My Journey

by Donna Karan

  Stephan came to my fall 2001 show, held in February of that year. Our friend the dancer Gabrielle Roth stood in front of him for protection as he made his way carefully into the crowded room. I came out at the end of the show for my bow, and I literally didn’t recognize him. Against all the health and color in the audience, he looked like death.

  Yet, to his credit, he insisted on living. He was very excited about a new sculpture series he was working on, called “Larger than Life” (a collection of two-ton brass sculptures of a shoe, an apple, a horse, a roll of film, and so on) and was traveling upstate with Corey to the foundry that would eventually produce them. And he continued to spend all his free time with Gabby, who wouldn’t leave his side.

  At one point, there was a horrific fire a block away from us, and the local firemen needed to use our apartment to get close with their hoses. Stephan and Susie, our friend and chef, let them in and then insisted on feeding all the guys. The whole department—those very same men—were killed on 9/11.

  —

  In early 2001, Stephan and I decided to renew our vows. Since we wanted the whole family with us, we waited until spring break, in mid-April. We rented a plane and brought a very intimate guest list: the kids, Barbra and Jim, and Jane Chung and her husband, Mack. On the flight, Barbra taught our grandson Etan to play gin rummy.

  We held the ceremony on our property at sunset. We all wore white, and a very tall, very funny island man officiated. It was a hike to get to the spot, so Stephan had his oxygen tank with him. We kept the ceremony short and full of love; it was a celebration of the life we had created together, hand in hand. Everyone was hysterically crying, me most of all.

  When we returned, I went to Susan King (the psychic who was eerily accurate with Patti) to ask her how much time I had left with Stephan. She told me the upcoming Memorial Day weekend would be his last at our home in East Hampton.

  —

  During the first week in June, Stephan’s breathing got a lot more labored. Our home oxygen was no longer sufficient. We thought he had a cold and wanted to get it under control, so we checked him into Memorial Sloan Kettering. He brought his sketchbook and his little clay models. The VIP room on the nineteenth floor was like a studio apartment, with plenty of space for family visitors; there was even a small room for someone to sleep in. Ruthie, our healer, came with us to administer massages and anything else either Stephan or I needed. Ro was there around the clock as our private nurse, and she refused to go home, regardless of the long hours. Ann Culkin, the primary nurse on staff, was wonderful, too. Stephan was so nice to them, always joking, laughing, and flirting. He’d always tell me, “Whatever you do, take care of the nurses, Donna. They’re the heroes here.”

  But of course, I was in the middle of designing resort. Day one of Stephan’s hospital stay, I had the clothes brought up to the hospital room and modeled them for him, voguing it up. He especially loved the sexy leather and suede jackets.

  Each day Stephan became a bit weaker. He was adamant that he only wanted me and the kids in the room. No business associates, no friends, no extended family. We called Gabby, who was in Brazil working on a story for Travel + Leisure magazine about an Ashram Adventures retreat. She flew home immediately. When she arrived, Gabby began organizing our meals, calling in for sushi platters and dinners from Sette Mezzo. She’s got that same Jewish mother instinct I have: when we’re nervous, we just want to feed people.

  At one point, Stephan’s mother called to say she was driving in from Long Island to visit. (I can only tell this story because she’s no longer with us.) “I don’t want to see her,” he said to all of us. It wasn’t for any bad reason; he loved his mother, but she could drive him crazy. “Stephan, it’s your mother,” I reasoned. “We can’t keep her out.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Ro piped up. “Stephan, you’re not feeling well, right?” He shrugged. “Well, if you really needed a sedative, I could give you one. A strong one that would last a while.” We all smiled.

  Sure enough, Stephan’s mom came in and sat by the bed. He was out like a light.

  “Hilda,” I said gently, “he’s going to be asleep for a while.”

  “I don’t care,” she answered. “He’s my son. I’ll wait.”

  “You’ll be waiting for a long time,” Ro said. “He’s really knocked out.”

  Hilda stayed for a while longer, but when she realized he wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon, she left. I still feel a little guilty about it, but it was his mother, and his wishes.

  Stephan let all his wishes be known—and loudly. Once Ro and Anne were washing him, and he was out of it. Barbra’s music wafted through the stereo, and all of a sudden he spoke lucidly. “I’m not dying to Barbra’s music,” he said. Don’t get me wrong, he adored Barbra and loved her voice (he said she had a “Stradivarius” in her throat); he just didn’t want hers to be the last voice he heard. It would be too weird. Stephan briefly perked up again when Luca, Bonnie’s husband and a fellow bike rider, brought Stephan’s helmet to us, which I placed at the end of his bed. Stephan was on morphine and becoming less and less responsive, but he seemed to recognize the helmet. For a minute, anyway. Then he slipped away again. Maybe I was delirious with grief, but I knew in my heart where he’d really gone: on a motorcycle joyride. I saw his energy leave the room and just felt it in my bones.

  “Great,” I said to the kids. “We’re all just supposed to sit here while he vrooms around the world?”

  “We could dress him up and bring him home,” Lisa said amid a fit of giggles. (Did I mention we were punch drunk from sleep deprivation?) “You know, like that movie Weekend at Bernie’s, where they dress the dead guy and bring him everywhere?” Everyone laughed.

  Except for me. Wait, I thought, she’s on to something. Why not just bring him home? What’s the difference? I tried to find a doctor to release him, but there was no one around. I took matters into my own hands, grabbing his clothes and tugging at his hospital gown.

  “What are you doing?” Ro asked.

  “Taking him home. It’s crazy to sit here while he’s off riding. Who knows when he’ll come back?” I was perfectly serious. Why should we all hang out in a hospital room when he could be in his own bed? But moments later, I felt him slip back into his body, and Corey, Lisa, Gabby, and I continued to sit vigil with him around the clock. We read letters that we’d written to him, and I couldn’t stop kissing him.

  At thirteen, Lisa’s daughter, Mackensie, was the only grandchild old enough to visit, which she did briefly. Stephan and she wore matching paw print necklaces, each engraved with the other’s name. The paw print was a reference to “the black bear,” a.k.a. Stephan’s Range Rover, which they would take out on adventures, just the two of them.

  Stephan was failing rapidly, and we all knew it. One of the doctors told Gabby they didn’t think Stephan had enough oxygen for his brain to continue to function. She stood by his bed, sobbing and holding his hand, and wouldn’t you know it—he squeezed her hand, opened his eyes, and said, “Don’t cry.” Even in his darkest hour, Stephan took care of us.

  That Saturday night, we sent Gabby and Corey home to get some rest. Lisa and I would hold down the fort. Stephan was deep into a coma by then, and Ro told us that the end was near; his organs were shutting down.

  The next morning she woke us up. “It’s time.”

  Lisa and I went to his bed. Lisa put her hand on Stephan’s chest to feel his heartbeat. I just kept caressing him, whispering, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” And then he was gone.

  I didn’t want to leave him. That was the hardest part of all. Ro told me to take all the time I needed, that I could stay for a good hour or more. As far as I was concerned, they’d have to cart me out of that room. We called and broke the news to Corey and Gabby, who were both on their way. Corey said that as he drove across the George Washington Bridge he had felt something pass through him, and he knew. Gabby, who returned with Gianpaolo, was grateful she’d had that moment with
him right before he slipped into a coma.

  —

  We held the memorial in the upstairs garden of Stephan’s Greenwich Street Studio. It was a gorgeous sunny day in June, and about seventy people attended. The family all wore white. Two white doves were set up in the garden. Barbra flew in, as did many of our friends. Richard Baskin led the ceremony. Rabbi Sobel, the man who’d married us, spoke, as did I, Corey (with his wife, Suzanne, and son Etan), Lisa, Gabby, David Bressman, Patti’s husband Harvey, and the editor Ingrid Sischy, who had become a great friend of Stephan’s as Village neighbors. Outside, a dozen of his motorcycle racing buddies and their Ducatis all lined up next to his empty bike with his helmet placed on top. When the ceremony was over, the guys all revved their bikes in tribute. We released the doves and said goodbye to Stephan.

  All of us were hugging and crying when the most remarkable thing happened. The beautiful sunny sky suddenly turned black as night, and a thunderstorm erupted. Stephan. He was with us that day, for sure.

  We had him cremated, and I gave each of the kids a part of him in a small package they could transfer into whatever container they wished. Later that summer, we brought his ashes to our beach in East Hampton and gathered by my huge rock. We were about to toss them when we noticed Lisa rubbing some into her skin. Suddenly we were all doing it alongside her, wanting to physically absorb a piece of Stephan. It was a beautiful moment.

  I had reserved a portion of the ashes to travel with so he’d always be at my side. I scattered a bit in Parrot Cay by our property. Gabby and I took a bit of him to Europe to scatter outside Andrea and Jean-Pierre’s cliffside home. At one point I said to Gabby, “Quick, get Daddy out of the sun”—I had left him outside on a patio chair. On the way back I stopped in Paris, and I swear to God, I left him in a hotel room! They FedExed him back to me, but all I could think was, Stephan is going to kill me!

  I still have some of Stephan left. I’m trying to find a way to send him on the ultimate journey, to space. Nothing fascinated him more. But the truth is I’m not sure I can let him go, even now. As I sit in his studio writing these words, I know he’s here in this space, his space…and forever in my soul.

  Credit 22.1

  23

  FREE FALL

  With Stephan gone, I didn’t know what to do with myself. There were no more hospital visits, no more memorials to plan; I had nothing to fix or make better. I couldn’t go back to our old life, nor did I want to move on to my new one, whatever that was. I was in limbo, suspended, and everything felt pointless and overwhelming. Stephan had been my rock. He’d made everything okay. He’d allowed me to be me: creative, ditzy, disorganized, crazy. Could I be me without Stephan? I was in free fall.

  Stephan died in June, and I holed up at the beach with Ruth and Susie for the rest of the summer. I never socialized. The last thing I wanted to do was find myself in a situation where I had to act like I was okay when I wasn’t. But as fate would have it, I was far from alone. It’s amazing how life sends you what you need just when you need it. Three special women entered my world that summer: Jill Pettijohn, Colleen Saidman, and Sonja Nuttall.

  Jill was an emotional godsend. I had met her months before in LA through friends; she had worked as a personal chef for Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise as well as Drew Barrymore. At the time, I told her I was trying to go on a diet—the story of my life—and she said she could help me. But then her father died, so she postponed her trip to see me; she eventually ended up coming to East Hampton right after Stephan passed. A New Zealander with blond curly hair, Jill had the perfect quiet temperament for my household. Also, we were both grieving. She put me on a raw food diet, modeled on LifeFood, a nutrition regime created by Annie and David Jubb, Ph.D., whom Jill had studied with. It’s simple: You only eat food that has its life force intact, such as greens, nuts, seeds, grains, and fruits. It has to be organic and in its whole state. And to keep enzymes in place, you never heat anything over 108 degrees. I also gave up “whites,” as in bread, rice, wheat, pasta, potatoes, and corn, as well as sugar and dairy. I lost twenty pounds (no wonder—just look at that list!), and was back in my tightest jeans. But more than that, my energy was renewed, and it started to pierce through the thick black cloud around me.

  Colleen Saidman was another angel that summer. Colleen owns Yoga Shanti in Sag Harbor, and a friend of mine had stopped in to ask if she knew anyone who specialized in grief yoga, if such a thing even existed. Colleen said she’d be happy to work with me herself.

  A gorgeous and successful model, Colleen turned to yoga to cope, as she said, “with being judged completely by my skin.” She’d studied with my old friends Sharon Gannon and David Life of Jivamukti, and like me, she was on the path. Her spiritual journey had taken her to India for a year, where she worked with Mother Teresa to help the poor, sick, and dying. Colleen and I also had master yogi Rodney Yee in common. Christina Ong had introduced me to Rodney a year earlier. He lived in California and had taught a private lesson in my office during a visit to New York. Colleen confided in me that she had a huge crush on him, but they were married to other people, had children, and couldn’t pursue it. Thanks to my life with Stephan, I believed that sometimes the road to true love is messy. “Let’s bring him here!” I said, never hesitating to interfere in other people’s lives. So we flew him in, and I later learned that their first real kiss occurred right outside my house.

  The energy between them was unmistakable during our practice. Finally, I joined their hands together and pushed them into a bedroom in my house. “Go. This is meant to be,” I said, closing the door behind them. And it was. Fourteen years later, they’re married and as in love as ever. You have to trust your heart, no matter the circumstances.

  I met my third angel through my friend Maureen Doherty, the owner of Egg in London. Her designer friend Sonja Nuttall was moving to New York, and Maureen asked if I could meet her, so I invited Sonja to East Hampton. I instantly loved her Zen-like presence. She was dressed all in white, which contrasted beautifully with her olive complexion. She spoke slowly, in a deep, soothing, melodic voice. I didn’t have a job for her, but we had a karmic connection and began making plans. Unlike my married friends, Sonja was free to travel with me, whether to Parrot Cay so I could check on the property, Europe for inspirational shopping, or Bali, my spiritual home. After we’d become close, Sonja went to a psychic who told her she was related to Stephan in a past life and was sent to help ground me after he left. Whether you believe it or not doesn’t matter; the fact is, she did ground me. And I had someone to pal around with.

  It was nice to have friendships with girlfriends that did not involve spouses. When your husband dies, you feel awkward and sad being with the couples you knew together. With Jill, Colleen, and Sonja, Stephan wasn’t missing because none of them had known him. It was a summer of healing. I was as close as ever to Barbra, Patti, Lynn, Linda Horn, and Gabrielle Roth. But I was also forging a new life and learning to be Donna without Stephan—words I had never thought I’d have to say.

  —

  Going back to work was hard. Our shows were scheduled for the first week in September, which meant I was in the design studio in the city for most of August. I was fine during the day, but the evenings were horrible. I sketched and tinkered late into the night because I didn’t want to face our empty Wooster Street apartment. I became obsessed with our new store on Madison Avenue, set to open later that month. I was also drawing up plans for my future home on Parrot Cay and overseeing the finishing touches on the new place on Central Park West. In the meantime, I had two shows and a store opening to plan. My survival plan was to keep busy, busy, busy.

  —

  We all know what happened on September 11, the day of the DKNY show. The world changed, and I changed, too. With all the death and tragedy that hit New York, I came to appreciate the long goodbye I had had with Stephan. He had cancer for almost seven years, and that time was a gift. The 9/11 families said goodbye to their loved ones that morning and n
ever saw them again. Before letting go of Stephan, I had so much time to talk to him, plan with him, spoil him, and even remarry him. I also appreciated that he was spared 9/11; we lived so close to the towers that his lungs would have been unable to cope with the dust.

  We showed the spring 2002 Collection in our showroom. Inspired by Stephan’s fluid sculptures, we called it The New Structure. We created wired, 3-D shapes that defined and liberated the body by stretching aerodynamic sheer and matte fabrics over a thin wire structure to give dresses, skirts, and coats a floating effect. The jackets, in canvas muslin, were body-articulated, with visual seams and exposed zippers. We also introduced the Flag Dress, an off-the-shoulder, sheet-like piece that came alive on the body. It was one of Louise Wilson’s last collections with us. She had been our creative director since 1998, when Peter left to design for Cerruti in Paris. Louise was an enormously respected professor of fashion at Central Saint Martins in London (she helped launch the careers of Alexander McQueen and John Galliano, among others) when I asked her to join us. Fashion has produced many larger-than-life characters, and Louise was one, with a razor-sharp wit and take-no-prisoners critiques. She stayed with us for two years and then shuttled between New York and London, where her partner and son lived. But the commute was too much. I was going to miss her horribly. She ran our design room like she did her schoolroom. She told us all what to do, which I needed both while Stephan was sick and now that I was in shock from his death. Sad to say, Louise passed away in 2014. She was fifty-two, the same age as my father when he died, and just two years older than Anne Klein, and one year older than Liz Tilberis.