Getting It Through My Thick Skull

by Mary Jo Buttafuoco

  It didn’t end that day. For months, the legal wrangling went back and forth. Court dates, lawyers, pleadings, you name it. It was very familiar and tiring. Joey called me frequently to complain. The authorities were plotting against him, as always. It wasn’t his fault, of course. He hadn’t done anything wrong. The usual. He was eventually sentenced to one year in prison.

  Stu and I were gravely concerned about Paul, who rapidly spiraled downward into a very dark place. His whole life collapsed the day of the FBI raid. Given his father’s troubles, he soon had no job and no place to live. Once again, Paul started drinking heavily and obliterating his mind with drugs. It was a repeat of his first dreadful year in a California high school, only this time the stakes were much higher. He was in the middle of a complete breakdown. It was plain to see that he was in a great deal of pain, and I visited him frequently at his temporary place—his girlfriend’s apartment. She was just as much at a loss as I was in terms of how to help him. Neither of us could get through.

  He spent the time he wasn’t out getting drugs lying in a darkened bedroom. He made no attempt to get a job but lived off the money he’d saved. Eventually, of course, it ran out, and soon enough the fancy truck his father had bought him was repossessed. Stu was anxious to step in and at least stave that off, but I refused to let him. I had learned a thing or two about enabling in my life. We agonized about Paul’s situation, but allowed the consequences to unfold.

  Painful as it was to see my son like this, as badly as I wanted to fix everything and make it all better, I knew I couldn’t. “You’re a man now, Paul, and you’ve got two good arms and legs and a brain. I know all too well what you’re going through, but there will come a time when you can’t use this as an excuse anymore. Your father screwed up your childhood and young adulthood, no doubt about it. Don’t let him be the reason the rest of your life is a disaster, too. The choice is in your hands,” I told him over and over.

  Practicing tough love on my son was one of the hardest things I had ever done. Stu wanted to give him money, move him into the house we’d bought together, anything and everything. But I stuck to my guns, even though for months I was worried sick. If I’d had any doubts before about my future with Stu, they disappeared forever at this time. During this crisis, Stu once again demonstrated the true measure of his character.

  Just like his mother, Paul eventually, begrudgingly, decided to get back up and start living again. Stu gave Paul work at his printing office and taught him how to work many different computer programs. He listened to Paul and did his best to offer support and advice. He was there for my son all the time, serving as a guide and role model, something his father had failed miserably to do. It was all Paul had ever wanted. I didn’t think I could love Stu more, but this sealed the deal.

  It was a terrible year for my son, with plenty of fits and starts, but by early 2005, Paul, through sheer willpower, pulled himself up by his bootstraps and began to turn his life around step-by-step. He had some help from Stu and me, of course—we were only too happy to do all we could for him once we saw him making an effort to help himself. He found an office job at a major corporation—as far away from the auto repair industry as he could get—and began to lay the groundwork for a new career. He moved into an apartment with some roommates, and though they were all young and liked to go out and have fun, he was on the right track. I could not have been more proud of him. He had been badly scarred by the years of living and working with his father, where there was little structure, stability, and appropriate father/son boundaries.

  I had just begun to relax and allow myself to stop worrying about my son when I was hit with sad news about my father. The shock I felt on hearing he’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer was aggravated by the difficulty I had traveling back and forth to Maine. For the hundredth time, I wished I lived nearby so that I could spend more quality time with him when it became clear he was nearing the end of his life. I also felt deeply for my mother and would have liked to do more for her. I took some comfort in the fact that my father and I had had such a revealing conversation a couple of years before—the closest one we’d ever had—and that he and Stu had met and gotten on famously. I felt peaceful in the sense that there was nothing left unsaid between us.

  Soon the end was very near, and I made plans to head to Maine for what would surely be my father’s funeral. I have to say that Joe was very supportive when I called to inform him of the latest news, perhaps remembering when his own father had died of cancer. Joe made a point of always asking about him, checking on his health, and staying informed about the man who had been his father-in-law for nearly twenty-five years, which I appreciated. Of course, there was some unspoken resentment on my part, the feeling of You’re the reason I’m three thousand miles away while my father is dying! I can’t sit around day after day and hold his hand like I did for yours! These words lay unsaid between us, making him only too anxious to help. “Let me buy your plane ticket,” Joe said. “No, no, I insist,” he added, as I started to demur. “Now, listen, I’ll be in San Diego this weekend, but here’s a cell phone number. Call me to let me know you’ve arrived safely,” he said before I left.

  Of course, it’s not easy to get to the boonies in Maine, so I planned to fly into New York on the red-eye, meet one of my sisters in the city, and drive with her to my parents’ home, a nine-hour car trip but still the most efficient way to get us both there as soon as possible. Unfortunately, Dad had the audacity to die on Evanka’s birthday, the day before I left. I got the call as I was packing. “Hold on, Mom, I’m on the way,” I told her, wishing I was already there. I could only imagine her grief; she’d just lost her husband of fifty years.

  I called Stu at his office, my children, and Joe, just to be polite. He answered the phone, I broke the news, and he said, “Oh, Mary Jo, I’m so sorry.” I heard a lot of squawking in the background, and he shouted, “I know it’s your birthday . . . her father just died!” Then back to me, “Go ahead, tell me what your plans are now.”

  “Ummm, am I interrupting something?” I asked.

  “No, no, it’s fine, don’t worry about it . . . he was a good man . . .” We had a couple of minutes of social niceties and then I hung up. Evanka was screaming at him at the top of her lungs in the background the whole time we were on the phone—all three minutes. Joe had met his match in this one—they had a fiery relationship, to say the least. She gave as good as she got. I had never met her, but I heard plenty from those who did, particularly my children. I was very far from being the scorned or jealous ex-wife. I actually would have liked it if Paul and Jessica could’ve gotten along with their father’s new wife. But it was clear that was never going to happen. In fact, it was still unclear as to the relationship my children would have with their own father, now that they were adults themselves.

  The consensus among experts in the field, including Dr. Martha Stout in her brilliant book, The Sociopath Next Door, is that those stuck in a relationship with a sociopath should run, not walk, away from them—for good. Not that it’s easy, but adults can manage to do this through separation and divorce. The problem becomes compounded when children are involved. Paul and Jessica had been traumatized as children by the Amy Fisher matter, and then further scarred by ongoing life with Joey. Still, he was their father, and he constantly assured them both how much he loved them. All I could say as they became adults was what I truly believed: Joe’s actions spoke much louder than the endless explanations and justifications coming out of his mouth. If our son and daughter wanted to maintain some kind of relationship with their father, I was all for it, but they should remember: as long as they didn’t believe a word he said, they would never be disappointed again.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE LIFE LIFT

  Several weeks after my father’s funeral, I turned fifty, complete with a huge family party thrown by my new family. That September, word got out that Amy Fisher would soon be appearing on Oprah to promote her new book. The news absolutely s
tunned me. This wasn’t Jerry Springer; this was Oprah, queen of the book clubs, thoughtful influencer of millions of women and readers worldwide. Many family members and friends of mine were outraged and e-mailed Oprah’s producers to express their dismay. Of all the people in the world Oprah might choose to highlight, of all the thousands and thousands of worthy books out there, why was this one so appealing?

  Jessica, at college in Santa Barbara, was particularly unhappy about this news. She fired off an angry e-mail saying, “I am outraged that Oprah, who I have always admired and looked up to as a woman of character, could stoop so low as to have an attempted murderer on her show to promote her book.” One of Oprah’s senior producers, Brian Piotrowicz, contacted Jessica and told her, “In the interest of fairness, we’d love to have your mother on the show too—and you, Jessica, are welcome to join her.” Jessica became very excited.

  “Mom, Mom, we could be on Oprah!” she said when she called me. “We don’t have to be in the same room as Amy, of course . . . we’d be separate. It could be really great . . .”

  “No, Jessica,” I told her firmly. “I’ve been around the media for way too long, and I know how producers think and work. Of course they’d love to get the two of us together somehow! I am absolutely not going on the show, and I would advise you not to either. It’s just not a winning situation for you no matter how you behave.” I didn’t want her put in the uncomfortable position of defending her father and braving a firestorm of criticism—one I knew all too well.

  Jessica was disappointed, but understood, and told Brian no. However, he stayed in contact with her, and they remained occasional correspondents. The show featuring Amy Fisher and her new book went ahead as scheduled, and I can’t say Oprah was particularly nice or welcoming to her. That much, at least, made me happy. Oprah certainly didn’t seem to embrace her or champion her book. Jessica got a bright idea and shared it with Oprah’s producer: “All these extreme makeover shows are so big right now, and it got me to thinking. My mother just turned fifty, and I would love to give her a complete head-to-toe makeover. Her self-confidence is low because of other people’s actions. I miss the vibrant, confident woman she used to be. I want to give her a Life Lift!”

  Amazingly enough, the Oprah producers responded, and Jessica called me, absolutely thrilled beyond words this time, and explained the whole concept to me. Of course, I’d have to appear on the show, probably more than once, and dig up many matters that I preferred not to go into. It had been a long, hard road to arrive at this place of peace and acceptance. Why stir it all back up?

  I discussed the idea with Stu and my mother and sisters. Eventually, I decided to go ahead and do it—as long as it was on my own terms. This meant not appearing with Amy or Joe—this show was going to be about me and my point of view. The producers were anxious to have Jessica appear, too, as it would be a newsworthy first. Jessica, at age twenty-two, had never spoken publicly about her feelings before, and this was one of the biggest stages in the world. Paul didn’t want anything to do with it. “Have a good time, ladies, but it’s not my thing,” he said.

  The show was set to air in November, during the all-important sweeps week. Stu, Jessica, and I flew to Chicago where we were put up at a luxury hotel. I was pre-interviewed the night before by the personable Brian. Now, for those of you who have ever wondered or imagined, here’s what it’s like to be a guest on The Oprah Winfrey Show: The limousine arrived to pick us up at our hotel and drove through the busy Chicago streets to Harpo Studios. We entered through a back door, where we were checked for cameras and video recorders. Security was understandably tight. We were ushered into one of the several green rooms to await our turn. I realized while sitting there that Oprah actually tapes two or three shows a day when she’s working, making for very long days for her. Bestselling author Terry McMillan, author of How Stella Got Her Groove Back, was also appearing that day to discuss her ill-fated marriage to a much younger man who had turned out to be gay. I was thrilled and flattered when she came into our green room to find me. She wanted to meet me! She couldn’t have been nicer.

  I started to get butterflies as we were taken to get our hair and makeup done. It’s taped, I kept reminding myself. Taped before a live audience, of course, but I knew that if I really screwed up, it wouldn’t be going out live all over America. I held on to that fact as we got closer and closer to our call time.

  There’s no chitchat or running into Oprah before the show. We wouldn’t see her until we were on the air. I was taken to my chair on Oprah’s set with very little fanfare. I looked out at the audience; they looked back at me. Suddenly, Oprah appeared and took her seat. I was stunned at how beautiful she was in person. Given all the endless coverage of her weight, I was also surprised to see that she was not heavy. She was an absolutely regular-sized woman. Oprah launched right into a recap of the 1992 events, and we watched some old video that literally made me cringe. It had been taken in the summer following my shooting. My hair was buzzed off. I was much too thin, spoke with difficulty, and was corrosively angry. I was sure that the image of that woman was still what people saw when they heard my name, even though that was no longer me. In fact, I barely recognized that woman.

  Then my chat with Oprah began—not my favorite topics, but she was most gracious. I was an old hand at being interviewed; it was my daughter I was worried about. What a place to have your first interview! The producers brought another chair over, and Jessica was brought out for the second segment. She came out looking beautiful and calm, but I could see her hands shaking. She was extremely nervous, of course, but did quite well. At one point, Oprah asked Jessica what she thought about the interview she had conducted with Amy and Jessica’s opinion of Amy today. “There’s no soul there. It’s kind of like the mall’s open, but nobody’s shopping.” The audience laughed.

  “The mall’s open, but nobody’s shopping! Mmmm, mmmm, mmm! I like that, Jessica!” Oprah liked that line, and Jessica was immediately much more at ease. She handled the rest of the interview like a pro. Dr. Robin joined us and analyzed Jessica’s remarks about her father, making it very clear that in her professional opinion, Joe had not been a good father, no matter how Jessica felt. My daughter and I had decided together beforehand to be very careful and diplomatic in what we said about both Amy and Joey. I could see Jessie tense up again at Dr. Robin’s words, but neither of us argued or defended anyone’s actions. The show closed with a discussion of my recent milestone birthday and Jessica’s wish to somehow give me a head-to-toe makeover.

  At the conclusion of the interview, Oprah introduced Stu, who was sitting in the audience, and motioned for him to come up onstage. She held out her arm for him, and he escorted her off the stage—a lovely gesture on her part. We all trooped backstage, got our pictures taken, and she couldn’t have been warmer or nicer. Then she was off to tape another show.

  Unbeknownst to me, a woman named Jessica Azizzadeh was sitting at home in L.A, eight months pregnant with her second child, watching Oprah that afternoon. Her husband, Dr. Babek Azizzadeh, happens to be one of the top plastic surgeons in California. He specialized in facial reconstruction of nerve damage and facial deformities. Dr. Azizzadeh did far more than beautify pampered women in Beverly Hills; he traveled extensively around the globe consulting on the most difficult cases in the most remote third-world countries, providing cleft palate and other surgeries for those who would otherwise have no hope. He was interested in the challenge my lopsided face presented, so he phoned the Oprah show and said, “I would like to help Mary Jo. I know I can do something for her.”

  A few days after we arrived back home in Los Angeles, I was given the doctor’s number by an Oprah producer and invited to visit his office in Beverly Hills for a consult. Now, I have known some real devils in my life, but Dr. Azizzadeh was a true angel sent from heaven. Dr. Azizzadeh only knew what he’d read about in the tabloids years before, so he was quite curious to meet me. I’m sure he wondered if I was totally sane and well enoug
h for plastic surgery. He soon learned that I was. We hit it off immediately.

  The more I learned about his practice, the more impressed I became. Dr. Azizzadeh is tremendously admired and respected in the medical community, and he put together a top-notch team of physicians to make me over from head to toe. “Mary Jo,” he said to me, “tell me everything you want.” What an invitation!

  He assembled the most amazing team of surgeons, including an eye doctor, an ear specialist, and a throat doctor to collaborate with him on my case. Together they came up with a very ambitious plan to fix me up—both functionally and aesthetically. He determined that I was psychologically healthy and realistic about my looks. The damage to my face and the ongoing aging process were both facts of life I had reluctantly accepted long before, so I was an excellent candidate. I was awestruck that all these brilliant doctors wanted to do something for me. They wanted to fix me, help me, and make me look and feel better.

  My days were jammed with endless doctors’ appointments. I had plenty of experience with doctors and surgical procedures, of course, but this was something new. All of this surgery was cosmetic and elective, which many people tend to take lightly, but it was very serious. It can sound very casual when people discuss it—“Oh, I’m just getting a nip and tuck”—but all surgery has risks and possible complications. We see tragedies in the news all the time—Kanye West’s mother being the latest high-profile example. A good plastic surgeon does everything in his power to ensure that his patients are viable candidates. If there are any medical problems or foreseeable complications, they will refuse to perform elective surgery. Dr. Azizzadeh was the best—the screening was extensive. I agreed that the entire process from start to finish could be taped for a future Oprah show. Suddenly, I was the star of my own little reality show. At every blood test, consultation, and doctor’s meeting, a cameraman trailed behind me.