years we often still made each other laugh, there was plenty that caused conflict. From her point of view, I picked on her, didn’t appreciate her, tell her I love her enough, compliment her appearance enough—pretty basic male stuff that I confess to be guilty of. My issues generally centered around laziness or selfishness, or that it often felt to me like her relationships with her phone and computer were more passionate and involved than ours.
Then, of course, there’s the money…or lack of it. I’ve done okay in my years and overall have been pretty fortunate, but it’s been a struggle, and however much I have earned has never been quite enough to support our nut and lifestyle. Susan’s work as an actress had become intermittent at best, and while she did begin teaching a Parent and Me class, it didn’t make a significant financial contribution toward our expenses. We found ourselves slipping further and further into debt, borrowing against the house we own. I saw the direction we were headed, knowing that at this rate something was going to have to change, which led to more fights—fights about my career and what I wasn’t doing to further it, who I wasn’t calling or schmoozing. Now granted, her point of view was usually from a place of support; she didn’t understand why I wasn’t more successful, given that I was so talented. But it didn’t always feel supportive. It also didn’t really reflect an understanding of the business, the luck of it, the randomness of it. Years of being a freelancer had forced me to develop—or at least try to develop—a sense of Zen about my career. I lived on faith that it would all work out, and up to this point, it had. I’d been able to hang on, even though sometimes, especially lately, it felt like it was by the skin of my teeth.
And so, as with most long-term relationships, I suppose, there was enough stress, conflict, and dissatisfaction to consider…alternatives. Divorce, though, has never really been on the table. I had taken an oath—for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. It just wasn’t an option I ever entertained. No affairs either. Over the years, especially in this business, there were most likely opportunities had I pursued them, but still I remained true.
However, it would be a lie to say that I never wondered about what it would be like if the marriage were to end in some other way, by something I had no control over—like a plane crash or a sudden disease, maybe something quick like a heart attack or aneurism. (I didn’t need her to suffer; that would just be cruel.) In these scenarios, I would suddenly become the tragic widower, garner caring sympathy, which would eventually lead to meeting someone new, falling in love, experiencing the excitement of a blossoming relationship again. A fresh start, a new chapter, a do-over. During our marriage, I’d seen it happen to others, spouses who died of cancer and their surviving partners finding new love. I’d also witnessed friends who judged these burgeoning relationships with disdain. But my assessment of their disgust wasn’t that they were disapproving of the new relationship as much as that they were jealous, envious that this “lucky” person got to shed the dead skin of their old relationship and find something fresh and exciting while they remained stuck. And, yes, as ugly as it sounds, I do confess to, on the rare occasion, letting that perverted romantic fantasy, the one driven by the hand of God rather than by personal choice, play in my head.
Who knew that I was about to be confronted head-on with the possibility of that fantasy becoming a reality? Yet, when that reality presented itself, I was instantly reminded of all the good that would be ripped away—the comfort, the laughter, the support, the friendship…the love. The forgotten foundation of our marriage. And in that moment, there was absolutely nothing romantic or “lucky” about the fantasy. It was only just painfully and terrifyingly tragic.
day 2: the beginning of the day
Dear friends,
The outpouring of love, support, healing thoughts, and prayers from all of you is so appreciated. I always knew Susan and I were blessed to have such wonderful friends, but until something like this happens, it’s hard to really fathom the scope. I know there are a lot of questions about Susan’s condition, and unfortunately, until things settle down it’s best that I simply say that we’re hoping and praying for the best possible outcome. As you know, there’s no one stronger than Susan, and she knows how loved she is.
Again, thank you all for your ongoing concern and support. It is appreciated more than you know.
With much love,
Doug
that unforgettable day: parts 1 & 2
It was just after 10 p.m. when I crawled into bed for the night.
I remember the time because it was the earliest I’d gone to bed in months. Since the summer, I had been juggling a number of projects: I was in post-production on a movie I had written and produced, finishing a writing assignment for Disney, plus writing the new Tom and Jerry cartoon, all in the middle of post-production on a new unscripted TV show I was running and finishing a pilot I had sold to the CW. So for some time, I had been busy, really busy, but all in a good way.
After turning my phone off for the night, I turned to Susan and said, “Wow, for the first time in I don’t know how long, I’m all caught up. I’m delivering my rewrite tomorrow, and other than that, eve
rything else is done.” She was congratulating me when I added, “But I have a conference call with Disney tomorrow morning, so do you think you could take Alyce to school?”
“Sure,” she replied. “No problem.”
Generally, our routine was that she would get up early and take Michael, who was a freshman in high school, to his bus stop before she went to the Y to work out. I’d get up an hour later, take Alyce to school, and then head to work. The schedule usually worked out pretty well, but on this day, she’d have to miss her workout so that I could take my conference call. The good news for me was, since I didn’t have to take Alyce to school, I could sleep a little later and shower before my call.
You know the next part. About how I got up to do a little work before my conference call. About how the phone rang and for some reason, the answering machine didn’t pick up. About how I picked up the phone (and so lucky that I did) and heard Alyce’s scared and crying voice on the other end.
“Daddy, it’s me…Mommy was just in a car accident.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Is Mommy?”
“I don’t know…I don’t think so. Come quick.”
“Where are you?”
“On Hollywood Boulevard, right by the house.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there.”
“No, you need to come now!”
I realized the way I’d said “I’ll be right there” was interpreted as a typical response I might have given her. “Daddy, can you come here and help with my homework?” and I’d say “Yeah, I’ll be right there” while I finished whatever I was working on. Like, in this case, I was going to finish my work, hop in the shower, maybe have a little bite to eat before finally getting around to checking out the accident.
“Yes, I’m coming right now. Don’t move.”
“Okay. I love you,” she sobbed.
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