Tippi: A Memoir

by Tippi Hedren

  I apparently needed a good lesson in “Never say never,” because, believe it or not, I got engaged again.

  In my defense, this time it really did seem like a great idea.

  We’d known each other very well and admired each other for many years.

  It’s an understatement to say that we had a lot in common.

  We lived less than a mile from each other, just close enough, just far enough away, which suited us both.

  We had one of those rare relationships that evolved slowly and reciprocally from friends to lovers.

  You’ve read his name several times in the last many chapters.

  I got engaged to Dr. Marty Dinnes, Shambala’s first official veterinarian, brilliant and internationally renowned for a practice dedicated to the care of nondomesticated animals.

  I’m not sure which of us was more surprised when we realized we’d fallen in love, but everything felt so right about it.

  We’d been romantically involved for about a year and a half, and we were celebrating New Year’s Eve together, ready to ring in the year 2000. I was on the phone with my sister Patty when, in the middle of the conversation, Marty said, “Here,” handed me a little black velvet box and I opened it to find the most gorgeous engagement ring I’ve ever seen. It literally took my breath away, and caught me completely off guard. We’d talked about getting married, but we’d never made any decisions or plans.

  I quickly wished Patty a happy New Year, hung up the phone and said yes.

  Neither of us was in any hurry to get married. In fact, Marty had known me through two different husbands, both Noel and Luis, so he understood why I wasn’t leaping up and down to set a date and start picking out china patterns.

  It was a busy, stimulating, interesting engagement. I was a working actress and, at the same time, committed heart and soul to Shambala, the Roar Foundation, and wild animal protection legislation. Marty was keeping up with his local practice while being flown all over the world to care for the widest possible variety of nondomesticated animals at preserves, zoos, and marine parks. We were two independent, strong-willed people, both of whom enjoyed our privacy, so there was no clinging, no neediness, no arguments if one or the other of us wasn’t available. Most of all, we respected each other, and we were unflinchingly honest with each other . . . I thought.

  It was eight years into our engagement.

  I was very hard at work on legislation that would make it illegal to declaw wild cats, which, to oversimplify my opinion on this, is like sending soldiers into battle but not allowing them to take their weapons with them. How dare we humans disable wild cats to make them easier and safer for us to deal with, when the truth is, thanks in part to big-game hunters and poachers, they’re in a lot more danger from us than we’ll ever be from them.

  I wrote an impassioned letter to the lawmakers in Washington outlining the bill I was proposing and the reasons behind it.

  Marty and I had many long conversations about the declawing of wild cats. He was as strongly in favor of it as I was opposed to it. He’d even declawed countless wild cats himself. It was one of those issues between us in which the only compromise we ever reached was agreeing to disagree.

  I was entitled to my opinion.

  Marty was entitled to his.

  What he wasn’t entitled to do was write an eleven-page letter to Washington, as impassioned as mine, defending his advocacy of declawing nondomestic big cats and essentially encouraging lawmakers to dismiss my letter—and sending that letter behind my back, without mentioning a word about it to me.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry or felt more betrayed in my life. If he felt morally compelled to write the letter, fine. I wouldn’t have liked it and would have tried to talk him out of it, but in the end, I would have understood that we all do what we have to do when issues come up that really, really matter.

  But behind my back? Really? It was sneaky, it was premeditated, it was a huge lie by omission, it was something I would never have tolerated from someone who called himself my friend, let alone someone who claimed to love me enough to want to marry me.

  I wasn’t about to commit the rest of my life to a man I clearly couldn’t trust.

  I broke off the engagement.

  He wasn’t happy about it. I didn’t care. Two nights later I was alone in my office at seven p.m. when he marched in and said, “I want the ring. Now.”

  It was a gorgeous, gorgeous ring, but he’d taken away the intention and the meaning behind it anyway.

  I gave him the ring, and that was the end of that.

  We still live less than a mile from each other, and we run into each other at the supermarket from time to time and make polite small talk. He recently told me, for example, that he’s currently boarding and treating a kangaroo, which is as far as the conversation went.

  I have conflicted feelings about him. I don’t miss my fiancé, but I think I’ll always feel the loss of a friend and brilliant, dedicated veterinarian who taught me so much and saved animals’ lives at Shambala.

  Since that engagement ended, I’ve been the most contented single woman I know, and mark my words, this time I’m staying that way. I’ve already got all the headaches I can handle, and you have no idea how much I wish I were kidding.

  It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when I started suffering from chronic debilitating headaches. I’m sure being bitten on the back of the head by a lion contributed to the problem, and the collision between my left temple and the metal rail of Noel’s hospital bed that cost me my senses of taste and smell couldn’t have helped. But despite the best efforts of a lot of very capable doctors, starting in the early 1990s the severe headaches became my almost daily companions. They weren’t migraines. They started at the back of my head and worked their way toward my forehead, and I tried everything to get rid of them—acupuncture, chiropractic, a variety of prescribed medications, Botox shots, you name it. Nothing helped.

  In 2005 I had a spinal fusion. For the first time in years I had hope. It made a huge difference, and I actually started imagining a pain-free life.

  Then, on June 22, 2006, I was on a soundstage in San Diego, filming a short-lived TV series called Fashion House. I was in a nightgown and slippers and using a walker for the scene, just standing there minding my own business waiting to hear the word “Action!,” when suddenly, from somewhere high, high above me, a powerful deluge of water came flooding down directly on my head. If I hadn’t been holding on to that walker, it would have knocked me off my feet, and incredibly, it didn’t hit anyone but me.

  I found out later that it was caused by an accumulation of water from a blocked air-conditioning condensation tube. The press couldn’t resist commenting on the irony that the blockage seemed to have been caused by a bird’s nest, with a variety of headlines like “Tippi Hedren, Star of ‘The Birds,’ Injured in Bizarre Stage Accident Caused by Birds.” I didn’t much care what caused it, I was just devastated that, through no fault of my own, the headaches came roaring back.

  I hired a lawyer to file a lawsuit against the obviously negligent studio facility. This was a highly recommended attorney, referred by a close friend, so it was very confusing when I kept hearing nothing from him and kept getting the same response when I’d call to ask what was going on: “It’s coming along.”

  I’ll spare you—and myself—the seven years of legal wrangling it took to put this nightmare to rest once and for all. The highlights are simply that the studio was let off the hook based on the statute of limitations, and I ended up winning a lawsuit against my attorney for malpractice. The jury awarded me $1,483,708.

  The lawsuit and the amount of the award were highly publicized, and almost immediately we saw that donations to the Roar Foundation dropped significantly. It was understandable—how hard up could a foundation possibly be, after a sudden influx of almost a million and a half dollars?

  Which might be true if we’d actually received a sudden influx of almost a million and a half dollars
. The truth is, as happens in so many court settlements, we ended up seeing only a small fraction of that amount over a period of time.

  So just to set the record straight, the Roar Foundation is still alive and well and deeply grateful for, and in need of, any and all donations to support our precious animals.

  Since the deluge accident, I’ve had countless tests, X-rays and MRIs. One doctor, after examining the MRI results, asked if I’m left-handed. I explained that I’m actually ambidextrous—I sew and do other crafts with my right hand, but I write with my left.

  “You lucked out,” he told me. “If you weren’t consistently using the left side of your brain, the concussion you suffered from that fall in 1982 would have left you unable to walk or talk.”

  Suddenly losing my senses of taste and smell didn’t seem quite as horrible compared to what might have happened.

  In late 2014 another doctor took a look at my X-rays and asked incredulously, “How are you holding your head up?”

  He strongly recommended neck surgery, as soon as possible. If he’d strongly recommended I take up nude skydiving, I swear I would have agreed to that if it would make this pain go away.

  In February of 2015 I underwent neck surgery. I was too excited to be nervous about it, thinking finally, after two decades of searching, someone had finally found the source of the problem and come up with the solution.

  It was a ten-hour surgery, ten nonstop hours of anesthesia essentially polluting my body. I ended up with two steel plates in my neck. I was in a neck brace twenty-four hours a day for eight months and still wear it when I sleep.

  It didn’t help. In fact, the aftermath has been headaches that sometimes immobilize me, so that it’s hard to commit to invitations, knowing that I might wake up that morning in too much pain to get out of bed. I had to cancel a private Oscar party and a trip to London this year, both of which I was really looking forward to.

  I fight my way through perpetual exhaustion and depression. I don’t have time for them, and I refuse to live like that. I’ll continue to blame all that anesthesia for some of these aftereffects—but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them get in the way of living my life the way I want to live it.

  I can’t begin to count the number of doctors, orthopedists, neurologists, and headache specialists I’ve been to. When even Scripps Health can’t help you, you start to get discouraged. I did have to laugh at a very recent headache specialist who, after looking at all my medical records, X-rays, and MRIs, handed me a bottle of pills he thought would be helpful and added, “although you might find that they make you forgetful.” Sure, I’ll start taking those right away, while I’m in the middle of writing my memoir. That would be a big help. I left without the pills, whatever they were.

  There are hours now and then when I feel discouraged enough to just resign myself to living like this. Then I get over it. “I’m not going to do that anymore.” I cannot and will not believe that no one can help. I know there’s someone somewhere who will run exactly the right tests, look at exactly the right results in some new way, and say, “Oh, here’s the problem! And here’s what we can do about it!” I’ll keep looking, and someday I’ll find that someone. You’re out there, I know you are!

  I did get some relief a few days ago from a certified hypnotist named Catherine Hickland. I wouldn’t claim, nor would she, that she cured my headaches. What she did do, though, was give me a very welcome respite from the constant stress that comes with chronic pain. I hadn’t realized how much tension I was living with until I felt it leave my body, and I’ll be diligent about the relaxation techniques she gave me.

  None of this is intended to be my way of inviting you to my pity party. Don’t bother showing up—I’m not throwing one. I just wanted to share my experience and let you know that if you’re one of the countless people who suffer from chronic pain, you’re not alone, and I promise not to give up the search for a solution if you don’t. The only caveat is, a solution that turns us into zombies is absolutely off-limits. We owe ourselves, and the people and animals who love us and count on us, a whole lot better than that.

  Seventeen

  All in all, it’s been a pretty amazing life for a small-town girl from Minnesota whose only dream was to be a figure skater. And I’m not done yet.

  I never set out to be famous, or a model, or an actress, or an animal rights activist, or a humanitarian. I just went where my heart led me, once I decided that being afraid was something I wasn’t going to do anymore, and it led me on an extraordinary journey.

  When I was preparing to write this book I did some research on myself and made a list of awards I’ve received for—you guessed it—acting, animal rights activism, and humanitarianism, all of which I would have missed out on if I’d let fear rule my life. (In case you’re interested, you’ll find the list in the appendix of this book.)

  Every one of those honors is on proud display in my museum at Shambala, including the most recent one that truly left me speechless. In 2016 Melanie invited me to be her date at the Hayari Paris Hollywood Beauty Awards. The Timeless Beauty Award winner: Melanie Griffith. When she went to the podium to accept that lovely trophy, my daughter didn’t just dedicate it to me, she presented it to me.

  As if my daughter of great fortune hasn’t already given me enough by being the love of my life and then compounding that love with my three precious grandchildren, Alexander, Dakota, and Stella, who call me Mormor (the Swedish word for grandmother). After all she and I have been through, separately and together, the fact that we’re closer today than we’ve ever been is a daily reminder that mistakes, second-guesses, question marks, and all, I am so blessed.

  Melanie gave me the two greatest birthday parties of my life, one for my seventy-fifth and one for my eightieth, both of them in her gorgeous house in Hancock Park. No one throws a party like Melanie. Family and friends flew in from everywhere, including Minnesota, Oregon, and New York. There were magicians and fortune-tellers and palm readers—I’ve never seen anything like it. Yes, there were seventy-five candles on the first cake and eighty on the second, and yes, Antonio had to help me blow out eighty candles. But how can I possibly mind growing older with my generous, creative daughter on hand to surround me with so much fun and so much love?

  I wake up grateful every morning to the sight and sounds of the big cats enjoying their twice-daily playtime, once just after sunrise and the other at twilight—several minutes of silly wrestling, chasing, pouncing, and standing on their hind legs for the big-cat version of patty-cake, accompanied by affectionate moans and growls.

  I get out of bed and never, ever miss doing my exercises—a lower-body routine to keep my legs strong, and an upper-body routine with weights to strengthen my arms. (I do think there’s a design flaw to us Women of a Certain Age, by the way, when it comes to our upper arms. No exercise in the world seems to get rid of that unsightly, pendulum-like droop, and I miss wearing sleeveless clothes in public.)

  Once I’m showered and dressed, I put on mascara, whether I’ll be seeing anyone that day or not. I have very long eyelashes. I can’t take any credit for them. They were a genetic gift, and I express my appreciation by giving them a little attention every day. And then, of course, there’s the fact that without mascara, I have no face at all.

  I also put on Joy perfume every day, even though I can’t smell it myself. It’s a habit since my teens, and I’m not about to give it up now.

  Then I dive into a day that’s as busy as my headaches allow, with time out for The Bold and the Beautiful. I’m sure there are other daytime shows I would enjoy, but a half hour is all I’ll allow myself. There are interviews, meetings, and doctors’ appointments; there’s correspondence to be taken care of; and there are hours in my office administrating a private wildlife preserve—not very glamorous, but never boring, either.

  As often as possible there are fundraising activities for the Roar Foundation, including our wonderful monthly Shambala safaris. Come take a safari with us n
ext time you’re in Los Angeles. You won’t see any “funny” animal tricks or big cats in ridiculous costumes. You’ll just see, and probably hear, some of the most exquisite creatures on earth, dignity intact, living out their lives loved and cared for and safe.

  And at the end of every day, I set aside time for meditation—my way. I don’t sit on a mat with my legs crossed. I’ve tried that, and all I ended up meditating about was how much I wished I weren’t sitting on a mat with my legs crossed.

  My daily meditation is a long walk along the paths and footbridges between the spacious compounds of Shambala’s forty acres, checking on the big cats, talking to them, and soaking in the privilege of knowing each of them so well. They’re each so different, each with their own distinct personalities and sounds, as individual as people. Those who are awake come to the fences, I put the back of my hand against the chain link so they can lick me hello and we walk and talk side by side to the end of their compound. Those who aren’t awake are often snoring like buzz saws, which always makes me smile—so much for dignity.

  There’s life among the compounds, and history and strength and survival. There are graceful creatures all around whose every move and every sound are honest, uncomplicated, unapologetic inspirations of lives lived without pretense. There are beautiful four-legged reminders of where I’ve been and the seemingly haphazard path I took to get here. But looking back, I can’t help but wonder if there was anything haphazard about it. Maybe I planned it ahead of time without realizing it. Maybe I just got lucky. Maybe all that matters is that I’m here.

  The only thing I’m sure of is that this is where I belong.

  Thank you for taking this walk with me through my last eighty-six years.

  I have to admit, when the idea of writing a memoir first came up, I didn’t exactly leap at it. I wasn’t afraid of it, I just found it daunting. There was so much to tell and so much to say, I couldn’t imagine how to sort it all out, let alone make sense of it.