Life Is Not a Stage (26 page)

The anger welled up in my sobs. “How could you leave me with all this mess, the lawsuit, the boat, the house! I don’t know what to do. You’d better give me a sign that everything is going to be okay.”

It was out of nowhere. From the sky came not one, not two, not three, but a whole squadron of dragonflies. They flew down and circled in front of me at the glass door. And then, as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.

Perhaps I had never paid much attention to them before, but still it all seems so unlikely. For wherever I go and no matter where I turn, I notice the presence of dragonflies everywhere. Not so long after this first incident, Shelley came running in to tell me that dragonflies were surrounding the new car I had just bought after selling John’s Cadillac. I can suddenly look down to see them woven into the pattern of a carpet. Or someone is invariably wearing a brooch that brings a smile to my face.

I interpreted what happened that morning as a real sign. I recognized that whether it was from John or from some form of higher power, they could not have sent more powerful messengers than those beautiful winged beings. I suddenly felt a deep gratitude and peace. I knew from that moment that everything was going to be okay.

No matter what form the dragonfly takes on, its appearance strengthens my belief in a realm that is largely unseen but unmistakable in its power. And it is truly uncanny how they often present themselves in one form or another when I need their message the most.

Perhaps the most beautiful manifestation of this happened only a few months after John’s death. I was visiting Lizzie and was talking about John. I went outside to her small backyard swimming pool and suddenly felt very lonely. I looked down and saw a dead dragonfly on the ground. The body had split open into two lengthwise halves, as if they had opened to let its spirit depart, leaving behind its body as this exquisite shell. I was awestruck at how perfect that moment was in its clear and articulated message of transcendence.

Part of that message is also about
trust
. When you take the leap into that uncertain void, trust gives you the sense that there will be something better there awaiting you, even in the setbacks, loneliness, and pain that are often the very catalysts to help us acquire life-changing wisdom. So many of us think, “I’m afraid, unhappy, and not feeling well, but I know what I have and it’s going to be worse if I step out of it.” If you’re living life like that, you’re not really living. You’re doing it because it feels safe, but you’re not happy to be there. As you have seen through my adventures in this book, this trust factor requires diligence, courage, and regular maintenance, because it is always being challenged on a daily basis.

Recently, I was filming a commercial for Bausch & Lomb on location on a beach in Malibu. I had become a spokesperson for the company because, once again, adversity had turned into opportunity. I had had cataract surgery in the recent past, so I could speak from personal experience about how their implanted Crystalens worked so wonderfully well. The day was long, with lots of different setups and still photo shoots sandwiched in between the film takes. Despite it being summer, the weather was overcast and the winds blowing onshore were chilling to the bone. I had been working hard nonstop for several weeks, and I had reached a certain point at which I doubted that I would have the physical energy to complete the work that day.

“Come on, I need this energy now,” I called out in prayer for help, as I have throughout my life even during the times when my faith was diminished. When we lock into that mind-body-spirit connection and do so with trust, it usually works. It did so that afternoon on the beach. I was able to pull myself together and complete the day.

Dragonflies are the oldest known living insect. In many cultures, they are a symbol of transformation, renewal, wisdom, and enlightenment. They bring about the stripping away of all illusions. They are also the keeper of the dreams that guide us to our potential. What also resonates for me is the Japanese view of the dragonfly as joyous light that reminds us that we are filled with it if we so choose to recognize it. Beyond this symbolism, they brought me something even more important that morning—a reaffirmation of faith.

CHAPTER 22

The Horse Stays in the Game

M
y life has been very nomadic. Don’t get me wrong, I love my time at home, but I still get restless. It’s a great feeling to be in demand and still in the game some six decades after taking that first trip to New York City.

One steamy hot summer day in 2010, I landed once again in New York, since it was the closest airport to my concert date. The car trip from Kennedy was brutal, the stifling bumper-to-bumper conditions adding hours to an already long journey that began earlier that morning in Los Angeles.

After such an arduous trip, you can get second thoughts. Once I got to the place where I was staying, I retreated immediately to the powder room to freshen up. Reaching for a towel, I looked up and suddenly noticed the design on the shower curtain. Imprinted on the plastic was a lovely swarm of dragonflies. That I had felt so tired and overwhelmed by the journey suddenly became unimportant. My second thoughts had vanished.

If it is true that your whole life flashes in front of you just before the moment of death, then stepping out onstage to do a one-woman autobiographical show is about the closest thing to that experience. The show I have been doing over the last two years,
All the Lives of Me…A Musical Journey
, takes on many of the same periods detailed in this book and matches them to the appropriate music—from songs my mother taught me, the Broadway hits, and of course, that little sing-along favorite that begins, “Here’s the story of a lovely lady who was bringing up three very lovely girls…”

It doesn’t matter if I’m about to perform before twenty people or twenty thousand people—I go through the same preparation and ritual as I have done for decades. It doesn’t matter how many thousands of times I’ve performed before, this is a new audience, and I want to be at my best. I am fastidious. I have to be extremely clean—my hair, teeth, makeup, and clothing all have to be perfect. As I’ve mentioned before, going onstage is a spiritual experience for me. On one side, I go there with the same feeling of respect as I would have going to church. On the other, I go out there with the excitement as though reaching out to a lover in passionate embrace. Once upon a time before hypnotherapy, I would get so nervous before a show that I felt like I would die. Today, I use that same energy for a better purpose. Before walking onto the stage, I go into isolation. I don’t like to talk to anyone. I pace. I feel like a racehorse getting into the starting gate. Just open the gate and let me go!

There’s always a question-and-answer section in the show, and it is interesting to hear what hits home. Some have questions about Ruth Helen and her family who provided the scholarship for me to go to New York. Were we still in touch? they wanted to know. At one recent show, I shared with them that we had just spent almost a week together on my way to their city. The audience seemed to be in awe that I had maintained that friendship for so many decades. I told them that I couldn’t imagine being any other way. It is so important to me to never forget those kindnesses. I think those longstanding relationships go back to that overarching concept of trust. It comes down to meaning what you say and doing what you promise.

Many times, there are also receptions right after a performance. Again, the questions keep coming. It is a humbling phenomenon how people open up to me. Part of it I know must be the comfort they feel because of the persona of Carol Brady, whom they grew to know as if I had become a member of their family. I also know that the brief telling of my life’s story through words and music on the stage pushes emotional buttons and hits common chords. Their questions may be directed to me, wanting to know more about my life and experience, but their choice of questions is always fascinating to me in what they reveal about themselves in the asking.

For example, many want to know after learning about my marriage to John whether I’m dating again and believe it’s possible to find another soul mate in this lifetime. On this topic, I don’t mince my words. There’s a lot of loneliness and dashed hopes out there, but even in these short exchanges I want to transmit something to them that may help them to shift into a more positive frame of mind.

I admit to them that I had my dark moments of doubt about this, which I have thankfully overcome. I think a person’s tendency is to think, “Oh well, I’ll never meet anyone, and I’ll never forget about him.” I had dinner with some English friends a while back. One of the women said, “Oh, no, I’ll never meet anyone. I don’t need anyone. It’s over for me. But I do have my doggies.”

I answer the question by stating that I have not folded my tent to the possibility of having a great companion and partner again. Instead, I’ve strived to live each day continuing in the same spirit that John and I had together. I often hear his voice: “Come on. Keep moving forward. Things keep opening up. That’s the only way we can evolve.” So that’s what I’ve tried to do.

I think about the times in our final years together when I’d go pick him up at the boat to go out to dinner after work. I had to drive my car as far out toward the dock as possible because his legs hurt him. He’d see the car. He would jog up the stairs knowing that it would make me laugh. He was pretending to be a misbehaving child because it was really something that he couldn’t and wasn’t supposed to be doing according to doctor’s orders. The real enjoyment was in that spontaneity, a quality I continue to exercise in sharing my life with my friends, children, and grandchildren. I’m so fortunate. If that were it in terms of my allotted ration of soul mates, it would be okay, but I’m not ready to give up.

Dating! That is a different kettle of fish at this phase of my life. For better or for worse, you do get into a set routine as you get older. And what a relief it is to not always feel obligated to unselfishly accommodate someone else and sublimate your own wishes, which I did for a great portion of my life. Once you’ve reached a state of greater peace and contentment with your life, you’re not driven by that same anxiety and grasping need to find someone to fill up some empty spot in your heart. Asking someone else to heal your wounds is a recipe for disappointment. If someone comes along who has a similar spirit and commitment to improving themselves, then you have the foundation for building a meaningful relationship. Above all, once you’ve had the real thing, it’s hard to settle for second best.

Thank God, I’ve always been a
one-man-at-a-time
woman, otherwise I’d need a social secretary just to keep track of the interested gentleman callers. Please understand that I am grateful for and flattered by all the attention. The investment banker, the former television network press agent, the philanthropist, the chiropractor, the magician, the MD, the mime, the “straight” hairdresser, and the financial advisor have all been hovering around my airspace in recent times. One of them sent me an e-mail that he wanted to come over and cook dinner for me.

“Oh, Kayla, what should I do?”

“You know what that means,” she answered with that big-sister kind of tone. In this particular case, I didn’t feel like being the dessert.

In this group, I want to especially highlight Dr. Jesse Rogers. He’s a great chiropractor, healer, and, best of all, a wonderful friend. I love him dearly. Not only does he dispense great advice on everything from health to spirituality, he’s also a great joke teller and always makes me laugh. Here is one sample:

“A guy walks into a psychiatrist’s office. He’s got a cucumber in one ear, a banana in the other, and a carrot sticking out of each nostril. So he asks the psychiatrist, ‘Can you help me? What do you think my problem is?’ The doctor says, ‘Yes, I think I can diagnose this…You’re not eating properly.’”

I do get the most interesting e-mails through my website. It’s remarkable how many of the inquiring men who write in to me are in their mid to late forties. Do the math, and I guess it’s one of those generational things. They were all probably doing their homework, drinking chocolate milk, and memorizing their multiplication tables while watching
The Brady Bunch
when it was a first-run show.

One guy, who was fifty-eight and a vegetarian, wrote in frequently and was sending me pictures of himself. He wanted to meet up. He was quite handsome, but I have not been quite ready to make the leap to online dating. I wrote him back and told him how much I enjoyed his letters, but that I didn’t have the time to continue corresponding. He wrote me back a funny and good-natured note: “Oh, I am so sorry that your life is so full. Maybe when your life isn’t so full, you can consider me.”

For anybody who wants to follow in this person’s footsteps, you can certainly feel free to line up and take a number. I will answer all of your e-mails, as I always do.

For a while, I got serious about one of my suitors. But an overseas trip we took together was enlightening, and this once charming and wonderful man turned out to be a certified control freak. Talk about demands. “You can’t do that anymore! And while you’re at it, give up those friends!” No, thank you. After our last dinner out together, he marched upstairs and got all of his stuff together.

“I think we need a break,” he said.

“You’re so right,” I concurred, and immediately this wonderful feeling of calm came over me as he was carrying his belongings out the door. “Let me help you.”

A few days later, I mailed him a nice note thanking him for all the good times, telling him how much I loved his daughter and son-in-law, and wishing him only the best. It was enclosed in the box with a pair of sneakers he had inadvertently left behind.

To get serious for a moment, there’s something of a litmus test that you have to think about at this stage, too, beyond whether or not to have sex or get into a serious commitment. After my precious years with John, the issue about being in that place of ultimate trust comes forward. Specifically, it boils down to whether or not you can be there for the other person and take care of him when he needs you. John had so much trust in me when he got sick, that I would be there by his side. On my part, there was no hesitation or question about it. Although it was physically and emotionally demanding at the end, it was such a privilege to be there for him. But a lot of people don’t have that in them, or simply don’t care enough. So you have to answer in your mind the hardcore question: “Do I care enough about this person that I would be willing to take care of him?” It’s not a pleasant thought, but I’m putting it out there because it is a reality and a choice we all have to confront.

“You really inspired me,” an older person said to me at one reception after my show. “You have such a sparkle in your eyes. You radiate such an enjoyment of life. I can tell how much you are still excited about your life.” This person was only a little bit younger than I was, but it was clear that he recognized a spark in me, something that he had probably lost and wanted to reclaim. Many are curious about why my energy seems far younger than my actual age. Have I discovered some fountain of youth? Or is it because I have a truly great plastic surgeon?

“I’ve come to this realization the last few years,” I tell them. “We can do nothing about the fact that we are getting chronologically older. It does force you to look at things that you really don’t want to look at. But once you stop fighting and surrender to that fact, it’s liberating. You can’t pretend that it’s not happening, but your spirit does not have to get old. In fact, when the spirit is truly youthful, the body does a much better job of hanging in there, too.”

Part of that liberation has come from the fact that I have confronted and cleared out many of my worst fears. But the one about taking that final big walk into the sky is still definitely a work in progress. On that account, I had a sneak preview a few years back. I was staying with Kayla out in the desert for a few days when suddenly everything shifted into slow motion—walking, breathing, speaking, thinking, and so on. I knew something was dreadfully wrong. She looked at me, and it wasn’t too long before I was in the emergency room. One of the major valves in my heart was failing. I was rushed into surgery at Cedars-Sinai. Having been through the process with John’s transition, I had fresh in my mind how serious and risky the situation was. Thanks to an incredible surgeon, Dr. Alfredo Trento, the valve was repaired with a minimally invasive surgical technology. Fortunately, it has worked like a charm since, knock on wood.

As a side note, my daughter Barbara was an angel to stay with me in the hospital during the postoperative recovery. It was a wise precaution based on a story Richard Burton told me during a dinner party. The legendary hard-living actor described his time in a rehab clinic where he was sent to dry out from a period of heavy drinking. During the night he saw all these flashing lights, as if there were moving cars in the room with their headlights beaming at him. He glanced toward the window to see if the disturbance was possibly coming from outside, but no, that was not the case. He described the vision to his doctor the next morning, thinking that he must have experienced some hallucinations due to the delirium tremens (the DTs). Again, that was not the case. The sad and bizarre reality was that someone on the night staff had brought some friends into the room as if he were some kind of freak show attraction at the circus. What he thought were headlights were the beams of flashlights from the gawkers. Barbara made sure that no one would get any “celebrity points” at my expense.