There was something else apart from the performing that I'll never forget. Remember that at this time, spring of 1994, Woody Allen's private life was in turmoil and on very public display. To watch him act and direct, you'd never think that just that morning you'd seen his face and his tribulations splashed across the front pages of New York's tabloids. I was amazed at how completely he was able to throw himself into his work. At a time when my own struggles were never far from my mind (and thankfully, still out of public view), I drew inspiration from his focus.
I took one other thing away from the experience, unexpectedly and quite by chance. On the set one afternoon, a few of us in the cast were distracting ourselves between setups by playing a game of hypotheticals. We'd come to the question, “If you could live in any era other than the present, what would it be?” Everyone tossed in their ideas and then Woody, who had been hovering distractedly at the fringe of the conversation, decided to weigh in.
“I wouldn't want to live in any time prior to the invention of penicillin,” he said.
Everybody fell out laughing—it was such a perfect, in-character response. With everything that Woody Allen was going through that spring, there was still nothing more terrifying to him than the prospect of incurable disease. And then suddenly it hit me. Hey, I have an incurable disease—and I'm laughing anyway. I must be doing okay.
Los Angeles—October 1994
Dog-eared from repeated readings during the flight from New York and stained with brown circles from my soda can, my copy of The American President screenplay was firmly tucked under my arm as I entered Rob Reiner's office. Maybe, finding it hard to believe that such a terrific script had actually come my way, I wanted to protect it, guard against the possibility that it might still be taken away.
“It's not an offer yet,” Kevin had told me before I left. “Rob just wants you to look at it and fly out to L.A. for a meeting.” Yeah, well, I looked at it and I liked what I saw. So make me an offer Rob, but I should warn you, I won't do it for a penny less than “Free.”
I didn't say that, of course, but neither did I make any secret of the fact that I thought the screenplay by Aaron Sorkin, known then for A Few Good Men and today for television's West Wing, was among the best I'd ever read. It mattered little to me that the role he was considering me for wasn't a lead; Michael Douglas, as the President, and Annette Bening, as his lobbyist girlfriend, were well worth supporting.
Rob Reiner and I talked about movies and our kids, but the conversation grew most animated when the topic turned to politics. Newt Gingrich and his “Contract with America” were dominating the national headlines, and the Democrats were only weeks away from losing control of the House. The director's face, so familiar from All in the Family that I felt as though I knew him far better than I did, ran the gamut of emotions as he passionately voiced political opinions very near to my own. His reasons for wanting to direct this film were obvious. A clever romantic comedy, it was also a timely commentary on how cynicism can sometimes be passed off as patriotism in Washington politics. So I was thrilled when he asked me right there in his office to play the part of Lewis, a fictionalized version of a well-known aide to Bill Clinton.
But I wasn't home free yet. Weeks later, just after a cast read-through in a boardroom at Rob Reiner's Castle Rock Productions, something happened that terrified me. For the first time I was convinced that Parkinson's disease was about to cost me a job.
There was a lot of happy hubbub as the actors and production staff rose from the conference table after the read-through. The morning had gone well and the mood was relaxed, though I felt a mild urgency to say my good-byes, leave the building, and get into my car. Caught up in the reading, I had forgotten to take my Sinemet; tremors were about to kick in and I wanted to be safely alone and out of sight when they did. Before I could make my escape, however, the production manager asked for the cast's attention.
“We want to get your insurance company physicals out of the way today,” we were informed. “Please wait in the lobby and the doctor will see you one at a time.”
I was stunned. Nobody warned me. But why would they have? Preproduction physical exams are routine nonevents, perfunctory once-overs by doctors working for studio insurance carriers. Usually consisting of nothing more than saying aaaah and checking blood pressure, exams are just a way for film companies to avoid hiring someone who might croak midpicture and bog down production.
My left hand began to slap uncontrollably against my thigh. I hid it in my pants pocket, dry swallowed half a Sinemet, and quickly revised my exit strategy. Now I stalled, slowing to a crawl; maybe if I was last in line the synthetic dopamine would reach my brain before I reached the doc.
I had made great strides in dealing with my illness, but I still wasn't sure how anyone else would. Better to keep it to myself. Sinemet consistently worked for me and I knew how to control my symptoms well enough that they were still years away from interfering with any production schedule. Would P.D. scare them out of hiring me? Knowing what I know now about the better side of most people, probably not, but at the time, I wasn't prepared to find out. One day I'd share my diagnosis with future employers, but it wasn't going to be today.
“Michael Fox.”
My turn. I pulled my hand out of my blue jeans. Steady as a rock. I'd dodged the bullet.
Filming The American President spanned from December 1994 through March of 1995. I enjoyed every scene, every one of the superb actors I worked with, and every day spent on the set. What I didn't enjoy so much were the days off the set. Stuck in Los Angeles and separated from my family, who had remained in New York (for reasons I'll explain later), I'd spend hours watching television, eating the same old room service meals, and trying to catch up with Tracy and Sam on the telephone. Sam was never much for talking on the phone, especially as a preschooler. In order to get any information out of him at all, I'd sometimes pitch my voice a couple octaves higher and pretend I was Mickey Mouse.
Working so far from home was hard, but what else was I going to do? Having narrowed my employment possibilities down to only those jobs that I loved, was I now going to narrow it down further to only those jobs that I loved that filmed in New York City? How about only jobs that I loved that filmed in New York City with schedules that meshed perfectly with the rhythms of my family? There were only so many projects made in New York, and none of them would have production schedules that were that predictable, nine-to-five, day in and day out. That just didn't happen in the movie business.
But in television . . . it just might be possible.
I floated the idea to my agents—who were horror-struck. Having finally positioned me in an “A” picture with a big-name director, and picking up a lot of good buzz from the studio about my performance, they felt returning to television now would be exactly the wrong thing to do. To their chagrin, I kept bringing up the subject. Sure, the conventional wisdom about returning to television was that, having already made the jump to feature films, it would represent a backward career move. But, if I had learned anything over the last four years, it was this: whatever anyone else thinks about me is none of my business.
To satisfy my own curiosity, I had them put out feelers in the television community. What I heard from the creative side was that a number of first-rate writer-producers would be interested in working with me on a new sitcom. The word from the networks was that I could essentially write my own ticket. I wasn't thinking about the money necessarily, but I was intrigued to learn that no one would have any objection to my doing a show shot entirely in and around New York City. And, incidentally, should the show succeed, the money would be pretty damn good.
I spoke to Tracy about the idea. She was hesitant: she didn't want to see me get trapped again, committed long term to something that was going to make me unhappy. But she loved the idea of us living in one place, having as regular a family life as possible.
In the short term, however, that would remain a fantasy: before production had
even started on The American President, I'd agreed to make another film in April of 1995. The third and final commitment in my Universal contract, The Frighteners, would be filming in New Zealand, of all places. Why, you might ask, in light of my desire to be at home, would I have ever agreed to do a film so far away, in another country, another hemisphere, another antipode? It's a long story, but suffice it to say that life doesn't always follow a straight line. In my case, the line took me way off course for five months. But at least by the end of the experience, I knew exactly where I wanted to go.
Cut to New Zealand. I'm living in a rental house outside Wellington, spending hour after hour watching videotapes sent to me from home. On each tape are different versions of the same thing: sitcoms—Seinfeld, Friends, NewsRadio, Frasier. In the six years since Family Ties, I'd watched very little television and I was amazed, sitting here all alone at the bottom of the world, to see how much better American TV comedy had become. Now I knew why I could never find any funny film scripts—all the truly gifted comedy writers were busy doing television.
Somewhere about halfway through my time down-under, I made up my mind. When I got back to the States, home to New York, I was also going home to television.
A couple of other factors weighed in favor of this decision. This time around, I wouldn't be working for anyone but would go into the venture as a full partner. Whoever my partners turned out to be, I would tell them up front about my diagnosis. Dr. Ropper had said there was no reliable timetable for the progression of my symptoms, but even at my most optimistic, I figured I only had another six or seven years of steady work left in me. Six or seven years, though, was the exact definition of a successful run on network television. Offering me a regular schedule, dependable hours, partners who understood my situation, proximity to my doctors, and the support of my family, a TV series represented the very best possible option for enjoying the time I had left to work at my craft.
There was this too: as I watched those tapes alone in my rented house down-under, laughing at the sophistication of this new brand of TV comedy, and taking in the laughter of the studio audience, I felt envy for the actors. They were doing what I used to do, what I loved to do, and couldn't wait to do again. So, ultimately, I heeded Confucius: I chose a job that I loved.
SUMMER OF SAM
New York—1994
SAM:Why do you keep wiggling your hand like that?
ME: I'm not really wiggling it, it just wiggles all by itself.
SAM:Is something wrong with it?
ME: Yeah . . . well no, not my hand. You know how every time you want to run or jump or throw a rock you have to tell your brain first, and then your brain tells your body what to do?
SAM:Your brain won't tell your hand to quit wiggling around?
ME: Exactly . . . the part of my brain that talks to my hand doesn't work too great.
SAM: You don't always wiggle.
ME: No, if I take a pill, it can fix the broken part of my brain for a while. But sometimes all I have to do is play a trick on it to make it stop.
SAM:You can trick your own brain?
ME: My own brain and my own hand—both at the same time. It's kind of a secret, but if I show you how, will you help me do it sometimes?
SAM:Yeah!
Parkinsonian Tremor is often referred to as a “resting tremor.” That is, it occurs when the affected limb is at rest, or in an attitude of repose. (Interestingly, this doesn't apply to sleep, when, in all but the lightest phases, decreased brain activity virtually eliminates any muscle contraction and the tremor disappears.) Any willed movement can diminish or even suppress the tremor, at least momentarily, though it will reassert itself as soon as the limb settles into a new position. This is why, especially in the earliest stages, I was able to mask trembling through the most basic of manipulations: by picking up and putting down a coffee cup, twiddling a pencil or threading a coin through the fingers of my left hand. To keep this up at work or in public—another tiny repositioning every four or five seconds for hours at end—was an effective bit of sleight of hand, but it also exhausted me. And it was lonely work; whatever anybody thought I was doing at any given moment, I was at the same time also busy doing something else. I was, literally, driven to distraction.
In the spring of 1994, as I became more willing to recognize and accept P.D. as a fact of (my) life, I realized that I had been playing these tricks on my family as well. My unwillingness to let Tracy and Sam see a version of me any less than ideal put a certain distance between us that, I decided, would no longer do. So I lowered my guard at home, allowed myself to be open with my symptoms around my family. What a relief it was to relax for a change. Their reactions were a welcome surprise. Tracy, of course, didn't see anything she wasn't already acutely aware of. She was simply relieved and encouraged by my renewed trust. For Sam, now, the revelation of my symptoms was not the source of concern that I'd feared it would be; it was more a point of interest and curiosity of the kind that sparked the conversation at the top of this section. The utterly straightforward thrust of his questions taught me much about my son, and the way I found to share my reality with him taught me a lot about myself.
This is how it happened that when Sam was not quite five years old I taught him that if he saw my hand wiggling he could squeeze my thumb, or twist it slightly to make it stop.
“Then,” I instructed, “count to five and give it another squeeze or twist, and you can trick it into staying still.”
He experimented for a few minutes, at first counting aloud, and then in his head, making eye-contact and nodding to let me know it was time to give a squeeze. I could see his delight in getting the timing down, short-circuiting the wiggle every time. But once he understood that it always came back, I detected a slight look of uh-oh, what have I gotten myself into?
“You know, Sam,” I assured him, “this doesn't mean you have to do it every time. Not like it's your job or anything, only when you feel like it.” His face brightened again.
“You can do it yourself still, right?”
“Right,” I said.
Sam thought this over and then, “But I do it better.”
“Definitely,” I laughed. “And besides, I just like it when you hold my hand.”
Sam's childlike willingness to accept my condition without dwelling on all its implications had a powerful influence on me. I'd conditioned myself to relate to the symptoms of the disease strictly as evidence of loss, of facility and freedom being taken away, but Sam's reaction suggested other possibilities. His curiosity awakened my own. If my condition could provide an opportunity to communicate so honestly and intimately with my son, what else might it bring? Clearly, to Sam, I was still “Dad,” just “Dad with a wiggly hand.” Was it possible that I could look at things the same way, that I was still me—just me plus Parkinson's?
Often that spring, I felt like a younger version of myself—like the Chilliwack me, pedaling my bike across the back lawn while dangling a garter snake, consumed once more with the possibilities of today. Yesterday's losses and tomorrow's trials were no longer the only poles of my existence—there was another place I could settle, and Sam had a lot to do with showing me where that was. The threat of time passing, hurrying me toward an uncertain fate, began to fade.
“Never play the result” is one of the golden rules of acting, itself perhaps the most childlike of all professions: exploratory play, let's pretend, are at its heart. For an actor, to play the result is to concentrate on where a character may find himself at the end of the scene or play, instead of where he is at a given point in the drama. The journey or arc, and the dramatic possibilities of the present—where the future and one's path into it are, as in life, unknown—get short shrift. No matter the setting, a performance, like life itself, comes down to a series of choices, each one informing the next. However unexpected, whatever occurs along the way—a lost prop, a fellow actor inexplicably wandering off-script and improvising, or even the walls of the set crashing down
onto the stage—must be incorporated. Otherwise, you might as well just drop the curtain, now.
I found myself doing the strangest and most wonderful things that spring. Like sitting at the dining room table, Sam perched on my lap playing with a plastic dinosaur, while a math tutor schooled me in the finer points of the Pythagorean theorem. For so long I'd affected a mock pride at having accomplished great things in life without ever graduating from high school, but in truth it had always bothered me. After talking this out with Joyce over a few sessions, I realized that although my dropout status may once have been a matter of circumstance, as the years passed it had become a matter of choice. If my failure to get a diploma bothered me—if it didn't fit with my idea of who I was today—then I could choose to do something about it. And so at the tender age of thirty-two, with my son registered to begin kindergarten the next fall, I applied to take the General Equivalency Diploma test.
After a few hours with the tutor (math was the only area where I felt vulnerable—those damn absolutes) spread out over a couple of weeks, I was ready. In the cafeteria of a lower Manhattan high school, sitting with a group of two hundred or so students of all ages, I breezed through the five-part G.E.D. exam. (I even managed to score sixty percent in math.) I had become one of the more unlikely members of the class of 1994. And, as it is for so many others, the summer after graduation was one of the best of my life.
Vermont–Martha's Vineyard—Summer 1994
We divided our time that June, July, and August between the two places we loved the most: the first half of the summer we spent at our farm in Vermont, and the second half on Martha's Vineyard. I had never been more happy in my life, and that particular summer stays with me like a treasured dream. In Vermont there are two old willow trees so close by the banks of the farm's pond that in summer the surface of the water resembles a speckled green impressionist painting. A rope swing is fixed to one of the higher limbs of the taller tree. With Sam's arms around my neck and his long skinny legs wrapped around my waist, I'd grip the rope and together we'd leap from our picnic table launching pad, arcing out over the water. At the very top of the pendulum, I'd let go and we'd shatter the mirror full of leaves. Crawling onto shore, giggling hysterically, we'd shake cool water onto Tracy, sunning on a granite boulder, and swear up and down that we could actually see the trout scatter as we dropped.
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