The Road to Reality
Page 11
While it was exciting to buy our first house, our move to Topanga induced culture shock, starting with the long drive up a winding, steep canyon road. I was accustomed to Santa Monica’s bustling pedestrian scene and trendy restaurants, and used to dressing up whenever I stepped out. In Topanga, I embraced a more laidback lifestyle—donning earthy fashions, shopping at health-food coops, and focusing on the simple things in life, like nesting and starting a family. With woods in the back yard and a creek in the front, our house stood at the end of a dead-end street, nudging a forest; it was as though we had escaped to the very edge of civilization. Living with Mark and awaiting our first baby in our nature-shrouded cocoon, I was often overcome by sheer bliss.
Other times, however, I felt anxious. Topanga Canyon was isolated—and signs along our wooded street warned: “This property is protected by the shotgun law!” Still working in the city, Mark was gone much of the day, and at times it was scary to be left alone in the remoteness, especially with a baby on the way. The neighborhood didn’t have streetlights, and the road to our house was pitch black at night; Mark, too, was concerned about my safety. Having grown up in a dicey part of London’s East End, he felt protective of his family.
Although my father was a detective, I never saw a gun around my childhood home. Mark, however, had a shotgun, and he brought it out of storage and stashed it under our bed. One Sunday, he taught me how to use it. I don’t like guns, but given our remote location and his frequent absences, I reluctantly acquiesced when Mark suggested a lesson. In no time, I had it down. Holding the weapon in my hands brought back lessons I’d learned in childhood: never point a gun in the direction of somebody who wasn’t posing a physical threat, and never put your finger on the trigger until the moment you are ready to shoot, regardless if the safety device is on or not.
After my shotgun lesson, we went back in the house, and Mark began lecturing me about the importance of always using the safety device on the gun. As he clicked the safety switch, I waddled with my big round belly across the room to open the window. BOOM. The shotgun went off and the pellet flew past me, millimeters away; it ripped through the wall, leaving a gaping 6-inch hole. Mark had almost shot me and his unborn son! He turned white, horrified at what had happened; I was shaking with fear, and anger, at the near-miss. Had that pellet come an inch closer, I wouldn’t be telling this story.
Being pregnant for the first time, I researched the optimal way to give birth, thinking of my own health as well as the well-being of the baby. In New York, back then at least, the options appeared to number but one: “Give me the drugs.” Living in California, I discovered a number of “natural” methods, from giving birth in the bathtub, to standing while holding a crossbar, as well as delivering the baby the “old-fashioned” way—in the hospital, with the doctor arriving just in time to catch it.
I initially planned to take Lamaze classes. Friends recommended that I instead look into the new Bradley Method, a way to give birth completely drug-free. Our Bradley classes began during the third trimester. Once a week for those last three months, Mark and I drove to a private house in the L.A. area of Brentwood, where four other couples also learned the method. The sessions were surprisingly entertaining, thanks to Monti and his wife, Traci.
A professional prop master for TV, Monti was a real crackup. During the last few weeks of Traci’s pregnancy, she was instructed to stay in bed, so Monti attended the classes alone, taping the sessions for his pregnant wife to watch later. He was always climbing up on tables and sofas to ensure he got every angle. As Monti playfully interviewed our Bradley instructor, videotaping while asking bizarre questions, Mark would joke, “Monti, are you sure you got that angle right?” Monti was so amusing that it was hard to keep a straight face through the classes.
Outside of occasional morning sickness, I enjoyed being pregnant. My hair, skin, and nails were all glowing, shiny, and strong. I especially liked the perks that went along with my condition. People were much more polite, understanding, and helpful. After my first taste of the “royal pregnancy treatment,” I thought, Wow, I’m going to do this more often!
Even though I was getting quite large—I gained a whopping 50 pounds—I still helped Mark organize the next Raid, and we continued to strategize about how to get Eco-Challenge off the ground. I wanted to make sure I was doing everything right, from eating healthfully to being completely prepared for the baby’s arrival. Brian Terkelsen and I wallpapered the nursery ourselves, and his mother made a beautiful hand-stitched quilt for the baby. Thinking of the environment, I signed up with a cotton-diaper delivery service. Disposable diapers, then not biodegradable, had a terrible impact, piling up in landfills.
We knew by the sixth month that I was carrying a boy. Mark had insisted on finding out the gender—saying we needed to know so we could pick out a name. We decided on “James Scott.” James was actually the first name on Mark’s birth certificate—even though Mark was the name that stuck—and his mother’s maiden name was Scott.
Baby James Scott was due on August 20, 1993. When that day came and went, I suggested that we go to Caioti Pizza Café in Studio City. The dressing for a certain salad there was rumored to be capable of inducing labor. The salad wasn’t necessary, however, because after a little touch and tickle, my water broke, and off we sped to St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica.
It was a Saturday, and my ob-gyn’s office was closed. We paged him, discovering that he was out of town. Realizing I’d be dealing with an unfamiliar physician, I began going through my Bradley exercises. Fifteen hours later, however, three months of classes went out the window. “Get the epidural!” I screamed. When they injected the painkiller via a catheter into the base of my spine, my lower half went numb.
I had to wait for the drug to wear off a bit before I was able to push. Sweat poured down my face, and I clenched both sides of the delivery table, pushing with every last ounce of energy. Finally, the doctor announced, “It’s a boy!”
By then, I thought I knew all of Mark’s expressions, but the look on his face as he held our beautiful son, James, in his arms, was the most joyous I’d ever seen.
“Do you want to hold him?” he asked. With overwhelming relief and happiness, I cradled my baby boy in my arms for the first time. I felt a rush of energy, love, and elation, as I gazed down at our most incredible creation yet.
My mother planned to visit for the baby’s birth, having booked the ticket several months in advance and randomly picking a date. It happened to be the very day I gave birth to James. Mark picked up Mom at LAX and brought her to see baby James. The bond between my mother and me felt even stronger given what I’d just gone through; I was impressed that she’d endured the same ordeal four times. Mom stayed ten days, doting on her new grandson, and helping me with all baby’s firsts—all of which Mark captured every on videotape: he didn’t put down the camera for a week, busily capturing our son’s first bath, first diaper, first breast-feeding, first burping, and even the moment his umbilical cord fell off. Mark promptly sent the tapes to London; his mother had wanted to visit as well, but it was out of the question as she was receiving treatments for cancer and was unable to travel.
I changed James’s diaper every hour for the first year, to guard against diaper rash. When James was three weeks old, Mark flew to New York for a fund-raising trip. Sponsorship money was spotty for the new Raid team he was putting together, so it was vital that he make an appearance in person. I wasn’t thrilled about being left alone for several days with my baby in secluded Topanga Canyon. I was confident in my motherly skills; nevertheless, I felt vulnerable. At that point in my life, I’d never lived by myself; after years of living with Mark, climbing into bed and sleeping alone felt strange.
I had a few friends in the canyon to call in case of emergency. As for the shotgun, after the mishap I had Mark put that thing in a safe place—a lockbox hidden high up and out of the way. I knew my strengths, and figured that if anyone broke into my house, threatening my bab
y and me, I wouldn’t need a weapon. They wouldn’t stand a chance.
On the third night, I went to bed relieved that Mark would be back the next day. When the phone rang at 4 o’clock in the morning, I answered it with a feeling of dread. At that hour, it could only mean bad news. Mark’s best friend from London, Steve, was on the line: Mark’s mother had just died. I knew my husband would be devastated, since he and his mom were so close, and he was an only child. I gave Mark’s number to Steve.
Minutes later, the phone rang again: it was Mark, sobbing. “Mum never got to see our baby in person,” he said. “She never got to hold little James.”
Luckily, we’d spent the previous Christmas with Jean and Archie; I felt, however, that Mark felt guilty for not being able to be with his mother in her final days.
Mark flew back to L.A., grabbed his passport, and was on the next flight to England. I wanted to go with him, but he thought James was too young for an international flight. Nevertheless, I felt bad not being there with him.
Mark stayed in London for three days and gave the eulogy at the funeral. He was touched to see that his mother was adored: hundreds of friends, family members, and co-workers showed up to pay their respects.
When he returned from England, I wanted to look my best. I put on a cute dress, and prepared myself and my baby as though we were going to meet a dignitary. For some reason, I felt anxious, but as soon as I saw Mark at the airport, I relaxed. He gave us both the warmest hugs and kisses, as if he had just been released from a long stay in jail. Watching Mark lean over into the backseat and snuggle his nose against the baby’s sweet little face was precious; I knew that everything would be fine, and couldn’t wait to be snuggled up back in our Topanga cocoon.
On the way home, we pulled up in front of our favorite yogurt shop on Main Street in Santa Monica. Mark darted across the street to get our treats. I turned back to talk to little James in his baby seat. A big, grubby transient, who looked like Nick Nolte’s character from Down and Out in Beverly Hills, started pounding on the window, demanding money. My normal instinct is to help out homeless people, but this guy was aggressive and had a crazed look in his eyes. I locked the doors and yelled at him to go away, but he didn’t.
Mark glanced over, left the yogurt on the counter, and raced back across the street. He greeted the vagrant with a right cross à la Rocky Balboa, and the homeless guy went down for the count. (It brought to mind the story of my dad at the party where I tried pot.) Nearby pedestrians were shocked by Mark’s vigilante behavior, but they had no idea what he’d just been through.
At home, I consoled Mark as he mourned his mother. Jean had loved gardening, and had helped us plant English tea roses in our garden. Mark suggested that we bury her ashes in the backyard next to her favorite rosebush. It seemed a fitting farewell.
Not long after that, Mark surprised me with a puppy—a German shepherd that we named King. I appreciated the canine presence all the more since Mark was often away training for the second Raid Gauloises. He’d put together a new Team American Pride; besides Mark and Susan, the new team included three very buff Navy Seals.
That fall, we invited Mark’s father to leave chilly England and stay with us for a few months. One day in November, we asked Archie to watch King while Mark and I zipped up the coast, with James in tow, for a weekend getaway at San Ysidro Ranch. Deep in the heart of wine country, the ranch’s luxurious bungalows—with hot tubs on the private patios, fireplaces, and sumptuous furnishings—were a popular destination for jetsetters and famous families, such as the Kennedys. We’d vacationed there a few years earlier, and wanted to relive the magic, this time with our baby. The breezes were warm and the hills were ablaze with autumnal colors as we drove along the coast in Mark’s convertible, and we anticipated a lovely weekend.
The second day, while having tea in bed, we turned on the morning news. “Topanga fires!” announced the “breaking news alert” ticker on the bottom of the screen. To our horror, fires were raging across the canyon, just miles from our home, and everyone was being urged to evacuate. So much for our carefree getaway.
Mark immediately called Archie. “Dad, go up on the hill. Do you see smoke?”
Archie made light of it. “Oh, it’s okay, Mark. Don’t worry. You guys have a good time.”
Despite the assurances, within moments we were back on the highway racing home to Archie and King. We made the right decision. In the distance, we saw a black cloud hovering over the canyon; the ridges of the Santa Monica Mountains were illuminated with orange flames and the smoke grew thick as we roared up the canyon road. Arriving at the house, we loaded Mark’s 450SL Mercedes convertible to the brim, putting the top down, and strapping a gigantic crate into the backseat area for the dog. It looked like the truck from The Beverly Hillbillies as Archie went zipping off with King in the back. Mark and I ran back in, grabbing the photo albums and other irreplaceable items, and throwing them into my SUV, while Mark put in frantic calls to his new Raid teammates, the Navy Seals. The fire was rapidly spreading; fanned by the Santa Ana winds, the blaze was racing across the hills like a traveling wall of flames, and our house lay in its path. Mark insisted on staying to fight the fire.
With baby James secured in the back seat, I roared down Topanga Canyon Boulevard to Pacific Palisades, passing the trio of Seals racing up to our house. Throwing wet blankets on their backs like capes to protect from the heat, the Seals and Mark gallantly fought off the fire that by then was consuming our wooded backyard. Seeing them battling the blaze, a fire plane dumped its entire tank of water on the house—aiding the effort immensely.
The 1993 Topanga Fires, as that blaze was known, killed four people, injured dozens, destroyed hundreds of homes, and scorched thousands of acres of forest; the wild fire ravaged an acre of our property, leaving charred trees where thick woods had stood, but the valiant actions saved our home. That night, the sky glowed orange as the fire continued on its trail of destruction, unstopped for days. I was relieved when I saw Mark on TV, widely waving his arms, signaling victory from the roof. If the guys hadn’t fought off the inferno, our home would have been little more than a pile of ashes.
My adoration of my husband soared to new heights. Mark made the news on Channel 9 again a few days later, when none other than Mark Steines, who had previously covered Team American Pride, interviewed him for a segment about neighborhood heroes.
Normally, after a traumatic event like those fires you cling to your loved ones like they’re the last molecules of oxygen in the atmosphere. I wanted only to hibernate in our warm homestead, nestled safely with Mark and our baby, but that was wishful thinking. With only a few weeks left until the second Raid, Mark was training every day, including weekends, in between soliciting sponsorship money, and promoting the team’s upcoming appearance in the race—this time without my assistance, since I was home taking care of our son.
The next few months were all about James and Mark. Becoming a new mother, and all the activities that come with it, occupied most of my time. I either had my newborn at my breast, or was changing his diaper, or was cooking dinner for Mark, who was more excited than ever about the new team and the upcoming Raid. Endurance events were a drug for him; by then, he was addicted.
November 12, 1993
James is sleeping peacefully, Mark is leaving tomorrow for the Raid, and I’m finally caught up, for the moment, with everything, even my reading. I’ve realized that words alone sometimes don’t capture meaning. “Fire” previously evoked something nice that crackled and warmed and that you stoked in the fireplace, until fire threatened to engulf our house. The word “mother” has taken on new meaning as well. I never realized before how my emotions would deepen—I’ve never experienced such deep happiness and contentment before—but I’ve also never been so exhausted. Taking care of a baby is an all-encompassing job that has changed my sleep patterns, my body, and my view on the world. For me, the word “mother” now implies loving devotion, but also some sacrifice.
The success of Team American Pride buoyed Mark’s spirits. Our life fell into a comfortable rhythm as we redefined our roles in the relationship now that we were parents.
On New Year’s Eve, Mark wrote a sweet note on my birthday card:
Dianne,
Happy New Year and Happy Birthday. Well, 1993 was quite a year, honey. Most good, some terrific, a little terrible. But our love, marriage, and life goes marching on. I have begun to realize that the baby is very exhausting work and that it is 99% you who does everything. I’ll try to help more, and to take better care of the extras like cleaning and King.
I love you more than ever and realize we are very different and neither will change. But that is our strength. I love you just the way you are, Dianne, and never have stopped loving you for a second.