Stress and Sleepless Nights
At least the feeding part went well. Mattie took to breastfeeding right away, and by her two-week checkup she was thriving. But during the third week, I began to notice that she was crying more and more . . . particularly after she nursed. I made sure that she was burped adequately and that everything else was fine, but she would cry and pull her knees up to her little chest in a fetal position. It was clear that her stomach was hurting.
When I made a call to one of my friends with three daughters who had survived infancy (along with their mother), she informed me that Mattie had colic. In the months that followed, I acquired a tremendous amount of advice, both solicited and unsolicited, on how to relieve colic. Mothers, grandmothers, professionals, and strangers who stopped me on the street all gave input about Mattie’s condition, and I could have written a book. Oh, wait, I am writing a book. But not about colic. Never mind.
Unfortunately, nothing helped. By now all the relatives had returned to the peace of quiet Newnan. Alan was out of town, working at least four days of each week. It didn’t take long for me to think that I had made a big mistake, or at least that I was the most incompetent mother in the world.
* * *
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG FOR ME TO THINK THAT I HAD MADE A BIG MISTAKE, OR AT LEAST THAT I WAS THE MOST INCOMPETENT MOTHER IN THE WORLD.
* * *
Alan was always a smart thinker and a good problem solver, but he would get so distressed that the baby was crying—and that he couldn’t relieve her pain—that I felt like I needed to take her away, out of his hearing. It was almost a relief when he and his band would leave town on Thursdays.
As the weeks dragged on, we resorted to anything that might possibly help. We put Mattie on her stomach on top of the dryer while it was on, at the suggestion of a friend who had heard that the warm vibrations would soothe a colicky baby’s stomach. It might have distracted her for a moment, but it was no solution. We even tried running the vacuum cleaner near her after someone told us that that had helped her infant. The vacuum helped our rugs, but not our baby.
The only temporary solution came from above. My friend and our upstairs landlord, Donna Thompson, would come down to our basement apartment after she arrived home from work. Donna was an angel in disguise: she would bring a hot meal; insist that I take a warm, relaxing bath; and take Mattie outside, far enough away so that I could not hear her crying. That short intermission from the howling did more for my soul than Donna will ever know.
One night we were invited to dinner at the home of country great George Jones; he and his wife,Nancy, had become wonderful friends. It was a lovely evening—except that Mattie cried the entire time. Alan made light of it, crediting it to the fact that the baby’s infancy had thus far been spent in a basement apartment. “You’d cry too,” he told George and Nancy, “if you were seeing light for the first time!”
Moving Up: Out of the Basement
When Mattie was two and a half months old, Alan’s success was such that we could do something about our housing. We left the little basement apartment, with its calico curtains, old couch, dented mattress, and the brown shag carpeting.Now that we had some money,we could upgrade, so Alan located a beautiful brick home in the nicely landscaped, lovely neighborhood of Burton Hills in a very desirable area of town.
The house belonged to Crystal Gayle, and she rented it out now and then. Our “yard sale” furniture would not look quite right in it, to say the least. “That’s okay,” Alan told me. “You just go and get stuff, whatever you want. We can afford it now.”
We had not had the money to buy furniture or accessories before. I didn’t really even know what I liked—or, more important, what Alan would like. He had always made every major purchase, and I had always been happy with what he wanted.
The very thought of taking Mattie to furniture stores while I browsed made me nervous. What if she cried incessantly? Would the store clerks think of me as a bad mother? I couldn’t control Mattie’s crying at home, so how was I going to be focused enough in a store to buy furniture? I began to feel more and more inadequate . . . and the longer I did nothing, the worse I felt.
Moving day arrived, and Alan was on the road. His parents came to help me, and we arrived at our new home to find that the workmen who had refinished the hardwood floors hadn’t exactly finished in time. When I walked in, holding my screaming baby, the floors were still sticky with stain and gluey polyurethane.
It was a last-straw moment. My husband was out every night, singing to screaming women who were throwing their personal clothing onto the stage . . . and here I was, without him, and we couldn’t even move into our home because it had glue-trap floors. I burst into tears.
If Alan had been with me, we would have probably laughed about it and come up with a solution as a team. Without him, the floor problem felt like yet another sticky wicket I had to pass through on my own . . . and another daunting reality that was so different from my happy expectations.
The floors eventually dried, and we moved in. Over the next few months, whenever Alan came home from the road, he was disappointed that I hadn’t made much progress with furnishing the house. He wanted me to be able to enjoy the new life we had always wanted.
* * *
MY GROWING DEPRESSION MADE ANY TASK SEEM ABSOLUTELY OVERWHELMING. SOMETIMES IT TOOK ALL MY EFFORT TO EVEN GET UP IN THE MORNING.
* * *
My depression made any task seem absolutely overwhelming. Sometimes it took all my effort to even get out of bed in the morning. Since our move, I had lost Donna’s wonderful support, and Mattie was a huge challenge. And now Alan—ever so capable and confident—was hoping for me to take pleasure in our lovely but intimidating new life. I was so down on myself that even though he wasn’t trying to control me, I felt like he would second-guess every choice I made, so I didn’t make any choices at all.
Alan did everything he could think of to lift me out of my dark valley. He took me on an idyllic trip to Hawaii, encouraged me to get whatever help I needed. He desperately wanted me to feel better.
“Nisey, you’re going to be all right,” he’d say. “You can have everything that you want now,” he’d say. “We have a beautiful new baby, my career is going great . . . why can’t you be happy?”
I asked myself the same questions. I felt like there had been too many changes too fast. Within a few months I had stopped working at the job I loved, had a baby, and moved into a big home that felt overwhelming. Alan was suddenly America’s new country heartthrob and was gone at least four days a week. I was on a runaway train barreling down the tracks. I had no control over it, I didn’t know how to stop it or even slow it down, and sparks were flying.
One evening we went out to eat at a local restaurant. Mattie began to get fussy, and some people around us were already noticing who Alan was. Rather than cause a disturbance, I thought that I could calm Mattie by nursing her under her receiving blanket. I draped it over my shoulder as I held her close.
But she began to scream even harder, flailing her little arms, and to my surprise, actually pushed the blanket off me. I was exposed—briefly—and humiliated for much longer. I was sweating,my heart was pounding, and I would have turned back time if I could. I just wanted my old life back, the life I knew, with Alan at home, free from demands I could not handle.
Buses, Buddies, and Bidets
Meanwhile, after four years of rejections and setbacks, Alan was finally living his music dream, big-time. He bought his first Silver Eagle tour bus with a loan from our newest best friend at SunTrust Bank, Brian Williams. Alan and his band rolled in style all over the country, opening for Loretta Lynn, Conway Twitty, George Jones, Merle Haggard, Alabama, the Judds, and other headliners.
During this time Alan played a big club one night to a sold- out crowd. His tour manager, Carson, told Alan that when he was finished, he should just exit stage left, go through the door there, and Carson would be waiting to escort him to the bus.
&
nbsp; Alan played his show, finished his last song, and waved to the cheering crowd. Then he turned and walked off the stage to the right. He found the door, opened it, and strode confidently through, still exhilarated by the crowd’s enthusiasm.
* * *
AS HE WENT OVER THE THRESHOLD, HE FELL OUT OF THE DOORWAY AND INTO A PITCH-BLACK VACANT LOT OUTSIDE.
HE HAD GONE OUT THE WRONG DOOR, AND HERE HE WAS, THE BIG NEW STAR, STUCK IN WAIST-HIGH WEEDS AND TRASH OUTSIDE THE THEATER.
* * *
As he went over the threshold, he fell out of the doorway and into a pitch-black vacant lot outside. He had gone out the wrong door, and here he was, the big new star, stuck in waist-high weeds and trash outside the theater. It was so dark that he could not see a thing. He just stood there . . . and then within two or three minutes, he saw a flashlight beam bobbing through the weeds. It was his manager, coming to rescue him.
“Alan!” Carson whispered. “Pssssst! Alan! Over here!”
Soon Alan was in safer venues. His first yearlong tour had him opening for Randy Travis, who was selling out 20,000-seat arenas.
This was heady stuff. Other than the isolated and sometimes grimy bars where he had played in his lean years, Alan hadn’t really been much of anywhere except Florida a few times, a big trip to Washington, D.C., when he was twelve, and family camping trips to Alabama.
Now he was traveling the country, lavished with attention. It was all so new. He still remembers staying at his first elegant hotel. He walked into the bathroom, and there was a strange device he’d never seen before. It was next to the toilet, a low, ceramic basin with faucets and spray. He knew it wasn’t a water fountain. He knew it was in the bathroom for a reason. It was a bidet, of course, but Alan had never heard of such a thing.
Even if he didn’t know what a bidet was back then, he was still a star. On tour, people could not get close to him unless they had an “all-access” pass.He was escorted everywhere, even in the secured areas, by his tour manager. Just hanging out with the crew and band at each venue was energizing. They’d do a sound check together in the afternoon, have a catered meal somewhere in the building, and then shower and relax on the bus until time for the show.
Afterward, they often had pizza and beer brought to the bus. They’d debrief on the particulars of the show as they headed off to the next city, laughing at funny things that had happened, from missed notes, forgotten lyrics, or other train wrecks, to crazy things that extreme fans would do.
When they went out to eat, one of the band members had the habit of getting into the restaurant first, ordering his food first, and expecting to get his order first so he could eat first. (Maybe he had issues about being a youngest child and had grown up hungry or something.) Alan would always quietly take the waiter aside, slip him some cash, and tell him to mess up this person’s order or to bring it out long after everyone else had been served. The guy never could quite figure out why, for years on the road, he was always served last. (Eventually Alan told him what he’d been doing, and the band all had a big laugh.)
Aside from the camaraderie and acclaim on the road, Alan could also look forward to coming back to a real home done up in real style. This, too, was a reminder that he’d achieved his dreams, that his long-sought success and status were now a reality. All was well . . . at least as far as he was concerned.
Chapter 10
SPOTLIGHTS AND SHADOWS
I tried to stay on the straight and narrow
But I’ve walked a crooked path
and I’ve felt worthy of forgiveness
and deservin’ heaven’s wrath
Right on the money and off by a mile
Ahead of my time and way out of style
Harry Allen and Gary Cotton, “Life or Love”
Of course I was happy about Alan’s career success. It was our dream come true. I laughed at his funny stories and was thrilled to hear his descriptions of packed arenas and cheering crowds.
But his retelling of the stories wasn’t the same as living them. I had had lots of pictures in my mind of what success would look and feel like. And in all of them, I had envisioned that I’d be right by Alan’s side, or at least cheering from backstage, while we enjoyed the new adventures of his musical career. Instead, I was lost, confused, and at home with a baby who would not stop crying.
In an attempt to make me feel better, Alan encouraged me to go get a new engagement ring. I couldn’t help but feel how different things were now than in the early days of our relationship. Years ago he had carefully saved, plotted, chosen, wrapped, and surprised me with my first small ring . . . and now he wasn’t able to even go with me to pick out a new one. We could afford a much bigger diamond—but the price was a lot less of my husband.
I invited my friend Ame to come from Newnan to Nashville for a ring-designing visit. She tried her best to make it fun and to add some excitement to our outing to the jewelers. I chose a gorgeous two-and-a-half-carat marquis diamond with triangular diamonds on each side. As proud as I was of my new ring, I would have given it—or anything else—to feel relieved of my melancholy.
Coming Out of the Blues
I knew about postpartum depression, but having a label for it didn’t help. I was overwhelmed, with the feeling of a gray curtain draped over me. I could not just “get a grip” and feel better. I could go through the motions, but I could not imagine this dark fog ever lifting. What made it worse was that friends would tell me I had everything and should be the happiest woman in the world. Regardless of how I “should” feel, I felt alone, inadequate, and overwhelmed.
After confiding in a few close friends, I decided to see my doctor. He helped me deal with some of the anxiety and post- partum issues, and prescribed medication that eventually cleared the clouds of depression. With my brain chemistry in balance, I was finally able to deal with basic things like furniture, and I was able to enjoy some of the fruits of the success we had sought for so long. And, thankfully, Mattie ’s colic got better, and she became the cheerful, easygoing person she still is today.
* * *
WITH RECORD ROYALTIES ROLLING IN, ALAN PLEADED WITH ME. “DENISE,” HE SAID, “YOU KNOW YOU REALLY CAN QUIT YOUR JOB NOW!”
* * *
Newly energized and feeling stronger, I was able to interview and hire housekeeping help and a nanny. For the first time in our lives, we weren’t watching every penny. We bought furniture. Fun clothes. Cars.And after taking repeated leaves of absence from my flight-attendant position at US Air, I was finally able to let it go. I had held on to that job like it was a security blanket, thinking that if Alan’s success and all our new money suddenly evaporated, I could always return to flying. But with record royalties rolling in, Alan pleaded with me. “Denise,” he said, “you know you really can quit your job now!”
Good Enough?
We stayed in Crystal Gayle’s rental home until we found the house we wanted to buy: a historic Revolutionary War–era farmhouse with ten acres around it and pastures for horses. Renovating, furnishing, and decorating it took a lot of time and focus.
By this time Mattie was toddling around and talking a little. Alan bought me my first full-length fur coat. I put it on, twirling for our little daughter. Mattie reached up to me, petted the thick, smooth fur, and shouted, “Doggie! Doggie!”
Soon after that we were in Washington, D.C. President George H. W. Bush loved country music, and Alan was asked to perform at the historic Ford’s Theatre for the president. Afterward, at the White House, I smiled and shook hands with George and Barbara Bush. I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience, seeing the scene and thinking, How can this be real? How can all this be happening to us?
The White House was one thing. Life on the road was a little more raw. By this point Alan had been in People magazine’s “25 Most Beautiful People” issue; he was Nashville’s “Best New Male Artist,”“Star of Tomorrow,”winner of “Album of the Year,” and country music’s latest sex symbol. Here in the Real World, with s
ales over one million, had gone platinum. The attention was intense. At concerts and events, women reacted to Alan like he was Elvis. The media scrutiny was ever-present. You never knew when you’d turn around and a photographer would be in your face. The challenge was to look good, all the time.
All this “worldly” focus on image and appearance was superficial, sure . . . but I didn’t have any other deep concept of real significance and identity that could counter it. The Christian faith I’d grown up with wasn’t really a part of my everyday life, so it wasn’t the basis of my self-image. I was caught up in the illusions of a People-magazine world that worships at the altar of celebrity, beauty, wealth, and fame.
The Gospel had told me the truth that I was special and significant simply because I was a child of God, not because of how I looked or how many good things I’d done. The songs of my youth had told me that “Jesus loves me, this I know, ’cause the Bible tells me so.” I knew that Jesus loved me “just as I am,” as the old hymn put it. And I had sung more times than I could count:
Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face;
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of His glory and grace.
But now I wasn’t turning my eyes upon Jesus. He seemed far away and irrelevant, the soft-eyed Savior whose portrait hung on the wall of my church fellowship hall back home. And the things of earth were not “strangely dim.” They were as clear and sharp as the glossy magazines with Alan’s picture on the cover and maybe a shot of me inside, on the red carpet at the Country Music Awards, wearing some sparkly designer gown.
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