Sharon Gless - Apparently There Were Complaints: A Memoir

Eight years old at Beverly Jacks and Jills summertime day camp in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles.

This is my favorite photo of me as a child, taken at summer day camp in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles. I am eight years old.

I wasnt sent to camp looking like this, my French braids askew and coming loose, my shorts twisted to the side, sloppy. My legs are scuffed with dirt. There is a long chocolate ice cream stain running down the front of my white Bluebird blouse, which is only half tucked in. It matches the chocolate moustache above my lip, topping my ear-to-ear grin. Every time I look at this photo, I think, That is the happiest kid in the world.

Being happy has always been my goal. Ive been defined with many labels over the years, some great, others not. Ive been called the poor relative, a rich kid, a spinster, impudent, nave, funny, darling, boring, fat, perfect, unusual, forgettable, and unforgettable. Ive heard too sexy, too unsuitable, too angry, too dykey, and the blonde, the bitch, worst ever, best ever, Emmy loser, and Emmy winner. In the press, Ive been called a gay icon, a political liberal, a home-wrecker, a sack of potatoes, and a drunk.

A more tough-skinned person would have ignored all these labels. Im many things, but tough-skinned isnt one of them. I was a sensitive little girl who became a perceptive and vulnerable big girl. I wouldnt change that.

Its good to remember myself as happy, the way I am in this camp photo. Left to my own devices, I was usually a happy child.

Yet rarely is anything left to its own devices, not even cherished photographs. A couple of years ago, I took my small camp photo to be enlarged and framed. It now hangs in the entryway of my Studio City home. The photo editor, trying to correct what was wrong with me, airbrushed out all the chocolate stains on my blouse and on my face.

Apparently, there are still many things about me that others think need fixing.

I am seventy-eight years old now. Fuck em.

One Bubbles

If you ever have another drink again, dont call me. I dont do suicides.

Jesus.

The hotshot Miami doctors tone was dismissive. He closed my file. He had better things to do.

I was seventy years old and had come to see this big-deal gastroenterologist for my debilitating stomach pain. After spending the previous week in the hospital, I had been advised to stay completely away from alcohol. I did. For about thirty-six hours.

I blamed a bag of crispy chocolate chip cookies for the first bout of major stomach pain that sent me to the emergency room. I had been watching late-night TV and eating cookies in bed, chewing quietly so as not to wake my husband. Barney cant bear crumbs in the sheets. An hour later, my stomach began to hurt.

I waited for the pain to go away. It didnt. I considered my options. Going to the emergency room would involve me getting up and putting on clothing. That seemed like way too much effort for 1:30 a.m. I decided to ignore the sharp stabbing in my stomach. My attempt only lasted the length of a MyPillow commercial. The pain was undeniably getting much worse. I hid the empty cookie bag and woke up Barney. He drove me to the emergency room.

The pain spread rapidly to my back. After multiple tests, the ER doctors were still stumped about the cause. My regular internist was called in. He couldnt figure it out either.

I begged him, Please! Just give me morphine. Anything to stop this pain!

My internist thought I might need surgery for gallstones. Pain drugs were out of the question until they knew the exact cause.

After five hours of MRIs, scopes, and blood tests, they had a diagnosis. Acute pancreatitis. They had figured out the culprit. It was martinis.

Martinis?!? Well, that had to be wrong!

I did look forward to a Hendricks martini or two. Sometimes three. Every night. Starting at 5 p.m., the respectable happy hour. They made me feel happy.

I thought, Why couldnt the pain have been caused by something that I would never miss, like exercise? Couldnt it have been a bad reaction to the lap pool? Perhaps its a transdermal overdose of chlorine.

The only treatment for pancreatitis was to stay in the hospital, be medicated, and wait it out. I spent the next five days there on really good pain meds. I dont remember a thing about those days.

I was released, feeling fine, free to go home with my printed-out instructions on how to prevent another attack. At the top of the list was No alcoholic beverages.