Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff (10 page)

Rita Mae Brown

In January of 1998, I got the kind of call all actresses hope for: I had won the role of Julie Emrick on a new TV drama called
Felicity.
It should have been one of the most exciting moments of my life, but three months earlier something had happened that would forever put things in perspective. In October 1997, my mom, Christine Johnson, was diagnosed with cancer. Ten months later, she died at age fifty-three, and my life would never be the same.

My mom was my best friend. She taught me to appreciate every day. I think that is the key to life. I try to keep remembering that, to kind of make it a habit. And when I get all caught up in everything, I just stop and think about her.

I was like her sidekick growing up in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. My brother, Greig Jr., now thirty-three, and my sister, Julie, now thirty-two, were both older than me (I'm twenty-nine), so when they started school, it was just me and my mom together all day, running errands or just hanging out.

We even remained close through my rebellious period. In high school, I was staying out too late, doing the normal teenage stuff, so my parents sent me to a private boarding school in New Hampshire. I got kicked out after eight months for getting caught in the boys' dorm. Oops! My punishment was having to go to a small local church school. When I did something wrong, if I tried to deny it or hide it, my mom would get angry. But if I admitted and apologized, she'd be totally cool. She was really fair.

She was also super-supportive. Ever since I was a kid, I knew I wanted to perform. She was always my biggest fan. She wasn't a pushy stage mom at all, but she was definitely in my corner. She was really into personal growth (a longtime clothing store manager, she opened a self-help bookstore at one point) and encouraged the people around her to follow their dreams.

When I decided to move to New York City at nineteen to pursue an acting career, my mom and my dad, Greig Johnson, a car salesman, never said, “That's risky,” or, “Don't do that.” Two years later, in 1993, I moved to Los Angeles and got my first TV role as Kimberly, the Pink Power Ranger on
Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.

Everything was going smoothly until the fall of 1997, when my life came to a screeching halt. My mom's doctors thought she had cysts on her uterus that had grown and needed to be removed. But what should have been a simple hysterectomy turned into something far worse. Mom already kind of suspected. A couple of days before her surgery, she called me up really frightened and said, “Amy Jo, what if I have cancer?” and I was like, “Mom, you can't say that. No. No. No.” So she went in for the operation. They didn't expect to find cancer, but it was everywhere. A rare type of cancer, it had started in her appendix, and by the time the doctors found it, it had spread all over her body.

I'll never forget the moment when my dad called and told me the news. It was Halloween. In shock, I flew back East to be with my family. I remember sitting up one night with my dad, probably two days after we found out. He told me he knew she was going to die, he just knew it. I was like, “No, we've got to have hope.”

Mymomhandled the news—and her terminal prognosis —with incredible bravery. That Christmas, which she knew would probably be her last, she bought us all tickets to see
The Lion King
on Broadway in New York. It was really emotional because the story is about the circle of life and dying and coming back again. I looked over at my mom during the scene where Simba sees his father's ghost. She had tears in her eyes. But she never broke down in front of any of us kids or her friends. I think my dad's the only one who saw how frightened she must have been.

In the beginning, we had several disappointments. My mom tried different chemotherapies. She also went to a hospital in Washington, D.C., for a surgery the doctors hoped might give her more time. My sister and I slept on little cots in her hospital room. It was like a slumber party.

But the surgery was a letdown. They opened her up again and said there was nothing they could do. The cancer had spread too much. Everyone was trying to help, recommending holistic medicines and special diets. We searched on the Internet for anything that might cure cancer. There are just a million things out there that people are trying to sell and tell you. Finally, my mom said, “Stop! I don't want to try anything else. Don't bring me any more crazy teas!”

That winter and spring, I traveled back and forth constantly between L.A. and Cape Cod. The people at
Felicity
were incredible. A couple of times, they stopped production or rearranged the schedule so I could go home. And the producers would send my mom hats and T-shirts and letters saying, “We love your daughter.” I think it was a comfort for her to know that I would be taken care of when she was gone.

My mom didn't want to die in a hospital, so hospice workers came to our home in July of 1998. They were great because they helped my mom accept the fact that she was going to die. That allowed her to say good-bye to everybody. One day, she gathered her favorite jewelry and possessions and had each person she loved come upstairs, and she gave everything away. She gave some people back gifts that she remembered they had given to her, like, twenty years ago.

She kept her sense of humor until she died. Four days after the doctors had predicted she'd pass away, she was sitting in bed and started singing! She looked at my sister and me and jokingly said, “What am I going to do? A woman can't live without her jewels.”

She wanted me to go back to work, where they were rearranging production for me, but I told her I was staying with her. Finally, she insisted: “This could go on for a month. You have to go.” I said good-bye so many times. I'd hug her, kiss her, run downstairs, get in the car and then run back up. I did that, like, seven times. Finally, she said, “Amy Jo, this is getting ridiculous. Just go.” It was the hardest good-bye I've said or will ever have to. Three days after that, on August 19, 1998, she died.

My sister called and told me the news. I cried all over my house. Then, I went to my living room and just sat there, and suddenly, I got the most incredible feeling I've ever had. It was like my mom was in the room with me. It was like she came over and gave me peace, and it made me feel ready to go home for the funeral and be strong for my dad and the rest of the family.

Amy Jo Johnson
As told to Linda Friedman

The Last Months

I was happy to be home that night all bundled up in my fleece blanket, so soft, so warm. It was January first of the new millennium, and it was cool and breezy outside. My dad was looking at our Christmas tree, still decorated with a lifetime of memories. Dad had insisted on having the perfect tree, so we did. It was lushly green, and the smell of pine had permeated throughout the entire house since the day it arrived. It was huge—ten feet tall and five feet wide. And now my dad was just staring at it.

Suddenly, I noticed that tears were rolling down his dark cheeks. I didn't understand this uncharacteristic show of emotion. It confused me, so I decided to leave him alone. I peered out from the kitchen to see what he was doing, but tried not to make it obvious that I was watching him. He touched each ornament and held it tightly. It looked as if he were trying to staunch the flow of dark and consuming thoughts.

That was the month I started to see my dad become weak and frail. Not knowing what was wrong, my mom took him to see the doctor. After undergoing X rays and blood work, they returned home to anxiously await the results. Finally, the doctor called. My dad was in serious danger of having another heart attack, and he had to be checked into the hospital immediately.

I cannot remember a time when my dad was really well. He had already suffered a series of heart attacks, as well as complications from bypass surgery. This time, Dad was in the hospital for two long weeks. He was hooked up to so many I.V. tubes and monitors that it made it hard for him to communicate with us. Eventually, he progressed enough to be able to come home.

Every couple of days, a nurse would come to the house and help my dad with his rehabilitation. One day, as we waited for her to arrive, I noticed something unusual. My dad wasn't breathing. My mom ran over to him and shook him.

“What? What's wrong?” he asked.

“You weren't breathing,” I told him.

He answered with a simple, “Oh,” then fell back into an uneasy sleep. A few minutes later, I looked over at him.

“Mom . . .” I gasped and pointed at him. She woke him up again.

“Why don't we keep you up until the nurse gets here?” she asked him, her voice cracking. He slightly nodded his gray head in agreement. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say a word.

The nurse finally arrived. She looked him over and said, “We have to get you to the emergency room.”

My father frowned. He reminded me of a child not wanting to do what he is told. With a forlorn look on his face, he asked, “Do I have to?” The nurse nodded.

There were so many things to say, but no one was sure how to say them. When my dad was about to leave, I gave him a lingering hug and held him tight. I didn't want to let him go. As he got into the car, I told him I loved him.

He turned and smiled at me and nodded in acknowledgment. I watched as they pulled out of the driveway and down the street. I watched until the car vanished behind a big tree that stood on the side of the road. That was the last time I saw my dad.

Things have changed in my life over the past eight months. There is not as much laughter, and there are times I feel angry and depressed. Going places is not as enjoyable without my dad. When I see a family with their father, I feel envious. Sometimes when I come home, I forget that he is gone and go into his room to talk to him. I always feel empty when I realize he's not there.

My river of tears for him still floods every so often. I know this river will go on forever and never dry out, just as my love and memories of my dad will never dry up either. They will last forever, just like his spirit.

My time has come,
And so I'm gone.
To a better place,
Far beyond.

I love you all
As you can see.
But it's better now,
Because I'm free . . .

Traci Kornhauser

Our Song

W
hat is there to do when people die—people
so dear and rare—but bring them back by
remembering?

May Sarton

You asked me to sing to you. I complained, “Aw, Mom, I'll wake people up.” Once again, I let my ever-present stage fright come before you. Looking back, it's hard to believe I was so selfish. But you persisted, and eventually I caved.

I sang our favorites—Barbra Streisand, Linda Ronstadt and Bette Midler. My voice was quiet and hushed, commensurate with the dim light in the room. I made sure the sound didn't penetrate the walls. You listened with your eyes closed, then thanked me and told me how lovely and peaceful it was.

When we brought you home that last week in January, I would sit with you in the evenings. I read to you from
The Tragedy of Richard the Third,
knowing it was your favorite. Of course, I made sarcastic comments along the way. “Lady Anne was the biggest idiot in the world.” My eyes searched yours for a response, hoping they would open and smile at my glib attempts.

I read you poetry from Robbie Burns and Walt Whitman, and rubbed lotion on your hands. Finally, I worked up the courage to sing to you again. You weren't able to ask me this time. Grandma peeked through the door and gave us a tearful smile. I stopped. “Keep singing to your mother,” she said. When I finished Dad asked me, “Would you sing at the memorial service?” You were lying right beside me, and suddenly it seemed so perverse to have this conversation in front of you. “I don't know if I can. I'll try.” We didn't speak of it again.

That Saturday, after you were gone, I went home and practiced. I needed you to hear me one last time, beautiful and unblemished.

And then there I was, standing at the podium. I didn't tell anyone what was planned in case I chickened out. While the minister told me when to come up during the service, Shirley, who was giving the eulogy, asked, “But what if someone stands up before Jennifer?” I shot back, “Well, now—they'll just have to wait, won't they?” She laughed, “You are just like your mother.” I smiled and thanked her for the compliment.

My hands shook as I faced the microphone. I spoke a few words to gather my courage and compose myself. Then, very quietly, I sang “Somewhere over the Rainbow.”

I thought back to when I was a little girl. You would call me on the phone during one of your trips to watch
The
Wizard of Oz
with me on TV. Miles apart and racking up the long distance charges, we would both squeal during the tornado scene. We sang duets, and trios when Ashlea rode in the car with us. It was our song.

I finished the last line, “If happy little bluebirds fly, beyond the rainbow, why oh why can't I?” Then I whispered, “Mom, you have beautiful wings now. May they take you wherever you want to go. . . .”

At least a hundred people witnessed the most difficult moment of my life, but only one person mattered. Of course I will sing for you, Mom. Feel free to ask me anytime.