Mary Tyler Moore talks about the most heartfelt, yet universal truths about life—including the lives of those with diabetes. She chats with Joan Hamburg and chronicles her struggle with diabetes, as well as her successful rehabilitation from alcohol dependence, all while deriving gratification from her roles as an actress, mother, businesswoman, campaigner, and fund-raiser. Her revealing tales of both her successes and failures in coping with diabetes offer others with the disease guidance and inspiration through example. Read an excerpt of her new book.
Mary Tyler Moore
Chronic disease, like a troublesome relative, is something you
can learn to manage but never quite escape. And while each
and every person who has type 1 prays for a cure, and would
give anything to stop thinking about it for just a year, a month,
a week, a day even, the ironic truth is that only when you own
it—accept it, embrace it, make it your own—do you start to
be free of many of its emotional and physical burdens.
How do you accomplish this acceptance? How do you
come to terms with this constant, nagging, never-ending disease?
I can’t tell you, not precisely. Each person who has diabetes
struggles to come to terms with it and experiences the
basic challenges of the disease in a uniquely personal way. For
me, it has been a trip through rebellion and denial to finally
arriving at acknowledgment and commitment to solutions. It
took years. And the restrictions, the have-tos, the may-nots,
and the never-endingness of it still rankle. But the illness is what
it is, and I thank God for the genius of medical researchers,
who have done so much to make diabetes a less cruel imposition
while propelling us toward a cure.
I don’t think the story of my life with diabetes is a model
for anyone else. There’s no template to follow that will determine
the course of the disease and how it affects a person’s
life; no one right way to manage diabetes. What I have put on
paper is simply the tale of how, in the course of everyday
living—dealing with the losses, the dead ends, and the triumphs
that come in often seemingly random order—I’ve dodged,
faced, and sometimes conquered the challenges of diabetes. I’m
sharing my story because it is what I have to give, shedding
some light on the follies and achievements that I’ve racked up
in my daily confrontation with the disease.
But my journey is just a part of the picture. So I’ve talked
with other people who have diabetes to give voice to their experiences,
to provide a varied view of how to live and thrive.
And I’ve sought out some of the wisest and most capable doctors
and scientists who are waging war in the laboratory and
conducting bench-to-bedside experiments that are producing
new and exciting treatments to help the millions of people
with diabetes manage—and ultimately vanquish—the disease.
A lot of this practical information appears in the appendixes at
the back of the book.
It is my most heartfelt hope that the collective wisdom—
and occasional humor—of the stories contained herein will help
others who have diabetes, and their loved ones, find new ways
of managing its challenges.
For me, the process of writing the book, talking with people
with diabetes and all the experts, certainly has provided new
insights into how to manage the disease. I guess you could say
it truly has been a matter of growing up again. So let me introduce
myself one more time. . . .
2
The Other Shoe Falls . . . and
Falls and Falls
I’m Mary Tyler Moore and I am . . . an actress, an animal lover,
the chairman of the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation,
the wife of Dr. Robert Levine, and . . . I don’t want to give
away the whole story from the very start. Suffice it to say
there are a lot of ways to end that sentence, and I don’t think
I’ve come close to living through all the possibilities, thank
heavens. But what I do know is that in every role I am a devotee
of laughter and tears, committed to expressing the nuances
of each.
For our purposes here, though, I am going to write about
who I am in relation to diabetes. I’ll start in 1969, the year I
was diagnosed with type 1. It was a time of transition for me:
It was three years after The Dick Van Dyke Show had ended.
That show had catapulted me from a nervous chorus girl from
Studio City, California, to a famous actress (quite a head-spinner
and life-changer). And it was a year before The Mary Tyler Moore
Show debuted.
In that interim period, Dick was kind enough to ask me to
join him in a television special called “Dick Van Dyke and the
Other Woman,” warmly spoofing the couple we had played
on The Dick Van Dyke Show, Rob and Laura Petrie, and their
marriage, with which the public had become so very smitten.
Little did I know at the time that the special was to be the
launching pad for my future—my career, my loves, my disappointments,
heartbreaks, challenges, and successes. Thanks to
Dick’s genius and his generosity in sharing the spotlight with
me, the show was a great hit. And afterward CBS asked me to
think about what I’d like to do in a series of my own! Wow,
really? Oh, thank you, God, thank you! Thank you, Dick!
My second husband, Grant Tinker, a successful network
vice president whom I’d married in 1963, left his post to become
the King ofCamelot, MTM Enterprises, which produced
some thirty pilots and series over a dozen years, many winning
multiple Emmys and the praise of critics as well. Of these
shows, mine was the first. Thank you, Grant, thank you!
But despite, or maybe because of, the thrill of our accomplishments
together, I realized later that I had not been captain
of my own ship—not even co-captain. I see now that it
was a pattern that had long manifested itself in my personal
relationships, my working life, my early marriages.
I married for the first time right out of high school, leaving
the complicated but protective, even totalitarian, environment
of my parents’ unstable home for the adventure of “wifedom”
and motherhood. I was eighteen, my husband was the very kind
twenty-eight-year-old boy next door, Richard Meeker. And since
he had a job (cranberry sauce sales manager) and his own apartment
(as I said, next door), I accepted the invitation to get
married on the condition that we move at least four blocks
away from my parents. Now that was an independent step,
wasn’t it?
I had just graduated from Immaculate Heart High School
in Hollywood, California, and had no preparation for real life.
I didn’t even type! That was because, as I entered high school,
my mother said, “Be sure you take a typing course in case this
show business thing doesn’t work out.” Thanks for the vote of
confidence, Mother! Watch me never take your advice!
How sorry I am now that I let her understandable disbelief
in my not-so-promising future influence me long past the “I’ll
show you!” stage. As I write this book in longhand on yellow
lined paper that contains erasures, cross-outs, and indecipherable
smudges, I look longingly at my assistant and dear friend,
Terry Sims, typing away on his computer and I wish for a “doover”
of that resentment.
Less than a year after I married Richard, I gave birth to a
9-pound, 31⁄2-ounce boy, whom we named Richard. We formed
a family, and for the next five years I was working when I
could land a role on a television show or a job as a chorus
dancer. All the while, I put meals on the table, cooed and
rocked, cleaned, and chatted with other moms in the park. I
was cared for, and I was the best mom I knew how to be.
When that marriage ended, I landed the role on The Dick Van
Dyke Show; proudly I realized that I could take care of Richie
and myself, at least economically. But emotionally I was not
ready to take the helm and be the captain of the HMS Mary
Tyler Moore. A few years later, in 1962, I married Grant.
Grant was unique in many ways, yet so recognizable to me as
the protective alpha dog. Once again, a familiar and comforting
mantle of safety draped itself around my shoulders, allowing
me to express myself as an actress but making it necessary
for me to take charge of little else.
It would be wrong for me to insinuate that I was forced
into some kind of servitude. I did it to myself, inadvertently,
as a diva in the making, perhaps? While I never felt the need
to make anyone’s life diva-difficult, I did feel it was appropriate
for a man (father) to assume the role of decision maker,
the one who took over when I was unable to, or disinterested
in, taking the reins.
It felt right as an adult to have this captain’s chair occupied
by an intelligent, fiercely witty man, Grant, whose focus was
to become the building of MTM Enterprises, Inc., including
the care of its flagship, The Mary Tyler Moore Show. And,
come on, let’s be fair to me: Wasn’t my contribution that I was
free to help create the earnest, lovable Mary Richards, who,
after all, was a major asset in the business that was “show”?
I was a mother, too, requiring no small amount of self, which
kept me very busy being loving, organized about time spent together,
and just hanging out. While I had the best of intentions
and high hopes, I did, I think, miss out on some of the perks of
motherhood, such as spending time in the park on a random
afternoon, or sitting on the living room floor together playing
checkers. While Richie was young, I did two series, The Dick Van
Dyke Show and The Mary Tyler Moore Show. And truth be told,
work was my focus before, during, and after. If I had it to do
over, I wouldn’t have pursued a career while I had a little boy
to care for. My heart breaks when I think of the times missed,
times with him. How predictable that without awareness I emulated
my mother’s behavior toward me.
But before I figured all that out I sailed through the process
of launching the show, astounded and delighted by the creativity
that surrounded me.
As we were preparing to do the series, a surprise pregnancy
gave the promise of a huge event. Since the show wasn’t due to
air for almost a year, it was accidentally, yet exquisitely, timed.
So, Grant and I set about the fun of telling anyone who’d listen
that we were embarking on a production of another sort.
In about six weeks’ time the promise was broken. This growing
expression of us both ended in its beginning. And the loss
took my heart with it as well. Later that day my physicians entered
the hospital room with that look doctors get when there’s
bad news (as noted on television). It seems that during the necessary
D&C procedure that followed the miscarriage, it was discovered
that there might be a little problem with the amount
of sugar present in my blood. The normal count is between 70
and 110. Mine was 750!
“Mrs. Tinker,” my doctor intoned, “It looks like you may
have”—cue the drumroll!—“juvenile diabetes.” I thought, Juvenile?
Diabetes?! What?!—I’m not that childish! And I am not
that special!
I can’t believe I thought the diagnosis made me special.
But I did and I couldn’t wait to share the exciting news with
everyone. Ah, such thoughts revealed my stunning insecurity
in slightly loopy ways. There I was, a multiple Emmy Award
winner, dozens of times on the cover of TV Guide, a darling of
the critics, and I needed a major disease to make me feel whole?
Let’s chalk it up to films that had a strong influence on me
from way back when they were called movies: the wheelchairbound
little girl who won Heidi’s love and attention; Deborah
Kerr, who waited to be reunited with Cary Grant after she
lost the use of her legs in a terrible car crash; and, of course,
Camille, whose imminent death ripped the hearts from so
many. All of these, plus a few more, made me believe in the
magical power of illness to elicit love. Seemed like a good thing
to me!
“Did you have a lot of cake last night for dessert?” the doctor
asked. (I thought this was a bit cheeky.)
No, I huffed.
“Do you know anything about diabetes?”
A little (the one question I lied about). I knew diabetes was
one of the big ones on the major diseases chart. But my knowledge
of it measured . . . zip! In fact, I vaguely thought it condemned
one to a lifetime of eating chocolates while reclining
on a chaise, resting, never to dance again. I have no idea why I
thought this!
“Have you been feeling tired? What about urination—any
more than usual? Are you always thirsty and dry in the mouth?”
No, not really—and no.
I noticed that some of the medical professionals who had
been called to my bedside seemed a bit confused; there was a lot
of head-scratching going on. They were stunned that I had
been walking around without feeling any symptoms of diabetes
with such a high blood-glucose level. In retrospect, I had noticed
a few oddities, but I had chalked them up to the pregnancy. I’d
had a feeling of fatigue upon reaching the top of the stairs in
our house. And instead of attempting an Astaire-like flourish at
the summit, I’d been unable to do anything but grasp the top
of the banister and breathe, simply breathe.
When engaging in conversations, my mouth would become
dry sometimes, so much so that I wondered if the person
I was talking to could hear the clicking sounds I made as
my tongue (starved for moisture) would smack against my
teeth. I began keeping a bottle of water handy, and berry teas
became my only harmless addiction. Not knowing better at
that time, I smoked and drank. Maybe those indulgences were
a factor in the miscarriage? The planning of The Mary Tyler
Moore show was happily stressful, and I’m sure that added to
my distraction, as well.
But in thinking about this inability to notice the symptoms
of diabetes, I’ve come up with a couple of insights. The first
possible answer is a paradox. You might assume that a trained
dancer—me—would be tuned in to her body during a performance
and during everyday life. But a crucial requirement to
be a dancer is an ability to ignore the never-far-away physical
pain that accompanies both the long-term training and moments
of performance. Ah, yes, the performance, during which
the face, at all times, must reflect nothing but the expression
of the character one is portraying. The toes may be bleeding,
calf muscles screaming, but never, ever acknowledge it! We
dancers, make no mistake, are like football players. We play
with pain. So, I think admitting to fatigue or discomfort goes
against what was, by that time, my nature.
The other truth? I drank consistently every evening at six
o’clock for many years. Could that have dulled my senses? You
bet! Grant and I were feeling carefree, high-spirited, and dulled
at the same time.
So diabetes arrived as a surprise—denied before diagnosis
and marginalized after.
Excerpted from “Growing Up Again: Life, Loves and Oh Yeah, Diabetes” by Mary Tyler Moore with Kalia Doner (St. Martin’s Press). Copyright © 2009 by Mary Tyler Moore. Reprinted with permission.
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