Mommie Dearest

by Christina Crawford

  Very shortly after the first show aired, my manager called to say that they wanted me to continue the character and were offering a long term contract, renewable every 13 weeks. It was the best news I could have gotten. I happily signed on as a running character in Secret Storm videotaping at CBS. I called mother to tell her the good news and she asked me to keep a running list of the air dates so that she could see the show even if she was out of town on company business. She wrote some of her friends about the show and she received lots of mail from her own fans telling her how much they were enjoying me on the program. She was very proud of me.

  Interestingly enough, the name of my character was Joan. She was a neurotic woman, jealous and suspicious. Later on in the part, she began to have a drinking problem. She was really a wonderful, bitchy woman - the epitome of the terrific soap opera part. She always had trouble getting along with people. She always had some trauma going in her life. She was always accusing everyone else of being wrong. I had a great time playing her. The crew used to tell me that they looked forward to the days I was working because it guaranteed the sparks would fly! The people on the show became like family. We worked so closely together, depended on the other actors in the scene so heavily and had to function under so much time pressure that you got to know people much faster and very differently than under normal working conditions. You had to pay so much attention every minute that you were on camera that you could tell when another actor was on the verge of forgetting their lines even before it actually happened. You had to have your mind focused totally in the immediate present not letting it wander even for a split second. In that split second you could forget your lines and a disaster would follow for everyone else.

  I liked working at CBS too. It was a huge rambling complex on West 57th Street near the Hudson River. Fred Silverman had taken over as the new head of daytime programming and was beginning to make changes. His first major coup was installing a new soap called Love is a Many Splendored Thing, which had nothing really to do with the movie of the same name. They spent a lot of money on that show, which made the rest of us jealous sometimes, but the show was a hit.

  My husband and I were not getting along very well at all. It was one of those situations that isn’t either person’s fault totally. We liked working together but we didn’t seem to be able to live together. By now, the smallest incident turned into unpleasantness. I was still in therapy, trying to work out my part of it, but the clearer I saw myself the more I wanted out of my marriage. I didn’t think it was ever going to work and I didn’t want the unhappiness to drag on, hurting both of us more as time progressed and our relationship deteriorated. We’d been married just two years, but we hadn’t spent more than a third of that time together. It just wasn’t a good match.

  As the time I worked on the soap increased to three or four days a week, my free time dwindled down to almost zero. We had a maid to clean the apartment and I managed to do the shopping, but I really wasn’t able to spend much time or devote much attention to running a home, even one as casual as ours.

  However, before our relationship had gotten to this point, we’d been able to have mother over for dinner on a number of occasions. What I’d thought would be something of a trauma turned out to be great fun, if quite a challenge. We lived in a brownstone apartment in the east 60’s near Park Avenue that was lovely but small. In fact, we only had one gigantic main room that had originally been the formal living room of the house when it had been privately owned. The living room had 18-foot ceilings, a large fireplace and floor to ceiling French doors with little iron balconies overlooking the street. Since we were on the second floor, the trees blocked any direct view of other buildings so it was rather like living in a greenhouse.

  My kitchen, however, was the size of a normal closet! There was barely enough room to turn around in it. It was directly in front of the entranceway and we’d had a divider built for storage and work space. It never ceased to amaze me that I could learn to create dinner in that closet without totally loosing my mind or breaking every dish we owned. I got the whole routine down to a fine art which was crucial because no one could get into the kitchen to help me!

  When mother was invited for dinner, I took particular care to have everything planned to the minute. The table was set in advance and whatever could be prepared ahead of time was already finished.

  Mother was as unused to being invited to a family dinner as I was to giving one! We just about died with laughter when she arrived the first time. Mother invited Cesar Romero to join the three of us since he was a very close, long-time family friend and could be counted on to lend moral support to the evening. We’d always called him “Uncle Butch” as kids and that’s what I called him still. I adored him.

  At exactly the appointed hour, mother and Uncle Butch arrived in her limousine. When I opened the door to our apartment I saw the two of them carrying Pepsi coolers up the one flight of stairs to our landing, like they were coming to a picnic or a pot-luck supper. Mother had brought nearly an entire meal with her! There was smoked salmon, wine, her own vodka and stacks of other “goodies” from her own refrigerator. I had no idea where I was going to put this unexpected bounty and just had to pray it wouldn’t spoil before I could find room in our tiny refrigerator for all of it.

  It was so like mother to be invited to dinner and then bring more with her than whatever she was going to receive. At first glance I felt a wave of insult. For a brief moment I thought maybe she was taking out insurance against what I might have forgotten, such as her special 100-proof vodka. But then I realized that it was just her way of feeling secure. It was her way of giving, it was her way of saying, “thank-you,” in advance. She was trying in every way she knew to show that she loved me and was genuinely touched by the invitation, but even more so by the thought. If her way tended to be a little overwhelming, she’d never been in this situation before and neither had I. We were both finding our way in this relationship and doing the best we could. I dropped my misplaced paranoia and we had a delightful evening.

  Uncle Butch was at his very best … witty and charming, just as I’d always remembered him. Mother was very fond of him. They’d originally met during their chorus days in New York and been friends over 30 years. As was her custom, mother never stayed out very late at night. She preferred to be home no later than 10 p.m. My dinner was a great success judged by the compliments she gave me. We sat and talked for a while afterward and then she left.

  It was a very happy moment in my life. It was one of the first times I felt I’d been able to give her something she really appreciated and enjoyed. It was one of the first times since I was a child that I’d felt any genuine sense of family in the traditional meaning of the word. Because it was so private an experience, mother seemed to relax after a while and to enjoy herself.

  Although I was now working very hard on the soap opera, I was not feeling terribly well. I’d been to several doctors who were not able to diagnose the problem. I was having a lot of trouble with my skin and thought perhaps I was allergic to the studio make-up. But that didn’t seem to be the answer either.

  Finally, I was sent to a gynecologist. The doctor gave me very bad news. She said that I had a large fallopian tumor, which required surgery as soon as it could be scheduled. She also said that I would not be able to work for at least six weeks after the operation. She was unusually forceful about the need for an operation, which scared me to death.

  After the appointment, I walked for a long time. When I returned home, I cried for several hours. I’d only been on the show a couple of months. There was no way they’d hold my job for nearly two months. They’d have to replace me or write me out.

  When my husband came home that night, I was in a dreadful state. I was scared to even think about have such a serious operation and I was just as scared not to think about it. He was very concerned, naturally. He told me that I couldn’t even consider not following the doctor’s recommendation, because no job was as importan
t as my health.

  During the next week, I made one of the worst decisions of my entire life. It was totally irrational and nearly cost my life. I decided to wait a few months before scheduling the operation. I decided to see how things were going on the show and broach the subject to the producers about writing me out for a month or so later on, if my contract was renewed after the first 13 weeks. It was sheer stupidity on my part. I made my husband promise not to tell anyone, particularly my mother. I promised, in return, to speak to the producers right after my contract was renewed, since it was only a month or so away. It was a very bad bargain on my part.

  Then, I tried to go on with my life as usual. Of course, I didn’t feel well some days, my skin didn’t get any better and my energy level was very low. I took extra vitamins and tried to keep going as though nothing had happened.

  But, when I was alone the gnawing fear would sweep over me leaving me in a cold sweat and unable to sleep well.

  My husband was away working most of that summer. For the first time I was really lonely. I went to visit his sister in Connecticut a couple of times, but mostly I stayed in the city. I was with mother a lot of the free time I had. She was getting ready to sell the apartment because she said she could no longer afford it. She needed the money and she felt she would be more comfortable in something smaller. Also, there was the matter of the stairs. I never liked the design of those open stairs, I was always sure I’d slip and get my leg caught in the opening between each step. I did worry about mother too. The apartment was ludicrously large for just one person and a maid. I knew mother was drinking heavily again, as well as taking various prescription drugs from more than one doctor. She had sleeping pills and other medicine for her nerves and her chronic upset stomach. I worried very much about her in the house alone with only an elderly maid. I worried about her getting up in the middle of the night and falling as she already had done several times now, hurting herself fairly badly.

  Up until recently, she’d received mainly bruises which could easily be covered with regular clothing. Lately, however, she’d begun to take pretty bad falls and had seriously hurt her back one time and her foot on two different occasions. She blamed the antibiotics or the other medicine. I knew she drank every day and then took sleeping pills every night. I was really worried that she’d kill herself accidentally, as I’d heard of other people doing. I spoke with one of her doctors but it didn’t do any good. No one wanted to bring the subject out into the open with her. I didn’t agree, but I wasn’t a doctor.

  She controlled her drinking primarily to certain hours. I’d see her drinking in the morning but she ate lunch and then took a nap. She’d drink in the afternoons and during the evening, but she’d usually eat dinner and go to bed fairly early. When she was working for the company, she kept it pretty much together, though everything had to be well scheduled and controlled tightly then too. I don’t know how many people were aware that she had a serious drinking problem during those years. If they knew, they didn’t ever speak about it in my presence.

  By the middle of the summer, I’d decided it would be better for both my husband and myself if we got a divorce. We were not getting along at all and he was away the majority of the time. It was better, I thought, to admit that we’d made a mistake and separate rather than continue making each other miserable. We had no children to consider, we had no community property, we had only the contents of the apartment to divide between us. I spoke with mother at some length. She was really quite wonderful. She didn’t try to convince me one way or the other, but whatever I decided she wouldn’t try to talk me out of it or change my mind. She gave me the name of her lawyers and they referred me to someone who handled a lot of New York divorces. I had a couple of special considerations to think about. First, the laws of New York were still rather antiquated when it came to divorce and secondly, I’d had to sign a “morals clause” in my CBS contract just like everyone else who worked for the network. It was a standard clause but it could be very widely interpreted. I didn’t want any publicity at all, certainly nothing unpleasant that might jeopardize my job.

  Fortunately, the entire thing was handled very quickly and quietly. Since my husband had lived in the apartment before we’d been married, I decided to move somewhere else and leave him with the apartment. I didn’t ask for any money. I only wanted to be able to take with me what I felt was mine.

  Divorce is a nasty time, no matter how the people involved try to remain civilized. There is something awful about dividing up mutual possessions, something about the whole process that brings out the worst in everyone. No matter how much the two people disagree on living together any longer, no matter how rationally they try to behave, it’s a dreadful time. Part of it lies in the nagging question of failure. The relationship may not work at all, you may both be miserable, but that public admission of a mistake is always embarrassing.

  It was always hard for me to admit that I’d made a mistake. I prided myself on doing an excellent job with whatever task I involved myself. I had to face the cold fact that I’d made a monumental error with my life and I didn’t like it at all. Not that I blamed him, because I didn’t. It was just one of those things you know in your heart doesn’t work and you have to get out the best you can.

  Mother was so understanding I could hardly believe it. I was ashamed to tell her at first, but she took it with such good grace that I was very grateful. Of course, she’d been through this situation before herself, and knew my feelings on all levels. We either saw or spoke to one another every day. I spent a great deal of time with her during these painful weeks. She listened patiently to me and offered what advice she could as far as my personal well-being was concerned. To her great credit, again, she was wise enough not to get involved at all in my relationship with my husband. She was helpful in every possible way, short of actually doing anything directly. She didn’t feel it was her place and I totally agreed with her. In fact, it was far better if she didn’t and we both knew that. She was supportive and understanding and deeply concerned. She was really like a true mother during these difficult times and I was so grateful to her that I did everything I could to be helpful with anything she asked.

  I moved out of the apartment right before Labor Day weekend. Mother arranged for my things to be put in storage until I could find an apartment. I’d been looking for weeks but couldn’t find anything suitable. I stayed with a girlfriend for a while and then moved into an apartment hotel on Central Park West.

  Early September, mother asked me to go to Philadelphia with her and do the Mike Douglas show together. My sister Cathy went with us, and all three of us ended up doing the show together. We’d just returned to the hotel when the New York secretary called. Mother was in the other room, so I answered the phone. It was very sad news.

  I walked into the other room and asked mother to sit down on the edge of the bed. Then I had to tell her as gently as possible that Franchot Tone had just died. She buried her face in her hands and cried. I held her in my arms for a few minutes. Then she asked if she could be alone.

  We returned to New York the next day and mother went to the funeral. Afterward, she arranged for Franchot’s sons to receive some of the silver that Franchot had given her during their marriage.

  I was working on the soap four days a week now. I didn’t have a moment of free time except on the weekends. I spent Saturdays and Sundays helping mother at least half a day and was at the apartment at least once during the week for dinner with her. The apartment hotel I was living in was clean and decent, but it was hardly a home. In fact, it was sort of depressing and I was glad I didn’t have to spend much time there. I was still looking for an apartment, and for whatever reasons, was having a hard time finding one.

  The beginning of October, I flew to Mexico to get my divorce. Mother had helped me make the arrangements and everything went as smoothly as possible. It was, nevertheless, a lonely time for me. My whole life was being rearranged after the upheaval. I couldn’t find a pla
ce to live, my things were still in storage and my cats were being boarded at mother’s veterinarians at an astronomical monthly fee. If it hadn’t been for my very well paying job, I would have been in an awful mess.

  I had just finished doing a long and complicated court room sequence on the show, where I’d been in practically every scene of every show for the last three weeks. The amount of memorizing alone was beginning to be a strain. I had to learn nearly twenty pages of dialogue every day and by now one show was beginning to melt into another. I had thrown myself totally into my work, partly out of necessity and partly to avoid the pain of thinking about the current state of my life. I had just turned 29 years old that June. My marriage, which had started out so joyously two years before, was now over. My personal and social life now revolved totally around my mother. I was not really interested in anything except my relationship with her and doing a good job at work. I went out on dates only occasionally. It seemed to take too much effort to meet new people right now.

  I thought it was just the strain I was under with the divorce and the long hours of work, but I wasn’t feeling well at all lately. I was constantly tired and had lost some weight. I knew that this sequence of the show had concluded and I’d have some extra time which I was looking forward to even though I loved my work and clung to it for security.

  One morning I woke up at the usual time, around six o’clock. I felt very ill, but thought that a shower and washing my hair in preparation for going to the studio would help. It didn’t. Before an hour had passed, I knew I was terribly ill, terrible pain which kept getting progressively worse. I went back to bed, thinking that perhaps lying down would help. It didn’t. I was really sick. I broke into a cold sweat as the pain got worse. I wasn’t going to be able to go to work. I was very scared.