Lessons from the Mountain

by Mary McDonough

  By the way, remember Grandpa’s statue, “Annabel Lee”? She makes a cameo appearance in a scene next to Drucilla’s Pond and plays a small part helping Erin convince Grandpa she should be able to enter the beauty contest. Thanks for nothing, “Annabel Lee.”

  GIVING BACK

  As much as I struggled with the body image “stuff,” I was also struggling with the messages about what I deserved, and how I needed to give back to feel I deserved my good fortune. I didn’t naturally assume responsibility for others, but through my parents’ teachings, it became an important part of my life. I became a caregiver, and over the years of striving to “deserve” it all, I felt no matter how much I gave, it was never enough to repay everyone. I believed my value was what I did and gave others. Eventually I gave too much and lost myself. My value became: what can I do for them to make me worthy?

  “Give back, Mary B.; you’ve been given so much,” my dad would say.

  From a young age, I was involved with charities and nonprofit organizations. Seemed I was often pulling a winning ticket at a fair, or making pancakes at a church fund-raiser. I felt that with so much given to me, it was my duty to pay it back.

  When I was still a teenager, I became the National Youth Ambassador for the American Heart Association, promoting healthy eating and physical activity for children.

  Years later, when the Heart Association awarded me their Les Etoiles de Coeur (Stars of Heart) Award for my service, they expected me to give a speech at the award ceremony. I was terrified. I couldn’t believe they wanted me to speak about getting an award—it seemed gratuitous. A publicist pressured me about my speech, so I tormented myself for weeks to come up with something appropriate to say. I said just that in my speech. It was odd to receive an award for volunteering my time for a worthy cause—something I felt was the right thing to do, anyway.

  WHAT DO I SAY NOW?

  Part of my responsibilities as a spokesperson was, of course, to do interviews about the association’s work. However, this rekindled an old anxiety: what to say in front of the cameras when I didn’t have scriptwriters and a director telling me my every move.

  I still remember one especially horrifying incident. I was on A.M. Los Angeles, and Regis Philbin was extremely tough on me as I stumbled to get all the right points out in the interview.

  Later, I went back to A.M. Los Angeles again to promote Midnight Offerings, and, once again, Regis was there. This time, I said the name of the network where the movie was airing, which was not the network the talk show was on. Regis puffed up about how I was promoting another network on his network, what a faux pas I had made. I felt horrible, like I did something wrong again. In those days, people didn’t mention competing networks on air to prevent promoting another network. Heck, back then, commercials hinted at their competitors and never mentioned them by name. Now it’s a free-for-all and competing companies use the actual name of the product they are dissin’.

  I crumbled there on live TV. Cyndy Garvey was so sweet; she jumped in and protected me from the big, bad Reege. I was afraid of him—and on-air interviews—for years. I just seemed never to get it right, no matter how much I studied the facts. I wish someone had told me I was okay. I wish I had been able to remove myself from the meat hook I hung myself on. Learning to find my “I’m okay” inside myself would take years of self-work and exploration.

  In 1998, I was guest starring on an episode of Diagnosis Murder, and Regis was also on the set prepping for his own upcoming episode. I still felt a little of the old anxiety, but now I was a grown-up and had found a little of my voice. I went over to him, introduced myself, knowing he would never remember me, and told him how he had frightened me years earlier. He asked me if he was really that horrible.

  “To me? Yes!” I realized how stupid it sounded, and we laughed about it. Then he did something I didn’t expect. He apologized. He was so sweet and understanding. I grew up in that moment and realized I could let go of a very old fear. Thanks, Reege.

  SPIRITUALITY AND RELIGION

  As early as that day in the schoolroom on The Homecoming, I started to question my religion and the scary God I was taught to fear and please. In high school one day, I was sitting outside my Christian Morality class, reading Wayne Dyer’s Your Erroneous Zones, which was much more interesting and helpful to me than the religion class, by the way.

  Something clicked in me and I started to explore a more spiritual path toward this God. I have read Dr. Dyer’s books ever since.

  He has always been a calm bay in the storms of my life. Though I have drifted in and out of the bay, in times of trouble I find my way back, usually through one of his books, or a PBS special. He has always been an inspiration and a reminder of my inner self as connected to Source. It started here and expanded into a metaphysical exploration for the next twenty years. I believe I have come through my challenges because of this connection to Source and returning to my inner knowing self.

  Eventually I learned about many different religions. I studied the teaching of the Buddha and other teachers. I embraced my Catholic upbringing while not rejecting others’ beliefs if they were not like mine. I expanded to include and add other religious teachings to my foundation. Learning acceptance of other faiths, cultures, people, and backgrounds created the space for me to begin accepting myself.

  GOOD NIGHT, RITTER

  John Ritter was as sensitive as he was funny. We used to have deep conversations about life, boys, and school. He didn’t treat me like I was a little kid. He was a different kind of big brother, less teasing, more listening. He asked me questions about myself, which was different for me. We all adored him. I think I adored him more than anyone else because of how he touched my life. He was so well loved—I know I am one of many.

  I was trying so hard to appear perfect to my costars and family, and I thought I fooled everyone. The tears were hidden in the tub after all, right?

  One day, we were on location in Frazier Park, filming the Mary Ellen wedding show. “The Wedding” aired November 4, 1976, as a two-hour episode. Someone had said something insensitive to me. As usual, I was injured to my core—I took everything so personally. Not one to address or confront anyone, I walked away. A typical response. I sat down on a rock, alone, raging in silence, hoping to control the storm and not step into the tornado of my emotions.

  Ritter came over and sat with me. After a few minutes, he asked if I was okay. I, of course, said, “I’m fine.” He realized how upset I was and persisted in trying to reach me. Not very many people asked me how I was in those days, and when they did, most believed the lie of “fine.” I was so touched that he didn’t give up.

  “Do you ever write down your feelings? Keep a diary?” He told me he had kept a journal for years and wrote his thoughts, feelings, and entire stories about whatever was happening. His journal helped him through tough times, and he encouraged me to start one.

  That night, I asked my mom to take me to the store, where I purchased the first of many spiral-bound notebooks, and I began journaling. To my surprise, it was easy to write. I realized I had always written in one way or another, from my plays to poems. I had so much to say to this sacred, secret paper.

  My first entry was about all the anger I felt from the unkind comment on the set. I wrote about other incidents, all the pressures flowed into my pen and onto the pages. And then, much like that math problem, my anger turned into physical rage. I stabbed the journal. I let it rip. No holding back. I broke my pen.

  This started a soul salvation for me. I had somewhere to vent, cry, or even—horror of all horrors—get angry. After the fury wrote itself out, my journaling settled into calm reason. Writing connected me to a place in my soul, back to the peace that I loved. Here is a section of my first entry after Ritter’s advice that I should write:

  Here I am sitting up on a mountainside watching some beautiful trees and breathing some fresh air. I have been talking to Tom (Bower) and John about numerous amounts of things, having a great tim
e. I am now back in touch with my life and body although I would like to lose a little weight.

  The nature here is unbelievable. There is a cool breeze. I have a feeling of peace and happiness, a comforting feeling with nature; little wild flowers, pinecones, trees, dirt, bushes and love. Beautiful creations and an earthy feeling, I am glowing. The clouds are nice too, the sky is blue. Nature is reborn in me. The wind is rushing through the trees.

  I am sitting on an old tree stump looking at, feeling and admiring nature. John R and I just had a great talk about nature, us and all. He told me I was special, I am thankful for knowing all I do, and having all the experiences and relationships I have had. My experiences have made me wiser.

  Life is such a beautiful thing. Nature is so full of life; I wish everyone could experience life.

  My parents didn’t have great communication skills. While they never yelled or raised their voices, the tension was so thick in our house at times that you could cut it with a knife, as the saying goes. So learning to deal with anger was a whole new ball game. My tears could turn to rage and still be safe in the benign book of lined pages. When I look back and read them now, I see how conflicted I was, and how badly I needed an outlet.

  I have Ritter to thank for being my angel that day. I feel so blessed to have known him. He was one of the kindest, gentlest, naughtiest, funniest men I’ve ever had the honor to know. He reached out to me with comfort and advice in a time that was crucial to me.

  I saw him over the years after he left Walton’s Mountain and went on to be a huge star. He always treated me in the same loving way. He made me feel seen and heard—no matter where we were. Years later, he was doing a play on Broadway and I was fortunate enough to be in New York and go backstage to see him. I told him he saved my life that day he started me journaling, and he gave me a big hug. That was the last time I saw him.

  I remember the day I heard the news. On September 11, 2003, while rehearsing an episode of his hit sitcom Eight Simple Rules, Ritter collapsed and was rushed to the hospital, where he died of a congenital heart defect. I thought of his wife and kids, whose pictures he kept in his dressing room. I remembered the impact he made on me. He helped a very scared little girl off the pool ledge of suicidal thoughts by sitting with me on the side of the mountain that day.

  Good night, sweet Ritter.

  April 21, 1983

  …here I am starting my second journal…. It’s been a long time since I was sitting on a hilltop in Frazier Park when John Ritter told me I should start a journal. I thank him for that. He’ll never know how much it helped me. Saved my life….

  ELLEN

  Will was quite concerned when Ellen didn’t show up for work one morning. That was out of character for her. She was never late. When they called her, she tried to answer by knocking the phone off the hook. Knowing something must be wrong, our producers Andy White and Claylene Jones got a driver and headed to her house. There was no answer, so the driver climbed up and saw her lying on the landing. He broke in through a window and let the others in. They called an ambulance. She’d had a stroke.

  It was a tough time for us all. Ellen wasn’t able to work for the rest of the fifth season, and her absence was felt by all of us, as well as the viewers, until her remarkable return in “Grandma Comes Home” a year later. Rod Peterson and Claire Whitaker wrote a compelling episode that mirrored our own very real excitement to have her back.

  Her return to the show as a stroke survivor inspired millions, and the episode is still a fan favorite. She was so brave and an inspiration to others who had suffered a similar loss of speech and use of limbs. Here was a woman who made her living by expressing herself through speaking and movement, now limited to a fraction of her former physical abilities.

  She could still use those expressive eyes, and she learned her lines, even though it was a struggle to deliver them. Her personal experience brought a sense of dignity to what also became part of Grandma’s story line. She taught us about honesty and portraying your truth. I learned not to be afraid, that she was still Grandma and I could indeed communicate with her.

  We all wanted to help her. There would be four or five people guessing what she was trying to communicate. It was really frustrating for her. I would sit back and watch her as she tried to get her point out. Often I could get on her wavelength and figure out what she meant. Her eyes would light up; she would point to me, or whoever figured it out, and say, “Yes, Yes.” This was the beginning of me trusting my instincts to assess people and situations. Trusting myself and my own gut feelings felt right to me. This would eventually help get me through life’s ups and downs. To this day, I’m able to use this ability as a life coach.

  DAD

  My dad was never a “doctor” person. His farm life prepared him to take care of things on his own. When he was building a wall in our backyard, a cinder block fell on his hand. Blood was building pressure under his nail. He went to the garage, got a drill bit, and drilled through his fingernail until the pressure released. I asked him later why he had a hole in his nail. He said, “To get the blood out.”

  He was the same way about pulling teeth. When we were little, he’d ask us if he could just have a look at any loose teeth to “check and see how loose they were.” Then he’d yank it out. We caught on to that one fast enough. Subsequent teeth were pulled by our own timing when he tied our tooth to a string and then the door. We got to shut the door when we were ready. I never shut the door, though. I couldn’t do it.

  My father got sick when I was fifteen. We didn’t know there was anything wrong for a long time, as he didn’t go to the doctor at first. I came home from school one day and he was sitting alone, in a dark room, which was so scary to me. He was never home during the day, let alone sitting in a darkened room.

  I said, “Is something wrong?”

  He said, “Yes, something’s very wrong.” The look on his face and the tone of his voice was unfamiliar. I had never seen him like this before. My legs started to shake.

  He told me I had to drive him to the hospital in Pasadena, a good forty-five minutes from our house. I didn’t have a driver’s license yet. He had taught me to drive when I was nine, but this wasn’t sitting on his lap steering down a dirt road, or that deserted highway in Colorado. This was for real, negotiating freeways and interchanges. I was scared, but I knew I had to help my dad. I didn’t question or argue. I got my purse, and we left. My journal entry from that day:

  My Dad is in the hospital, he is very ill. He had major surgery yesterday. They cut out his gall bladder because of over 120 stones. He also has over 30 abscesses on his liver which they are draining. He is in intensive care. They say he might die—but I don’t want to think negative—my mom is very upset. The doctor said he has a thousand to one chance of living through the night.

  Waiting for a phone call is like waiting for death. Every time the phone rings, I jump. Waiting to hear from the hospital. I have a fear in me now. My father is in ICU—a depressing sight. All those machines…I hate the hospital, but I must go there because I love him so much. I don’t want him to feel alone.

  I remember the first time I went to ICU to see him. My godfather, Uncle Hugh, was there and warned me my father didn’t look the same. He was unconscious; there were so many hoses, tubes, and the sounds of machines.

  I sat down next to his bed and pretended I wasn’t scared. I talked about the cards I brought, made by kids in the neighborhood. I chatted on. He just lay there. The only sound was the suction from the machines. I left the room, and as I walked out, my knees buckled. My legs went out from under me, and my godfather caught me before I hit the floor. Then I cried.

  My dad had a near-death experience that night. He went through the tube and toward the Light, had a conversation with Jesus, and came back to tell us about it. He recovered, and when he came home, he was so exuberant and full of life.

  He’d wake us up early to go out and pick strawberries for pancakes he was making. He took us even more
places than he did before. He went to my brother’s basketball games, and with loads of energy, he’d say, “Come on, let’s go. Have some fun.” As I look back, it was as if he knew he had a short time left. He savored the moments, and without coming out and saying a word about dying, he cherished life.

  From then on, a different cloud invaded my life—a cloud of death. I would be out with my friends, having fun and laughing. When I returned, I would pause in my front yard, afraid to go inside. I was scared that when I walked in the door, everyone would be sad because he was gone.

  MOUNTAIN LOSS

  About a year and a half later, when I was sixteen, my dad took ill again and had another surgery. An adhesion had wrapped around his intestine and surgery revealed colon cancer. He started chemotherapy; he took a turn for the worse and went back into the hospital.

  My friends were a saving grace for me at the time. My friend Rozanne DeCampos came to the hospital with me one day and brought her guitar. Rozanne has a great voice and we sang “By My Side” from Godspell. My dad loved music and to hear us all sing.

  Olivia Newton-John was popular and my dad thought she was cute. He asked us to sing “I Honestly Love You,” and then asked me to sing it again, alone. As I sang, he stared out the window. He had a faraway look in his eyes. I watched a single tear roll down his cheek, fall off his chin, and soak into his hospital gown. He stared off as I finished the song; then he reached for his kidney-shaped bed bowl and threw up blood. The nurses came in and asked us to leave. I wondered if we upset him too much, and later joked with Rozanne that it must have been my singing. It was the last time I saw him conscious.

  During Holy Week, he took a “turn for the worse,” and the doctors said, “There is nothing we can do.” Nothing you can do? I screamed, but only in my head. Even though I couldn’t say the words out loud, I was angry, almost couldn’t believe they were giving up. Why couldn’t they do something? They were educated, smart, supposed to be able to help and heal. In that moment, I lost my respect for medicine, doctors, and grown-ups. My dad had faith in them—his life depended on them—and now they were saying, “There’s nothing we can do.” This was a rude awakening for me. I was devastated and so angry that these stupid doctors had given up on my daddy. He should be outside enjoying the nature he loved so much: the roses, the trees, and the grass he planted in our backyard. I hated the hospital: the smell, the walls, the lights. I hated that this was the last place he would see. But I wouldn’t leave.