A Little Thing Called Life

by Linda Thompson

  “Yeah, I don’t do that much darning, since I don’t even know how to darn and have no interest in learning!” I answered, incredulous.

  I almost felt bad for David, that he had such an unrealistic view of a woman’s role in the world. At that time he didn’t believe that women should have careers. He found ambition in a woman to be unattractive. (Today, I’m happy to note, David seems to be much more enlightened on these issues.)

  This narrow-mindedness made things difficult—especially when it came to my acting work. During our first year together, I was still paying the mortgage on my home, which meant not only was I taking care of David—I had to earn a living. Much as I always had, I continued pursuing acting jobs, in addition to the songwriting work David and I were doing. One day I was called to read for a pilot, being written and produced by Dan Aykroyd, called Mars: Base One, depicting the first colonization of the red planet. I was to play the resident dim-witted bombshell, thanks to typecasting from my days on Hee Haw.

  I was on my way to my audition, driving through Hollywood, when my phone rang. It was one of those big, chunky car phones located in the middle of the center console. This was back when you could still talk on a handheld phone in your car without breaking California law, and so I answered while I was driving along. It was David, calling from our house.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m going to my audition,” I said. “I have an audition.”

  “This is not working for me,” he said.

  “What do you mean this is not working for you?”

  “I don’t want you to act,” he said. “I don’t want you to be an actress. I don’t want you to work like that.”

  “David, I have two little boys to raise,” I said. “I don’t get alimony or child support. You’re not paying anything for the upkeep of my house. I have a mortgage. What do you mean you don’t want me to work? I have to work.”

  But of course, it wasn’t just about me working—he was supportive of my career as a lyricist and was never threatened by my stint on Hee Haw. He simply didn’t want me to be an actress who might ever have to do a love scene.

  “I don’t want you being an actress because you might have to kiss somebody, and if you do, it’s not going to work for me.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I’m going to this audition, and I hope I get it. There aren’t any kissing scenes anyway in this part. The contract for the role is for sixteen thousand dollars a week. That’s substantial money. I can’t turn it down.”

  In spite of David’s protests, I got the part I’d auditioned for on Mars: Base One, and we shot the pilot. As fate would have it, the pilot didn’t sell. We really thought it would, too, because the very brilliant Dan Aykroyd wrote the show, and it was hilarious. It was, in fact, ahead of its time.

  Even before we were in therapy, it crossed my mind to leave the relationship when I first saw these early signs of David’s sometimes controlling nature. At this point in my life, I was no longer a complete pushover and felt the call to defend myself. Still, I didn’t like the rush of anger and indignity that arguments with David stirred up in me. That defensive person was not who I wanted to be or how I wanted to live. But I was so conflicted about the genesis of our relationship that I actually blamed myself for his behavior and the complications of our relationship. I believed that whatever came my way as a result of how we’d united was most likely my karma. I probably deserve that, I thought when he yelled and cursed and lost his temper. This was God’s punishment for my transgression, I stupidly resolved.

  I have to make this work at any cost, I thought. This man says he left his wife, to be with me. Even though he expressed to me he wasn’t happy in that marriage. I owe it to everyone involved to stick it out. Like anyone who resigns him-or herself to being in a compromised relationship, it was an insidious and dangerous conclusion that hemmed me in for years.

  But guilt was only part of what kept me there. Through my mom and Elvis, I’d developed the skill of defusing bombastic personalities, leaving me adept at compartmentalizing and making excuses for bad behavior. I had been too respectful of my mama to question her authority, even when she was in a rage that did not feel entirely justified. And I’d been too devoted to Elvis to do more than try to sweet-talk him out of his foul tempers. Those relationships, though, made it possible for me to reconcile the fact that funny, charming, talented, and otherwise wonderful David also came along with another David, who could be full of anger and controlling. I remained adept at handling this kind of unpredictable personality type, if for no other reason than I’d been there before. It was never comfortable for me, but it was familiar.

  I found myself thinking back to the first time my mother met David. She was lying there in her bed, on oxygen, clearly studying him very closely.

  “I bet you’ve got a bad temper, don’t you?” she said to him.

  David held her gaze, not in the least bit embarrassed or intimidated.

  “I bet it takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” he said.

  I couldn’t help but think: Boy, do they really have each other’s number, or what? Pot meet kettle, kettle meet pot. And of course, looking at them, grinning at each other in mutual recognition, I could understand why I loved them both as I did. Two big, passionate hearts, who sometimes let their anger rule their actions.

  My phone rang in the middle of the night, which was never good. It was my sister-in-law, Louise, calling from Memphis.

  “Linda, you need to get a flight home,” she said.

  “Oh no, is it Mama?” I asked, fearing the worst.

  “No, it’s actually your daddy.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, Sam is at the hospital with him,” she said. “He collapsed on the floor. He had a bleeding ulcer and nearly bled to death.”

  It sounded critical, and it was. I caught the next flight to Memphis, taking both Brandon and Brody with me, and hoped I would get there in time. Thankfully by that point the boys were quite used to the trip, as I’d still been bringing them with me to visit my parents once a month for the last few years.

  My dad had been a selfless saint when it came to caring for my mother. He was always patient and loving, even when her suffering caused her to be difficult and demanding. He never complained, instead internalizing all of his own fears and problems, without ever taking a moment to care for himself. And he’d developed a bleeding ulcer without realizing it. One night he went to the sink to get a drink of water and began expelling blood from his mouth. He was able to reach the phone before collapsing, but instead of calling 911, he called my brother.

  “Sam, help, I fell. I’m on the floor …” Daddy said before his voice trailed off.

  Sam rushed over there and he found our dad, his face pale white, lying in a pool of blood. Sam called the paramedics, and then, he went back to check on our mother, who was bedridden and on oxygen. Now, our mama didn’t like our daddy’s name, Sanford, and she never had. And so, for the whole of their nearly fifty-year relationship, she called him Thompson.

  “Sam, where’s Thompson?” she asked when she saw Sam.

  “Oh, Daddy, he’s just in there,” Sam said.

  “Well, what’s all that commotion?” she asked.

  “Oh, I just have some friends in there visiting,” Sam said.

  “What do you mean friends?” she asked, knowing this would have been out of the ordinary, to say the least. Sam later described to me how he felt like he was caught in a black comedy as he tried to appear casual while frantically rushing back and forth between her room and the living room, where the paramedics were trying to stabilize our dad so they could get him to the hospital. Finally, my brother had to tell our mother what was really happening, because he had to have someone else come to the house to take care of her in Daddy’s place.

  I helped as much as I could during my days in Memphis. I stayed there until Daddy was out of the hospital and things had settled do
wn to their normal routine.

  After my father’s scare, I continued to bring the boys back to see my ailing mother once a month. It was tiring to make that journey with two small children in tow, but I’m still thankful we had that time. Brandon and Brody were able to bring the biggest smile to their Mammaw’s face, even as I struggled with the pain of watching her waste away to a skeletal remnant of her once-beautiful self. I’m grateful that my sons still have memories of their grandmother and how much she adored them.

  It was a difficult time for everyone and took its toll on my relationship with David. Coupled with how raw I felt while dealing with my mother’s long, excruciating demise, I also felt like David didn’t treat me with the respect and sensitivity I deserved during these emotional times. After the problems that we’d been having, which had already landed us in therapy, this perceived lack of empathy from him felt like a sign that we weren’t meant to be. I think watching my mother’s life slowly and painfully come to an end made me more conscious of my own life and circumstances. Perhaps our differences and problems—his temper and controlling ways—were too great to overcome the good in our relationship, even considering his charm and our musical symbiosis. And so I asked for us to take a break in our relationship and see other people. We were both saddened that our relationship had gotten to this point, but he concurred that a break was probably a good idea.

  During that period, one of the men I went out with a couple of times was Dodi Fayed. I had met Dodi in London when I was there with Christopher Lambert during one of my attempts to pull away from David. Dodi was a perfect gentleman, and even though I’d only gone to dinner with him—nothing more—he invited me to his family’s yacht. Dodi called me from London and said he was sending his private jet for me and would meet me on his yacht, where I would have my own stateroom; we would cruise the Mediterranean. It sounded like a welcome respite from my problems at home. I agreed to go, and on a Tuesday, Dodi called me and said all of the arrangements had been made.

  “My jet is at the airport and waiting for you to board,” he said.

  “Dodi, I am so sorry, but I have changed my mind,” I said. “I have a bad feeling about my mother. She is back in the hospital, and I don’t want to be so far away in case I am needed.”

  “But I sent the jet for you all the way from Europe, and everything is all set up on the yacht for us to go,” he protested.

  I felt terrible about canceling, but I didn’t want to take a chance on not being there for my family if I was needed. And in truth, I wasn’t comfortable about making such a potentially big move away from David. I still loved him, after all. I spoke with my mother every day that week, and she seemed to be improving day by day. She said the doctors told her she might even be going home over the weekend. Then that Thursday night, I got a call from Sam that Mama had experienced a setback, and it didn’t look good. I scooped Brandon and Brody out of bed, and we caught a red-eye to Memphis. When we arrived there on Friday, I went immediately to the hospital, and I never left my mother’s side.

  For the last two days of Mama’s life, I sat by her bedside, holding her hand, with a treasured crucifix between her palm and mine. I felt her consciousness ebb and flow, and I cherished the warmth in the body that had conceived mine. Hers was the first warmth I had ever known, and I wanted so desperately to cling to her last bit of life and energy. I studied the face that, for all of my life, had looked at me with unconditional love.

  Mama had a single teardrop that kept forming in the corner of her weary eye. As I kept my bedside vigil, I pondered how each of us will have cried one last teardrop when we finally depart this existence. I wondered what a person’s last tear would signify. I felt that if Mama could speak through me (and I feel that she did), she would have indicated that she was crying for more time. More time to be with the people she had so generously loved here. And I know I was crying for more time to be with my beloved mother. I held her hand tightly with my left hand, while I wrote “The Last Tear I Cried” with my right.

  And the last tear I cried was for time

  For the years I spent believing time was mine

  There seemed time enough to do

  All the things I wanted to

  Thought there was time enough to say

  Words to take the pain away

  Now I close my eyes to sleep

  Knowing time’s not ours to keep

  If I could say one thing to you

  That might help see you through

  I’d say listen to your heart

  And you’ll know we’re not apart

  Don’t let your precious breath be spent

  Forming words of detriment

  Build long bridges—not high walls

  And think of me when raindrops fall

  I’ll be kissing you with sunshine

  A part of you will always be mine

  And when you’re in your darkest night

  I’ll be waiting in the light.

  I was able to tell Mama in her last moments that I finally understood what she meant when she’d said to me over the years, “There’s no love like a mother’s love.” She took her last breath on Saturday, September 5, 1987, looking straight at me as she passed on. It was wrenching to be with her when she died, but it would have been more painful not to be.

  David flew in to be with me, and Bruce flew in as well. David left before the funeral but Bruce stayed on and served as one of my mother’s pallbearers, which seemed appropriate, given that he still felt like an integral part of our family and always would. Although he was enduring deep troubles in his personal life, Bruce was still Bruce. He remained the same reliable, thoughtful, trustworthy person he’d always been, just the type of kind soul I’d want by my side during a time of loss and sorrow. My mother had loved Bruce dearly and trusted him to take good care of our family. The days in which we’d stood together as husband and wife were long gone, but his kindness and steadfastness to me during my grief was a huge reason he remained my trusted best friend. He was, and she still is, after all is said and done, the father of my beloved sons, and a person with whom I shared meaningful years of personal history. I was grateful for how the people in my life stepped up to show their support for me during my time of grief. Even though Dodi had every right not to speak to me again, he sent three dozen red roses to me upon hearing of my mother’s passing.

  After my mother died, I felt more at a loss than ever. Bruce was becoming a woman. I had two little boys to raise, knowing that someday I’d be faced with the task of explaining the unexplainable. So I reached for the lifeline that was present for me. David and I reunited and recommitted ourselves to each other. I still had reservations about many aspects of our relationship, but I was shattered and he was ready to resume being the man in my life. He was, of all things, a man who could take charge, and that’s what I needed. David was loving and comforting during this time for me. There was then, and probably will always be, a deeply felt love for David no matter our differences.

  Brandon and Brody were my ultimate comfort, though, as I grieved for my mother. Not long after she had passed away, I was with the boys and we had just finished a shower. We all had towels wrapped around our heads, turban-style.

  “Mommy, who taught you to put the towel around your head like that?” Brody asked.

  “My mom,” I replied.

  “But who is your mommy?” he countered.

  “Well, Mammaw,” I said. “You remember Mammaw.”

  Brody looked at me for a moment.

  “But Mammaw is dead,” he finally replied.

  Brandon jumped in, sensitively admonishing his little brother, “Brody, Brody! Let’s not say that Mammaw is dead. Let’s just say she’s not alive right now. For instance, if the phone rings, and I answer, and I say, ‘Hello,’ and someone says, ‘Is your mammaw there?’ I’ll just say, ‘I’m sorry, my mammaw is not alive right now, would you like to leave a message?’ Then when I get to heaven, I’ll give her the message.”

  B
randon gained the nickname “Gandhi” a long time ago for always exhibiting such wisdom and kindness. And I’m sure my mother was up in heaven, flapping her angel wings with delight and love at Brandon’s declaration.

  “Heaven Holds the Ones I Love”

  I’ve spent my life

  Building castles of dreams

  Reaching for

  Each distant star

  As tears clear my eyes

  I finally realize

  Happiness is where you are

  And I’m still a part of you

  And you’re still a part of me

  I swear I’ll always celebrate

  Your memory

  You’ll live inside of me

  Heaven holds the ones I love

  I see your eyes twinkle in the skies above

  My hopes are floating in the clouds

  The wind repeats your name out loud

  Ohhh

  Heaven holds the ones I love

  At times I’m unsure

  Why our hearts must endure

  All the pain

  And such great loss

  But look what I’ve gained

  I feel your kiss in the rain

  It’s your smile I miss the most

  But I’m still a part of you

  And you’re still the biggest part of me

  And I swear I’ll always celebrate

  Your memory

  And trust what’s meant to be

  Heaven holds the ones I love

  I see your eyes twinkle in the skies above

  My hopes are floating in the clouds

  The wind repeats your name out loud

  Ohhh

  Heaven holds the ones I love

  And in my grief and disbelief

  One thing I know is true

  Every breath I take

  Brings me that much closer to you

  Heaven holds the ones I love

  I see your eyes twinkle in the skies above