“Come, on, we’re getting out of here,” Shelly said, standing up.
“No, please, please sit down,” I whispered. “I’ll be okay, we can’t leave, really, I’ll . . .”
But I knew I wouldn’t feel better. This was a major flare-up, and I’d had them before. Medication would not control the pain. And so slowly, painfully, reluctantly, I stood. We made our way to the back of the auditorium, the only people walking out as everyone else walked in. Outside we moved out of the way as the frantic last-minute arrivals rushed by. Tom Hanks, the favored best actor winner, was shuffling through the sea of demanding reporters. Annette Bening and Warren Beatty, arm in arm, took my breath away with their elegance as they briskly moved toward the entrance. Clint Eastwood, the elder statesman, parted the sea of people like a modern-day Moses. Nobody noticed that we were walking in the wrong direction. Shelly was busy on his cell phone calling the driver, who had probably just settled into a leisurely lunch at a nearby restaurant with the other drivers, gossiping about which celebrity clients were the biggest jerks. I held my heels in my hands as I left the red carpet and walked on hot asphalt in front of the now empty limo line. The rough pavement tore the feet of my pantyhose. I was relieved, but regret and embarrassment overwhelmed me. We’d come all this way. How could we just go home? What would everyone think when they saw that Shelly Schwab’s seat was vacant at the most important event of the year? Would this affect his career? Our marriage? Would my disease ruin what he had built? What we had built together?
“The car will be here in five minutes,” Shelly said, snapping his cell phone shut, pleased that he had located the driver. Whatever the situation, Shelly took comfort in being in control. I gathered enough saliva in my mouth to swallow another Percocet for the pain. Surely this one would give me some relief. We both turned and looked at the empty red carpet. Only the bleacher fans, the cameras, and reporters remained. Slowly, the big heavy doors of the Shrine Auditorium closed. I could hear Shelly whispering to the confused driver that yes, we did want him to take us back home.
“I feel bad making you miss the show,” I apologized, guilt distracting me from my physical pain, but only for a second. The thought of suggesting Shelly stay without me was out of my realm at the moment. I didn’t think I could make it to find the driver and the car without him. Pain and the need to escape this confined environment overtook all of my sensibilities.
“You know it really doesn’t matter to me, you’re the one who loves these things. I enjoy watching you. We’ll be home in time to see most of the show,” Shelly assured me.
“What about your colleagues? What will they think seeing you leave the Academy Awards?” Shelly only shrugged and smiled that smile of total confidence.
We drove in cool, quiet comfort, my shoes sitting empty on the floor of the car, my red, swollen feet propped on Shelly’s lap, toes sticking through the holes of my ruined stockings. The swelling had made all my toes appear to be glued together, like flesh-colored swim fins. Shelly’s strong, gentle hand rested firm and lovingly on my taffeta-covered knee. I couldn’t let him know that things were getting worse. How would it look if he kept missing or leaving events, making weak excuses to cover for me? My fear of being anything less than perfect haunted me. My mom expected me to behave and look perfect during my childhood visits with her, and I’d done my best to oblige. Now perfect was beyond my grasp. How, then, would I be worthy of Shelly’s love? This wonderful, high-powered man who seemed to be out of my league when we first met was always reassuring me about how incredible I was. “You can sit next to a famous actor or the president of a large corporation and totally charm them,” he would say. But it didn’t register, all I could think of was that I needed to get a grip. I needed to get better. I couldn’t keep having these episodes. I just couldn’t.
As soon as we walked into our Beverly Hills condo, we flipped on the den television. Then we turned on the set in our bedroom as we peeled off our clothes, exchanging elegant black tie for comfy sweats, never taking our eyes off the show. With the removal of each restricting piece of clothing my pain subsided a little, and the tightness in my jaw relaxed a bit.
“I wish I’d set the VCR, “ I said. “We missed the whole opening monologue, and I love Letterman.” I glanced at the pool of taffeta and lace on the floor. It looked as deflated as I felt. I was losing control of the life I had dreamed of, the life I had achieved.
“I’ll bring a tape home for you tomorrow. You get comfortable so we can enjoy the rest of the show,” Shelly said.
It was so Shelly. The no-nonsense Shelly, who grew up in Brooklyn, the son of immigrant parents. By anyone’s standards his family was poor, only he was never aware of that. What he knew was that he was surrounded by friends who played baseball, basketball, and stickball in the park every day and that his parents adored him. As president of television syndication in the black tower at Universal Studios, Shelly never adopted the “entitled” attitude of so many Hollywood executives. He never demanded a certain table at a restaurant, he treated the guard at the studio gates with the same respect with which he treated his business colleagues, and he didn’t need to wear diamond-encrusted gold watches or thousand-dollar shoes. Shelly was able to adapt to anything without feeling the least bit disappointed. He didn’t pout. He didn’t make me feel bad about anything.
I grew up in Los Angeles, the child of my divorced mom. Along with her twin sister, my Auntie Jo, they tried to raise me as best they could. I adored them both, but due to what they called “circumstances,” I didn’t get to live with them except on a weekend or a few days a month when they were off from their jobs as carhops at a hot local drive-in. Short skirts and majorette boots, combined with their good looks, equaled good tips, a nice apartment, and new cars. But there was no room for a young child in their always-changing work schedules. And so from the age of almost three until my mom remarried when I was nine, my mom paid for me to live in other people’s homes, or “boarding out,” as she called it. It wasn’t under the foster-care system, simply people who took children into their homes to live for money. My mom always defended herself by saying this was the best she could do.
My dad was never around. He disappeared right before I started being boarded out. I didn’t know him well enough to miss him. My mom and aunt never talked about him, it was almost as if he didn’t exist.
As a child I equated love with disappointment and leaving, but an adult part of me always wanted to believe in love because of the television shows I watched, the movies I saw, and the books I read. They represented a world I didn’t know as a child, but a world that I always wanted as an adult. I loved my mother despite the fact that she left me. Did she love me? I have asked that question of myself and even of my two half sisters, who were born much later when my mom remarried. The answer was unanimous: She loved as much as she could. My definition of love was jaded, unfulfilled, and distant. As an adult I didn’t know how to trust and accept love until I met Shelly. Even with him, I held back, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for him to leave. But being Shelly, he stayed.
As we made our way into our tiny den, Shelly stopped by the kitchen to pour tall glasses of iced mint tea. I sank into the comfy couch and rested my aching feet on the ottoman. Relief flooded my weary, inflamed body. My tears had stopped, but my eye makeup was a smudged reminder that we left the Oscars before they even started. Shelly sat next to me on the sofa and we clinked our glasses. “It’s good to be home,” he said, wiping away the mascara with his finger, as if he was the reason we were there. I still couldn’t believe we’d left the pageantry of the live show to watch it on TV, but as I too felt the comfort and coolness of our home, as the medication started kicking in, and as I felt the love of a man who understood, I knew this was where I needed to be. Like millions of viewers all over the world, we sat in front of our television and were caught up in the excitement of the show.
The telephone startled us. Who calls during the Academy Awards? Most of our friends an
d family knew we would be at the show. Shelly could never let a phone go unanswered, and so he picked it up.
“Hey, how you doing? Yes, we decided not to go this year. Need a break.” I knew by the tone of Shelly’s voice that he had no idea who he was talking to.
“She’s right here . . .” he said, handing me the phone.
“Steve, ah, Steve Hartman, what a surprise hearing from you. Aren’t you working the show?” I asked him, mouthing to Shelly, “The reporter from CBS, the one I styled last month, remember? Dinner, you met him.” He nodded.
“No, you couldn’t have seen us, we’re here, sitting in front of our TV,” I lied. I tried to sound as convincing as I could, but he was as persistent then as he had been in his red-carpet interviews.
“Hey Steve, you must be working too hard, I’m sitting here in my sweats watching Meryl Streep at this very moment. Yes, we’ll go shopping soon; I’ll call you to set up a date. Glad the new clothes are working. Yeah, I got a call from the news director, and he likes the direction we’re taking. Talk to you next week.”
I hung up and looked over at Shelly. He didn’t say a word. He understood why the cover-up was necessary. Before rheumatoid arthritis, lying was something I wouldn’t consider doing. After rheumatoid arthritis, it became a necessity. I didn’t feel guilty. Lies were the only way to keep this disease a secret, and there was no doubt in my mind that it must be kept a secret. One of the key components of my job was the use of makeup cover-ups, those flesh-colored concealers that hide flaws. For television I used cover-up on the makeover candidates, making them appear flawless. Now I used verbal cover-ups to hide my disease.
Shelly and I knew that in the worlds of fashion and entertainment in the early nineties people were not sympathetic about disease, especially one that was associated with disfigurement and aging. I was young, physically fit, madly in love, and at the pinnacle of my fashion career. How could I suffer from arthritis, a disease of old people with crippled hands and feet?
“Being on camera with Regis and Kathie Lee was such a positive experience. They always made me smile.”
“I loved dressing up just like my mom. She was my fashion inspiration.”
2
Sneakers to the Rescue
NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 1990 (FIVE YEARS EARLIER)
I was at the top of my game professionally, working on some of the most popular talk shows on television. I was happy in my personal life. I had been married for five months to my soul mate and best friend. My mother would have warned me in her “the glass is always empty” philosophy that it all seemed too good to be true. And as it turned out, it was.
I was working in New York on makeovers for Regis and Kathie Lee the day my first symptoms started. It seemed that out of nowhere my feet began throbbing. With each step on the busy sidewalks of the city I felt shooting pains bolt up through my feet toward my knees. My immediate thought was that I had overdone it on the treadmill. I can be a bit manic at times. A slice of cheesecake for dinner will drive me to an extra thirty minutes on the treadmill at an elevated level. I attribute it to the Jewish guilt I was learning from my new husband. And because I was well aware of the extra ten pounds the camera puts on, I had a tendency to add on those extra treadmill miles right before a television appearance. I guess you could say I was more than a bit manic.
Then it crossed my mind that my shoes were too narrow. I quickly dismissed that because they were the most incredible heels I owned. How could anything so beautiful be so painful? No, it had to be the treadmill. A good pair of sneakers would suffice through the next few days of schlepping to and from stores for styling around New York. Yes, sneakers, I would buy a pair right away.
The air had a crispness to it that let everyone know summer was over. Flying leaves floated gently to the sidewalks. Golden browns, mossy greens, and nearly pumpkin-orange leaves were highlighted against the blue sky. They crunched as I gingerly stepped on them with my beautiful but today painful black patent Jimmy Choos. Doormen from the hotels, busboys from the restaurants, and owners of small markets swept leaves into oversized trash bags to keep them from blowing inside as customers came and went. It was a hopeless job.
My job? To make over three women who had entered a contest on Live with Regis and Kathie Lee—three women who were beyond excited about the transition ahead of them. We selected them because of their potential for change. Often a good hardship story helped, but bottom line, the more I could visually change a makeover candidate, the higher the ratings. A good phone interview helped, but I had learned that there was very little television time for them to talk. It was all about the before-and-after photo. I also learned not to get too close to the candidates, a good lesson for all of television, where coworkers disappear faster than extras in a horror movie. I would have to do whatever was necessary to make changes, and I needed to keep my objectivity. Personally I liked pleasing people. Professionally I only had to please the cameras. The two were not even closely related.
I headed back to the Essex House Hotel, but not before stopping off at a corner shoe store. A new pair of cushioned sneakers hugged my swollen feet. My beautiful heels were tossed carelessly into one of the many shopping bags I carried. Each bag contained the components of the outfits I needed for the three makeover women I would dress at the studio in the pre-dawn hours the next morning. Earlier in the day my assistant had dropped off an equivalent number of packages at my hotel.
The doorman smiled when he saw me coming. “Good afternoon, Ms. Kunzelman . . . ah, sorry, I keep forgetting you’re Mrs. Schwab now. Let me take those packages for you.” He pried the tangled handles from the deep indentations they made on my hands. “There’re some deliveries for you.” Professionally I was still using my Kunzelman name, not wanting anyone to think I was trying to ride the Schwab coattails. Still, hearing the name outside the studios often took me by surprise.
“It’s confusing, I’m Schwab in my personal life and Kunzelman on TV; you can call me either one. Will you run these up to my room?” I asked. I was overdue at the salon to check on the progress of my makeover’s hair color.
“Of course, Madam” he answered, smiling at the generous tip I placed in his palm. Over the eight years I had worked in television I had learned that good tips equaled good service. I didn’t have the luxury of time for locating lost packages or hailing my own cabs. I also had an understanding for anyone who worked in any business that depended on someone appreciating your talents.
My business was all freelance. I worked from job to job. Luckily I had a lot of work, but the fear always loomed when one job was over if there would be another. Childhood insecurities made it hard for me to believe that anything was permanent.
My first “boarded out” home was with my mom’s friends Lorraine and Ray.They couldn’t have children, so when my mom approached them about taking me in they were ecstatic. After only about six months, according to my mom, they became too attached to me. My mom, being young and insecure herself, felt threatened and moved me on to my “boarded out” home No.2, Mama Dorothy’s. There was no chance that Mama Dorothy would ever become too attached to anything but the monthly check my mom wrote.
Now I was on a regular, yet still freelance, schedule with Regis and Kathie Lee. I came to New York once a month and appeared on the show sometimes for one day, other times for a three-day series and about four times a year for a week of make-overs. For fashion segments I would stay in the city for three days: one to style, one on air, and the third to return merchandise and fly home. A week of makeovers kept me in the city for about seven or eight days. Fashion segments were a formula, but each makeover was like starting over. A new person, a new challenge, and a daunting time constraint. For each day of makeovers I had only twenty-four hours to do everything necessary before going on live national television. There was no room for error, and I needed all the help I could get.
The preparation for my work was not glamorous. Frantic and stressful, but never glamorous. The first day was putti
ng it all together—clothes, hair, any necessary facial treatments like waxing, brow shaping or tinting, sometimes even dental work. The next morning on-air would be the payoff, and it had to be sensational.
My packages now safely at the hotel, I headed up 57th Street toward the salon. For anyone who hasn’t walked up 57th Street, one of the busiest streets in the city, it is quite the experience. The wide sidewalks were shoulder-to-shoulder with people moving in both directions, somehow making it all work without too many major collisions. You could tell the New Yorkers because they weaved their fast-paced bodies in and out around the tourists. They crisscrossed the streets, taking advantage of the stoplights that would halt you in your tracks for what seemed like forever. You could spot the tourists because they were busy looking up at all the interesting buildings and the store windows not only on the street level, but on the second and third levels, making them quite dangerous to other tourists who were also looking up. Unlike in most cities, some of the most prominent stores, salons, and galleries were on the higher levels. The poor visitor who stopped to window-shop was quickly reprimanded for halting the flow of walkers.
I made my usual stop for an afternoon coffee-to-go. “Iced coffee, extra light, half decaf, half regular, with sweetener. To go,” I ordered, searching for the mesh money bag in my oversized tote. Before I could get the money, the coffee was bagged and ready. It never ceased to amaze me how fast people could do everything in New York. Pity the poor tourist who needed to decide what he wanted to order when locals were lined up behind him. The coffee tasted delicious. Icy cold, but never weak and diluted in the summer and always boiling hot in the cold winter, none of those safe, lukewarm cups we got in Los Angeles. Butterscotch colored, just the way I liked it, and sweetened to perfection. I slowed my pace, just enough to enjoy my coffee without stopping foot traffic and savor each sip as I made my way back to the salon. I looked down at my aching feet. They bulged over the sides of my new sneakers and felt as if they were squished into one size too small. Had my size-nine feet grown to a size ten overnight? But enough about my feet. I had to keep my attention on what awaited me at the salon—what I knew from experience would be pandemonium.
Take Me Home From the Oscars: Arthritis, Television, Fashion, and Me Page 2
