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Authors: Stormie Omartian

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BOOK: Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing

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CHOICES FOR DEATH

“Stormie! How are you!” Julie’s voice chirped over the phone.

“I’m not as good as I’d like to be,” I answered. I’d met Julie the previous summer while working at Knott’s Berry Farm. “I really need your help. Do you remember when you confided in me about the abortion you had? Well, I need to get in contact with the doctor who performed it.”

I held my breath as I waited for her reply. If she refused to help me, I didn’t know where I would go. Abortion was never mentioned in public. In fact, Julie was the only person I had ever heard speak the word to me.

“You know the police are cracking down,” she said. “The doctor who did mine was jailed.”

“Oh, no! What am I going to do? Please, Julie, I really need your help. I’ve got to find someone who can do this.”

“I do have some contacts. Let me see what I can do. Hang on, Stormie. It will take me a few days to get back to you. But I’ll call, I promise.”

It was two weeks before I heard back from Julie. During that time Dad called to tell me that Mother had finally returned home. She had disappeared a few times before, but never for so long. As usual, no one asked where she had been or what she had done. We would proceed as always, pretending like nothing had happened.

Julie called the next day with news. “I’ve found a doctor just over the Mexican border in Tijuana.”

“I don’t care where it’s done. I don’t even care if he’s a doctor. I just want out of this misery. How much?”

“Six hundred dollars.”

“Six hundred dollars!” I gasped. “I don’t even have 50 dollars!” I paused. “Never mind. I’ll get it. Tell him yes and let me know when.”

I called Scott and asked him point-blank for the money. After some reluctance and questioning whether I was really pregnant or just needing some money, he gave in. I was extremely hurt by his remarks, but took the money.

With 600 dollars of cash in hand, I drove to a predetermined meeting place in a deserted area off the main highway to Mexico. There a man who was the liaison with the doctor met me and another woman with her husband who were going for the same reason. Apart from some attempts at light joking conversation, no one spoke as we drove the 60-minute drive to the border. I was afraid, but decided that no matter what happened it had to be better than being pregnant and sick. The nausea was unbearable.

We had no problem at the border; the guards obviously knew the driver. We drove to a small nondescript house in an old, dirty, residential section of Tijuana. A Mexican woman met us at the door. Once in the living room with the door shut, the doctor came out and greeted us.

Because I was so nervous, I volunteered to go first. I was guided to the back of the house via a long dark hall. I entered what I expected would be a bedroom, but the door opened to a hospital-like operating room. I put on a gown and lay down on the table as instructed. As the anesthetist put a needle in my vein, the doctor leaned over me and said, “Oh, by the way, if you die during this operation, I’ll have to dump your body out in the desert. You understand that I can’t risk danger for myself and the others by giving your body to the police. I just want you to know that going in.”

“Does that happen often?” I questioned, my heart filled with fear.

“No, not often,” he replied matter-of-factly. “But it does happen. I don’t enjoy doing that, but I have no choice.”

So many times in my life I wanted to die. Now the thought of dying frightened me. “God, please,” I prayed silently, “let me live and I’ll be good.”

“Ten, nine, eight, seven ... ” The next thing I remember I was lying in another room with the anesthetist preparing me to go home. Immediately I noticed that for the first time in weeks I didn’t feel like vomiting. The nightmare was over! It didn’t occur to me that I had just destroyed a life. All I could see was that I had escaped death. I had no remorse—only elation that I was still alive and had gained a second chance.

“Thank you, God,” I prayed. “I’ll be good. I’ll do all the right things. I’ll appreciate what I have instead of complaining about all I lack. I’ll find out more about you, God, and I won’t make the same mistake again.”

The prayer was simplistic, but sincere. I meant every promise, but I soon discovered that I was too weak to fulfill any of them. After I returned to school, I fell right back into the same old habits and thought patterns.

That summer I was hired as a singer for a popular theater-in-the-round that did live musical comedy with different guest stars each week. The hours were long because we rehearsed one show during the day and performed another at night. To save money, I moved back home with my parents, but was there only to sleep.

Mother adopted a new policy after she returned home. She stepped up her aggressive hatred toward Dad and backed off on me. She now viewed my father and Aunt Delores as the enemy. Because I wasn’t present during the night of the scene, I was not considered a traitor. Suzy was never in question. She was neutral ground for everyone.

Many times I found Suzy upset over Mother’s bizarre behavior. Because I had basically raised her for the first six years of her life, I had managed to somewhat protect my sister from Mother’s mental problems. But once I started college and was gone a great deal, she had to cope alone.

Late one night I came home and found Suzy crying. “Are you upset because of Mom?” I asked.

“Yes,” she sobbed.

I hugged her and stroked her hair as I said, “There’s something wrong with Mom. She’s very sick, and she won’t go to the hospital. So we have to take care of her as best we can. Try not to take anything she says or does personally because she can’t help it.”

I couldn’t believe how well I had spoken those words. I despised my mother. I did not have one ounce of pity for her; the only pity I felt was for myself. Yet I was convincing enough that Suzy was encouraged and seemed to cope better after that.

Suzy’s relationship with Mother was never scarred like mine. With me there was irreparable damage, and it seemed that because of our warped relationship, I found it increasingly difficult to cope with life. The emptiness and pain I felt deepened each year. My periods of depression got worse, the anxiety within me increased, and suicidal thoughts met me every morning when I awoke. On top of all that, I battled chronic fatigue as I drove myself with work in a futile attempt to bury my emotions.

My final show of the summer was “Call Me Madam” with Ethel Merman. I loved the show and I loved working with Ethel. The thought of it ending and my going back to UCLA was depressing. So when a fellow singer asked if I’d be interested in touring with the Norman Luboff Choir, I immediately said yes and kissed school goodbye.

For the next nine months I toured the United States with Norman Luboff, which presented me with some unanticipated problems. Living with 30 other people in the confines of a small bus, without even the luxury of a private room at night, meant that I had to hide my depressions and giant insecurities and put up a good front all the time. It was exhausting.

Once a week I would call home to check on my sister. One evening after a show I called from Georgia and Mother answered the phone. She was livid about my being with Norman Luboff: “Because of your high visibility, they’re going to find me and kill me.” Apparently the fact that “they” were already watching her through the TV and had her house bugged didn’t matter. “Don’t you forget that you are worthless,” she snapped. “It doesn’t matter that you sing with that fancy choir—you’re still a nothing. A nobody.”

Mother was crazy, I knew that. So why was I shaking as I hung up the phone? I knew that what she was saying was not true, yet I was destroyed every time I heard those words. She still had the power to devastate me, like the little girl she had locked in the closet. When she caught me in a weak moment, she could plunge me into the pit of depression for weeks. Part of me knew she was nuts. The other part believed every word she said. Why did Mother have this hold over me?

I went downstairs to join some of the singers who were waiting for me in the hotel restaurant. I was so depressed I could barely speak or eat, so I excused myself early, went back to my room, and cried myself to sleep.

By the next morning I had pulled myself together enough to join the group for breakfast. I could even manufacture a smile and a few jokes. One of the young men noted, “Ah, I see you’re manic today.” I found the comment amusing but painful. Any reference to my mental instability fed an inherent fear that I might become like my mother.

I came off the tour distraught and emotionally exhausted. Trying to maintain a good front had taken its toll. Living in close quarters with people for that length of time only pointed out how odd I was compared to everyone else. I felt like a failure, and I went home and stayed in bed for several weeks.

I was shaken out of my lethargy one day when I was invited to audition for a new TV musical variety show that CBS was airing in the summer of 1966. I did everything I knew to make myself look and sound good, but when I saw the beauty and talent of the other girls, I was so depressed that I went home and climbed right back into bed.

When the contractor called a week later to tell me I was one of the four singers on the show, I was shocked. My joy was immediately mixed with fear. Obviously I had done a good audition, but how long could I keep up the front? My anxiety attacks were getting worse, and I never knew when they would happen. When they occurred, I had to hide in the nearest bathroom holding my stomach while I convulsed with stifled sobs, feeling as if a sword had been run through me. How long could I cover
that
up? Other times when I was afraid my throat tightened and I would lose my voice. What if that happened on this job?

In spite of all my fears, I took the job and made it somewhat successfully through the summer series. After that I retained an agent and got opportunities to sing, dance, and act on one TV show after another that were offered to me along with commercials and record sessions. I had opportunities to perform with stars like Danny Kaye, Jack Benny, Jimmy Durante, George Burns, Dean Martin, Jerry Lewis, Mac Davis, Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, Linda Ronstadt, Sonny & Cher, and many more. Usually the auditions went great, but when it came time to perform, depression would overtake me or an anxiety attack would render me mute so that I was unable to deliver what I’d promised.

One evening my agent, Jerry, called. “Why did you turn down the part in that movie today, Stormie?” he demanded. “After all your auditioning and my hard work you just walked out on the offer. I can’t understand what is the matter with you.”

“I’m sorry, Jerry,” I searched desperately for an answer that would explain it. “At the last minute I just couldn’t go through with it.”

“Go through with what? You had the part. All you had to do was show up for work.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Jerry. I’m really sorry.”

After a long silence in which I could almost hear his mind turning, trying to make sense of the things that I did to jeopardize my own career, he said goodbye and hung up.

It was impossible to understand my struggle. For years I had dreamed of doing the things I was now doing. But all the modeling, commercials, television shows, and acting could not convince me I was attractive or talented. No matter what glamorous and wonderful things happened to me, 1 still saw myself as ugly and unacceptable. Just a few hours after the ecstasy of attaining a new goal, I felt worse than ever because I thought, “If this doesn’t make me feel better, what will?”

Despite past failures, I kept looking for the perfect relationship. Appearances meant a lot to me, so I picked men who seemed sophisticated, educated, and cultured. I wanted to be part of any lifestyle that was opposite to the way I grew up. Tommy fit the bill perfectly.

We were a total mismatch. I was out to have all my needs met—to be loved unconditionally, to be close, to be touched emotionally. Tommy, however, only wanted a good time, and any suggestion of commitment or marriage drove him away. I knew he wasn’t good for me, yet his attractive appearance and flamboyant lifestyle made me want to believe that eventually he could fulfill my need for love and security.

All my grasping for love caused me to end up in the same situation that two years earlier I had promised God would never happen again. I got pregnant. As before, I had nowhere to go and no one who wanted me in that condition. But this time my main concern was for my career. Getting pregnant was definitely a bad career move, and without my career I would cease to exist. To make things even more complicated, I was scheduled to tour Europe, Africa, and South America for the next three months with a well-known singing group. I was leaving within the week so I had to act quickly.

This pregnancy made me even sicker than before. The abortionist in Mexico was nowhere to be found, so on recommendation of a knowledgeable source I flew to Las Vegas to try and make connection with a certain doctor there. I went to his office and begged him to do the operation. He was suspicious of me because I didn’t work in Las Vegas and wanted to run a test to determine for sure that I was pregnant.

“How long will it take to get the results back?” I protested.

“Two to three days,” he answered.

BOOK: Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing

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