Nick eventually died not from cancer but from a perforated bowel. I think he was tired from years of fighting and he just needed to rest. Thanks to him and others like him, though, we were able to pass the Nick Snow Act in California in 2009. This was the first big step in abolishing the hospice eligibility regulations for children, and the first step in creating a comprehensive, compassionate hospice benefit for children; the idea will sweep across California in stages. Now the goal is to spread that enlightened policy change across the United States.
In Akron, I met David, seventeen, who, without being able to speak a word, let me know that although he was scared as he battled leukemia, he was determined to win. He emanated courage. Then there was Jessica, a little girl who had bone cancer. When I asked her if she was afraid, she said, “No, not for me. But I worry about my mom and dad.” She squeezed my hand and said, “I believe that a thousand years on earth is one day in heaven. So by the time I’m sitting down for my first lunch, my mom and dad will be there.”
I had a friend whose baby died suddenly and unexpectedly. I discussed this tragedy with my son Michael. My little philosopher reasoned that this baby had been an angel. He went even further, postulating that all children start out as angels, flying down from heaven. At some point, their wings fall off. But my friend’s baby hadn’t lost his wings, and so he had to fly back.
I decided that all kids who died were angels who hadn’t lost their wings. As for why they had to die in pain, I could only ask, who would do that to an angel?
These courageous children reinforced my belief in heaven. I’m not sure there is a hell, but there absolutely has to be something better. There has to be a pony in this barn full of crap. It just has to get easier. Which begs the questions, why is life so complicated, why is it such a puzzle, why do most of us find it such a struggle on so many different levels?
My therapist shared a theory she had come across, and I liked it. It held that before making your next journey in this life, your soul sits at a large, circular conference table and chooses the souls who are going to be part of your life. As for which particular people would be chosen, I figured they would be individuals from previous lives with whom there was still unfinished business.
My son, Michael Boxleitner, is definitely one of those people. His arrival into this world taught me about the miracle of life, and every day thereafter has been a reminder to me to appreciate it. Other people provided different lessons. Sam and Lee taught me that siblings do not have to be connected by blood to truly love and care for one another. More important, I learned that my love for each of my children is equal, whether they grew under my heart or in it.
Bo was the catalyst who pushed me to confront my own birth and taught me to begin to set boundaries, and I dragged Rob into my life to show me it was okay to be free with myself. Michael Landon showed me the most important thing was family and home. So he had three families and three homes—he tried. Bruce has enhanced my personal growth; we have taught each other to stay and work out situations rather than run away and miss the stuff that matters, the sweet, simple things.
It’s interesting that the two most significant relationships in my life before Bruce were both with men who were cheats, as was I, and not for a second have I ever thought Bruce has been with another woman. To me, that’s an example of healing and growth.
Why did I pick my mother, Barbara? I think I brought her into my life to teach me how to love unconditionally and, most important, to forgive. I have come to feel the same way about my birth mother, too. Forgiveness is a big theme in my healing process. After any type of emotional pain or distress, it’s the only sure pathway to love again.
There’s a sense of relief in forgiving people. Take my father, who chose to smoke, drink, and not take care of himself properly instead of spending more time with me. Do whatever you want to your body as long as you don’t have a child. But once you’re a parent, it’s not your life anymore. You have to do everything you can to stay alive. My daddy didn’t.
He was the last person with whom I wanted to be mad, but I had to learn to let myself be angry with him—and then to forgive him. Once that happened, the real reason he was in my life became apparent. It was so I could dance.
If there’s one person I have had a hard time forgiving, it’s myself. Clearly, that’s what this journey has been about, at least thus far. I can think I’m making progress until I get to my son Dakota, who looms as both a mystery and a challenge. I am still trying to forgive myself for not being the mother I thought I could have been by letting him go to Texas. He reminds me of the work I still have left.
That’s the point. The more people who enter my life and challenge me to learn and grow, the closer I get to the house cat in the next life.
By summer 2008 my mind and heart were in the best place of my life. I had over three years of good, solid sobriety under my belt and a support group in AA that was like a second family to me. My first family provided me with an immeasurable sense of safety and courage. I remember one Sunday afternoon when I was sitting with my sister Sara, watching Dakota and Michael play with her two little children, and I was imbued by a satisfying sense of warmth, closeness, and growth.
It was the kind of feeling a woman gets when she feels the passage of time, sees the lines in her face, and knows every bit of life that happened was worthwhile. Not coincidentally, I began an exciting new chapter soon after doing something that had terrified me all my life: I signed on to do a musical version of Little House on the Prairie at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis.
I’ve always been terrified of singing in front of people. It scares me to the very core of my being.
Ability is not the issue. As a child, I sang all the time with my dad. Apparently, I had perfect pitch, too. I grew up wanting to be a triple threat—an actor, singer, and dancer, like Shirley MacLaine, Patti LuPone, Ann-Margret, and Liza Minnelli. They are women who can do it all, and do it all so well. I just needed the opportunity, and then I had to get over the fear.
To prepare for the show, I spent nearly a year taking weekly voice lessons with my voice coach in L.A., Eric Vetrow. He got sound to come out of my voice that I didn’t know existed within and taught me little tricks, like saving my throat by sipping Ricola cough drops steeped in hot water. Before leaving for Minneapolis, I took a signed photo of my father (it said, “To Missy-do, Love Dad”), shrunk it down, and had two copies made.
At the first rehearsal, I put one of those photos in my pocket and waited for my turn. One by one, the principal cast members stood and sang their numbers. I admired the wonderful, seemingly effortless sound they made. They seemed to disappear into a whole other person, or rather, their person seemed to expand into a greater being, this being who was transformed by music, inflated and imbued by a feeling they were able to express confidently, joyously, and pleasingly with their voice. They were singers.
As I waited, my heart thumped nervously, uncontrollably, almost like it does when I have an anxiety attack. I worked feverishly to gain control of my nerves so I could sing. Finally, my turn came, and I stood up, chest out, hands clasped behind my back so no one would see them shaking. I was like a courageous soldier marching into battle. Then, standing rigid and still, I began to sing.
I’m getting anxious just remembering the moment. Despite all my coaching and hard work, I heard, as did everyone else, a tiny, soft, and scared voice come out of me. It was mortifying. I got angry at myself. My brain screamed, “Dammit, pull yourself together!”
I don’t exactly know what happened next, other than I reached down into my pocket and touched my hand to the picture of my father, and per my therapist’s instruction I pictured him sitting in the front row. Then I stepped a little bit forward and felt my singing voice grow stronger and stronger. The rest is a blur except for the very end of the song, when I heard myself belting out the lyrics not only with confidence but also on pitch!
Just like that, it was over and everybody was applauding, and I thou
ght, Okay, I can do this. I have a voice.
As for the rest of the rehearsal process, I immersed myself in it. There was a lot to tackle, and I felt excited and blessed. Normally, opportunities for actresses my age begin to wane, and yet there I was at forty-four starting a whole new facet of my career.
I was equally blessed to have such a wonderful cast and creative team around me. All of us bonded instantly, and I grew especially (and appropriately) close to Steve Blanchard, who was playing Pa. He and Bruce hit it off immediately. Before he returned home, Bruce even asked Steve to take care of me, something that would have been unheard-of in the past. But our marriage was now that solid.
The strangest part of the whole experience for me was grappling with the idea of playing Ma instead of Laura. Talk about an identity crisis. Early in rehearsals at the Guthrie Theater, I would answer whenever someone called for Laura or Half Pint. Later, during the scenes when Pa and Laura (Kara Lindsay) were onstage, I stood in the wings and wept, remembering Mike and me and watching the two of them create that bond in a whole new and beautiful way.
Rehearsals flew by. During the daytime, we added new songs, changed scenes, and moved things around. At night, we performed in front of a live audience willing to risk their money on a work-in-progress. My brain was boggled by all the information I needed to digest. It was dizzying, challenging, and scary to know the audience would be coming in expecting to see something special. I had so much to learn. I also felt the pressure of the Little House legacy. Would we be able to catch lightning in a bottle again?
On the day tickets went on sale for the official run, the Guthrie’s website crashed. Hundreds of fans stood in line at the theater. I greeted people and marveled at the dozens of girls who showed up dressed as Laura, their hair in pigtails. For opening night, Bruce flew in with all the kids except for Dakota, who stayed home with strep throat. He would have come, but I vowed to make it through the run without getting sick.
After the two-and-a-half-hour performance, Bruce and the family engulfed me backstage. All of us were sobbing from joy. Elated and relieved, I sighed, “Oh man, I did it. This is really good.” A few weeks later, I was backstage before a show and heard someone call out, “Caroline!” I automatically said, “Yes?” When I learned they had meant a girl in the company named Caroline, I thought, Well, I guess I’m over the Laura thing now. But as I left the theater that night I walked into a crowd of autograph seekers who shouted, “Laura! Laura! We love you, Laura!”
Ultimately, it didn’t matter what people called me. I didn’t have to be one person to anyone, including myself. Instead of worrying about who I was, the key was to focus on who I could become. I could have many different identities, including wife, mother, stepmother, friend, ex-wife, daughter, scared little girl, actress, former child star, Half Pint, former SAG president—and on certain occasions when everything was working in my favor, I heard guys whistle, “Hey, sexy.” That was okay, too.
Somewhere on my journey from Baby Girl to grown woman I had discovered myself. I had also become the triple threat that once seemed possible only in my dreams. I could act, sing, and dance. I could also laugh, cry, and forgive. I didn’t worry as much about who I was compared to who I could become.
In October, about two weeks before the play closed, I went with the kids in the show—Kara Lindsay, who played Laura, Jenn Gambatese, who played Mary, and Kevin Massey, who played Almanzo—on a five-hour drive to Walnut Grove, Minnesota, and De Smet, South Dakota, the real-life homes of Laura Ingalls Wilder and her family. Despite numerous invitations, I had not visited either place. The timing finally felt right now that I was old enough to appreciate it.
We arrived unannounced in Walnut Grove and visited the museum, where one display included the fireplace mantel from the set of the TV series. When no one was looking, I smelled it to see if it still contained any of the familiar scents from the set. It didn’t, but memories of my girlhood flooded my heart and mind. We later ate lunch at Nellie’s Café and walked along Plumb Creek.
In De Smet, our next stop, the owners of our bed-and-breakfast arranged a tour of the town. We walked through the house Pa had built, where I marveled at the cabinets he had made for Ma, and then we were ushered into the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum, where our guide opened a vault containing the most special items. She pulled out a nightgown and several handkerchiefs.
“These were Laura’s,” she said.
I instinctively reached out to touch them, then pulled my hand back and asked, “May I?”
“Yes,” she said.
We sped back to Minneapolis, where all of us felt we put on one of the most inspired performances of the entire run. I climbed into bed late that night, exhausted but unable to fall asleep. I kept thinking about the flood of memories I had experienced after touching Laura’s nightgown and handkerchief. While my fingers ran over the cotton fabric, I relived everything from my first audition for Little House to the present: happiness, sadness, heartbreak, and love. For someone who grew up not being allowed to feel anything, I now felt so much.
Indeed, in those sweet, simple things I felt the heft not of a career but of a life—an authentic life.
I looked forward to more.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I buy a new book, the first thing I read is the author’s acknowledgments. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s because I can get a sort of composite of who the author is by knowing who they feel has touched their work.
Well, now I am the author and it is my turn to thank those who have touched me and supported me throughout the writing of this book.
When this process began, I really had no idea where it would lead or how it would end. I felt a tremendous sense of responsibility: first to myself and then to all those who have been a part of my life thus far. Especially those whose names appear in this book.
I have to start by saying that none of this would’ve been possible, none of it, were it not for the friendship and guidance of my former agent/current manager, Marc Schwartz. Marc, your encouragement, humor, and ability to dismantle my inner time bomb when it begins to tick are invaluable to me. Because of your vision and faith in me, I have been able to reach beyond myself and really luxuriate in all the possibilities ahead. No small feat for an actress of a certain age. I can only imagine what will come next.
Thank you to:
Dan Strone, my literary agent, who upon hearing snippets of my life story ran with the seeds of a book and delivered me yet another hyphen: “author.”
Emily Westlake and Jennifer Bergstrom at Simon & Schuster, whose encouragement, excitement, and emotional connection to my story made me feel free enough to actually tell it.
Todd Gold!! Sculptor extraordinaire. Without you I am simply a formerly effed-up child star with a lot of stories to tell but no real blueprint for how to string them together.
Jonathan Howard and everyone at Innovative Artists for giving me the opportunity to keep stretching and growing in my other job.
Ame VanIden at PMK/HBH for keeping me relevant. No small feat in these days of the fifteen-minute celebutard.
My dear friend Greg Gorman, who always manages to bring out the very best of me. Thank you for my beautiful cover and all the magnificent images you have captured of me over the last twenty-five years. Here’s to at least twenty-five more!!
Dr. Dan Zucker of the Institute of Health and Sports Chiropractic, and Richard Giorla, founder of Cardio Barre, for keeping my spine straight and my butt up where it ought to be.
Lord Torgue Ward, only you can make the gnomes and broccoli disappear and write movies!!
Daniel, Joanie, Chaz, Jeffrey, Vivian, Linda, Dr. D., Tina M., and all those who work so hard keeping my outside looking as glowing as my inside.
Bob, Seth, David, Greg, Mike, Jamie, Kevin, Paul C., Paul R., and all of you who stood beside me through my SAG presidency. You made the unbearable not just bearable but challenging, and sometimes even fun!
Marta, my spiritual advisor, counselor, spo
nsor, confidante, and friend—for holding my heart and my marriage and my family in your wise and gentle hands.
My girlies!! Friend Owl, Princess, Lei, Fance, Ali, Colleen, Rocket, and Speshy. You are my lifesavers. I love how we hold one another so close and no matter what, when, or where, when the call goes out, you all come running.
Ned-Nelson-Noodle-Flossie, my right hand for these last four years. I will miss our working relationship but am so happy that now we can just hang and be friends!
Lori, Devon, and everyone at the Children’s Hospice and Palliative Care Coalition for giving me a purpose.
D.G. Always there. Always making me laugh. Always safe. Always…always.
Ms. P., how many lifetimes we have shared and through it all we remain side by side, adding pearls to the necklaces that make up our lives. Ours is a friendship that was predestined and transcendent. I do love you so.
My family at “Kraproom” for keeping me grounded, sharing your strength, and always giving me hope. That goes doubly for you, Marquis Michael Des Barres!!!
My P-dawgs: Sara, Jenn, Kara, Kevin, Maeve, and most especially, Steve and his lovely Meredith.
My amazing family: Mitzi, Charlie, Aunt Stephanie, Nanny Julia, Jenny. You have seen every moment, shared every tear, plotzed with every laugh. No matter where I go or what I do, I take you with me.
Sara, my baby love. The day you were born, you filled my heart with astonishment. Every year I have watched you grow, becoming the woman you are today, amazed by your mind, your heart, your essence. Thank you for my beautiful and brilliant nephew and niece. I love you.
Mom. We have been through so much…so, so much, and at the end of the day, here we are. I love your hands, your smell, your whimsy, and your heart. No matter what we have gone through, side by side or sometimes on opposite sides, our bond is unbreakable. All this time you thought it was me, but you are the ballerina, the beauty, and the real princess.
Prairie Tale: A Memoir Page 35
