Delta Burke

“I drove up … with a gun beside me”

 From the

Sharon Dunn
“I drove up … with a gun beside me”
Designing Women’s Delta Burke talks about her battle with depression

[Photo: Glenn Lawson, National Post]
Delta Burke says she started having panic attacks while she was working on Designing Women. “I was so busy, and the media was so nasty.”

“I look a lot better in person than on TV, don’t I?” Delta Burke asks. I agree, but her demeanour throws me off. She walks slowly and deliberately. “I’m spaced, so tired [from her trip from California the day before],” she tells me. Sitting in the Four Seasons Hotel, I decide to order chocolate cake, and Burke, 46, quickly follows suit. “Is that on your diet?” I ask, realizing it’s not on mine. “I eat whatever I want, I just eat less of it,” she tells me.

Burke, who is in town to talk about her lifelong struggles with depression, says, “I got it [depression] as a teenager, and when I got older, it got really bad. It got darker and longer.”vDuring Designing Women (she played Suzanne Sugarbaker) “it got so bad I had to be hospitalized,” she says. She started having panic attacks. “I was so busy, and the media was so nasty.” She sighs. “I was surprised because I had always been so accommodating for them, posing for pictures … That first year on Designing Women I did all the press, I gave up my holidays.” She says her biggest fear was that she would have a panic attack on the set, “in front of people.”vNo wonder she was afraid. Her panic attacks would manifest themselves with convulsions and “horrible wailing. It was so bad,” says Burke, that “for a period, I was wearing Xanax [the anti-panic drug] in a locket around my neck.”

Burke says it was all caused by stress. It was the making fun of her weight that really got to her. “The weight fed the depression and vice versa. I was so overwhelmed by the bad press and ugly articles — it was all about how much weight I had put on, jokes, Joan Rivers — you couldn’t look anywhere without reading about it. And to top it all off”, she adds, “I read [in a tabloid] that Mac [her nickname for actor husband Gerald McRaney, she hates the name Gerald] was having an affair with Shanna Reed [his co-star on Major Dad; he wasn’t]. I drove up to the mountains with a gun beside me. You want the pain to stop. I was taking Xanax,” she says, insisting, “you can’t overdose, but you can look pretty funky the next day.” Once up in the hills, she says, she kept popping Xanax. “I got out of the car and stood at the edge, and then I just fell and started to roll down the hill.” At that point, Burke says something snapped to bring her back to reality. “I heard the coyotes and I thought, ‘This is not the way I want to go, I don’t want all this in the media.’ So I climbed up the hill and got back in the car. I called Mac from a gas station. I didn’t know where I was.” Mac was apparently so worried he broke the security gate at home as he hurried out to find his wife.

The next day, says Delta, she drove herself to the set, “and the crew kept coming up and saying, ‘We’re with you.’ We were taping the famous episode of the Supremes, and the crew was walking me around.” Burke says that was the beginning of getting her depression under control. “I started out with Prozac. It saved my life. It got me well enough to get me into therapy.” Once in therapy, she was taught how to cope with situations. Now Burke takes the new antidepressant Effexor XR. “I get stressed easily,” she admits. “The last few months, I’ve been taking Valium, too.” I ask if she’s taking Valium today. She says no.
“But you seem so spaced-out,” I press.
“Just tired,” she insists. “I will always be on medication for depression,” she adds. “Some people need it for only a short time, but I’ll be on it forever.” When I ask if she was ever serious about suicide, she says, “you think of death and ways of doing it, but you know that you’re not going to do it.” Her Baptist religious beliefs stopped her, she says. “I was taught that if you do that [commit suicide], you go to a bad place.”I ask Burke why she wants to tell me all this. “I get inspired reading other people’s stories, whether they’re well known or the average Joe,” she says. “I talk honestly to people and they can relate to me.” Burke says fans constantly approach her. “And they all look like me. We’re all big — that’s the way women look in America. Watch any of the talk shows, and look at the women sitting in the audience. They’re not skinny women.

“Losing weight, she says, was a very slow process. “I hate exercise.” She was at her heaviest (215 pounds) on Designing Women. “Now I’m 160, but I remember wanting to die because I weighed 170.” Married to McRaney for 14 years, Burke is sporting a five-karat engagement ring she picked out herself. “When I saw this ring, I told Mac, ‘I would feel so engaged in that ring, I would never forget that I was engaged.’ ” Burke, who has no children, jokes, “The urge to have children would hit me occasionally, but, like the flu, it would pass. Besides, it didn’t happen,” she admits, “and I didn’t want to start going to doctors and trying in vitro.” Instead, she says, “we have six dogs and two parrots.” And they don’t have a housekeeper. “We do what we can. The house is kind of a mess. I call it Casa Chaos.”
“Are you wealthy?” I ask.
“No,” she tells me.
“In 1995, our business manager announced, ‘You have no money now.’ We had a mansion in Pasadena, but we had to sell it for something more modest. We went beyond our means — we were kids from the sticks,” she says. “If I had to do it again …” The couple now live in the San Fernando Valley. “It’s not cool to live there,” she says, “but it’s the most normal place we’ve ever lived. If I make it again, I won’t be stupid. I need to be practical.”

Burke is currently working on a pilot for a show called The Sweet Potato Queens and she’s optimistic about her future. “Most people can’t afford to retire,” she says. “I want to grow old working, like Betty White or Doris Roberts [of Everybody Loves Raymond].” Because she is wrinkle-free, I ask if she’s had work done on her face. She volunteers that she’s had her chin done (after her weight loss), but that’s all. “But,” she adds, “I intend to study up on all the plastic surgery methods and get a major overhaul by 50.” As we get up, she tells me that she’s enjoyed her flourless chocolate cake, “but I do prefer a good Duncan Hines or Betty Crocker,” she quips. Burke ends the interview talking about her marriage (her first and McRaney’s third). “It’s good,” she says. “We’re so damn grateful we found each other — no one else would have us. I wish we’d met sooner, but he wouldn’t have appreciated me then. He had to go through those two wives.” In this part of her life, at least, panic seems to be the furthest thing from her mind. “This man really loves me. No matter how fat I got, he thought I was great.”

by Sharon Dunn
 

Robin Kay

Fashion executive has designs for Canadian talent

 From the

Sharon Dunn on old website only

SARS

I’m from SARS, they’re from Venus

 From the

Sharon Dunn
I’m from SARS, they’re from Venus
Albertans aren’t quite sure what to make of ‘Tranna’
It was a long-anticipated Easter weekend trip to visit my parents in Alberta, booked long before SARS. But the bunny has come and gone, and I’m still in Edmonton.Could my reluctance to return to T.O. have more to do with SARS than my claim that my parents need me here? Even I’m starting to wonder.Maybe it’s the media coverage, the WHO decision and the travel advisories. Maybe it’s friends in Toronto who tell me stories of doctors refusing to see patients with bronchitis for fear of contracting the dreaded disease.”Don’t come back,” one friend advises. “I’m taking my kids to the coast for the week. You’re lucky to be out of here.”I know others who pooh-pooh the fears and insist people are getting worked up over nothing. These are the folks who look for the silver lining — no lineups in restaurants and near-empty movie theatres. At least that’s what they say. I’m not convinced, so I’ve extended my trip for another week.Being a Torontonian in Edmonton is not without its drawbacks — mainly, that I must deal with the reaction of Albertans when they find out I’m from Toronto.”So you’re from Tranna, partner?” a Stetson-wearing cowboy asks, feigning casual interest. “How long have you been here?” That’s a loaded question for sure.”Eleven days,” I say quickly, one day past the SARS incubation period. Of course, I’ve been saying that since I’ve arrived. The truth is that I’ve now been here nine days.He tips his hat. “Now what day was it you left Tranna?”I furiously try to count backwards but not fast enough, and the jig is up.The cowboy, gripped with fear, hightails it out of my breathing space. I realize I need to try a new tactic, and an opportunity soon presents itself.”Where did you say you were from?” a woman asks, after hearing the T word.”I mean I was born in Toronto,” I lie. “I haven’t been back in years.”She breathes a sigh of relief. That seemed to work, so I tell the next person I meet I’m from Winnipeg.When my brother-in-law tells me he’s going to the doctor because he has a sore throat, I shriek, “Don’t tell him you have family visiting from Toronto.”As I walk the Edmonton neighbourhood where I’m staying, I feel like a leper.Finally, I decide to quell the rumours once and for all.”You know, I haven’t been to Toronto for a year,” I say. “Not even for a visit.”With that bold falsehood, calm seems to have returned.On the Easter weekend alone I must have denied I was from Toronto three times! I swear I could hear a cock crow.

by Sharon Dunn

Mother’s Day

 … scourge of the single mom

 From the

Sharon Dunn
Mother’s Day
… scourge of the single mom
It’s Mother’s Day, that wonderful once-a-year occasion when mothers everywhere get to be waited on by their grateful kids. My day. To just sit back, relax and do nothing, to be coddled and pampered and just plain spoiled. Last Mother’s Day was a case in point. My kids had lots of suggestions for the day, ranging from a trip to the zoo to taking in a double feature. The plan was that it would start out with the traditional breakfast in bed. At least that’s what was supposed to happen. I waited in bed for sounds of someone stirring, but I got tired of waiting, so I killed time by going for a long walk. Since they still weren’t up, I worked in the garden. I was starting to get hungry, but I thought I’d better wait — I didn’t want to ruin the kids’ Mother’s Day. I even went grocery shopping. Coming out of the store, my cellphone rang, and I finally got the call I was expecting. “Where are you, Mom?” my youngest son complained. “I want to give you breakfast in bed.” I assured him that I hadn’t eaten and that I was racing home at that very moment. Once home I dove under the covers and awaited the feast. “How do I cook an egg?”, my 12-year-old yelled up the stairs. “I’ll come down and show you,” I offered. I bounced out of bed and headed for the kitchen. “Don’t touch anything, Mom, just tell me what to do,” he insisted, determined to do it all himself. So after five trips to the kitchen, I got my egg, toast and juice. Well, actually, the juice landed on the carpet, and the toast was a little burnt. Poor kid felt so bad, I promised him we could go straight to the park to play Frisbee. “Yea! This is going to be a great Mother’s Day,” he announced. After an hour of what I call intense physical activity, I persuaded him to head home, promising we could return later.

At home, we discovered that “the teenager” had started to move. “Happy Mother’s Day,” he greeted me enthusiastically. “What would you like to do today, Mom?”
“What did you have in mind?” I asked suspiciously.
“It’s your day, Mom, anything you want,” he assured me. The only thing I really wanted to do was relax, but I kept my opinion to myself. The teenager saw this as his opening and suggested we go to the record store, since they were having a blowout sale. I trotted along after him, wanting him to have a good Mother’s Day. After a couple of hours of searching through giant bins (looking for a record I might like), I found myself standing in a long lineup, buying a stack of CDs. These were not for me, you understand, these were for the teenager. I paid the considerable bill and was rewarded by the look of glee on the teenager’s face. “Sorry you didn’t find anything for yourself,” he said, sympathetically.

“What is wrong with this picture?” I asked the teenager as we passed a banner screaming, “Happy Mother’s Day,” but I could see he didn’t get the irony.
“Thanks for the CDs,” he told me warmly. “This is a great Mother’s Day.”, as if there was ever any doubt.
“Glad you’re enjoying it,” I winced. When we got home, the kids asked where I would like to go for dinner.”
“How about Chinese?” I said hopefully. They groaned.”What about a French restaurant?” I suggested. Louder groans. “Whatever you want,” the teenager said, “but how about burgers?” We decided to take a vote — majority rules. It ended up being two against one. Of course, the burger joint won. We had burgers and fries and milkshakes — all the food I had been trying to avoid, while listening to the soothing strains of Guns N’ Roses and Eminem. After a big dessert, I, of course, paid the bill, amazed that this dingy diner had the nerve to charge such prices.
“It’s really a happening place,” my son insisted. Oh well, it’s Mother’s Day, I consoled myself. When we finally got home, my little guy suggested a game of cards. “After all, Mom,” he said, “it is Mother’s Day.” We played his favourite games and then we made that promised trip to the park for Frisbee, before it got dark and we settled in for the night.
“Did you have a nice Mother’s Day?” my younger son asked as I tucked him into bed. He eyed the yellow-and-green beaded necklace I was wearing, the one he had made for me at school.
“I had a great Mother’s Day,” I assured him.
“I know you did, Mom,” he told me. “I wish there was a Kids’ Day, so I could do everything I want.”

by Sharon Dunn

Parents

I was on my way to rescue Dad

 From the

Sharon Dunn
I was on my way to rescue Dad
Reality hit when I pulled up at the hospital to take him out for the day
What to do when parents get older? My dad, in his mid-80s, found himself in an Edmonton hospital, and, after assessment, was told he was unable to return home to live independently with Mom, his wife of more than 50 years. Planning to be the rescuer, the one to whisk my ageing parents back to Ontario to live with me (it would be just like the good old days), I catch a flight to see Dad. Isn’t this the way it’s supposed to be? I think, as I head west. The way other cultures — like the Italians and the Greeks — do it? Take parents home? I criticize my peers who have chosen other alternatives — like the dreaded nursing home — for their ailing parents. “A cop-out,” I think, “a selfish lot, our generation.”

Arriving in Alberta, I gaze in surprise at my frail 85-year-old dad. The last time I saw him, a few months ago, he seemed so vibrant. But still, I’m resolved to bring him home with me, undeterred by the wheelchair or the prognosis calling for around-the-clock care. “I’m taking him home to Ontario with me,” I announce to the doctor. “That’s nice of you,” he says, not without amusement, as he signs the permission slip for my father’s first day pass. But other health professionals offer warnings. “Do you have any idea how much work this is?” says one. “You’ll need a hospital bed and electronic stairs and ramps,” another nurse advises. “Can’t be more work than it was for them when I was a kid,” I retort. This is payback time for my devoted parents. And there is some good news, the doctor tells me. My dad doesn’t show any signs of the depression that often accompanies the degenerative condition he has, a rare form of Parkinson’s disease. He’s still laughing and happy. I grab this opportunity to ask the doctor a question that has been preying on my mind. “Um,” I stammer, “um, Dad asked me if I can give him a drink. Do I have your permission to mix him one?” The shocked doctor looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “I can’t approve that,” he says, but looking at my determined gaze, he adds, “if you insist on it, but only half an ounce.” Half an ounce? Quite a compromise for my once hearty, party-loving Irish dad, but better than nothing, I think. And I have the doctor’s blessing, well, sort of.

Anyway, this is how I end up sneaking into the hospital with a mickey of vodka poking out from my purse. “Aren’t you happy now that you have a rebel daughter?” I ask my dad, pointing out that I’m the only member of the family who would even consider granting this wish. Me, the black sheep growing up, although with a judge and an RCMP officer as siblings, I must admit I didn’t have any real competition for the title. But to be 85, not able to walk, not even able to pour a drink … Of course, I’m about to change all that, or so I think.vI pull the car up to the front door of the hospital and jump out to help the nurse who is assisting my father. It takes a while to get my 178-pound dad into the car. “You’re lucky that I’m a lot lighter than I used to be,” he says, with more sincerity than sarcasm. Of course, 178 pounds with a 30-plus-pound wheelchair does get heavy, which explains why a hearty-looking man who is also there picking up his dad is using a hoist to raise the chair. “Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll get used to all of this,” I assure him as, breaking into a sweat, I finally get him into the car.

We head for the West Edmonton Mall. I push through the mall, up the ramps, through the crowds. We watch the kids skate on the indoor arena. “Isn’t this fun, Dad?” I ask, looking expectantly for the old familiar enthusiasm on his face. “Actually, I’m a little cold,” he admits. But when he sees the disappointment on my face, he adds, “But don’t worry, I’ll be OK.”vDad humours me as I wheel him through the rides at Galaxyland. Then we watch the dolphins and finally have dinner at the Old Spaghetti Factory. “Whatever you want to do,” he keeps saying, “don’t worry about me.” I’m surprised to see that Dad looks as though he’s putting up with all of this for me. As we struggle to get him back in the car, he apologizes. “I don’t move as fast as I used to,” he says. “That’s the understatement of the year,” I reply. My father lets out his huge familiar belly laugh and all is well with the world. In the next few days, we go for drives and family barbecues and more shopping, until finally, exhausted and sore after four days of pushing and heaving wheelchairs and looking after my dad, I announce, “Today we’re just staying in the hospital room.” I sit with him for three hours and we reminisce about the good old days, including the day when I was 16 and crashed the car (how many times have I heard that one? I wonder) and the great Christmases we had when there were so many toys under the tree you couldn’t even walk into the living room.

When I finally get up to leave, Dad says with a smile on his face, “You know, now this was a great day, this was the best day yet.” After all of my efforts over the past few days, all I have done today is sit and listen, and my dad is thrilled. I realize that I had wanted Dad to be the same vital father I had always known, wanted to prove to myself and to him that he could do all the things he used to do, that his life wasn’t changing. But instead of being the hero who is taking Dad home to live with me, I’m facing the fact that I can’t give him the physical care he needs (he and Mom are moving into an apartment where they can get nursing help). But I can still help him escape, even if it’s only in his mind, back to the good old days. We can even do that by phone long distance. Of course, I will ne required to make more frequent trips to Edmonton. Unless someone else is willing to mix those half-ounce drinks for him. I only hope there’s someone around to do the same for me when I’m 85…

by Sharon Dunn

Wedgwood

: Like a lord in a china shop

 From the

Sharon Dunn
Like a lord in a china shop
Wedgwood makes for a fine celebrity at William Ashley

[Photo: Yvonne Berg, National Post]
Lord Wedgwood launches the Peter Rabbit Fund for Sick Kids.

There are things you don’t think to ask a lord, starting with “What’s your first name?” I guess if you’re a hereditary lord you’re addressed as “Lord,” which is what I call Lord Wedgwood when I meet him at William Ashley’s flagship store on Bloor Street. He is here to launch the Peter Rabbit Fund to support the Hospital for Sick Children foundation. On this day he is wearing a pink and blue shirt with a red and blue tie. He sports a navy handkerchief with sky-blue dots in his breast pocket, and I notice Burberry socks and green antique cufflinks. Are you getting the picture? Lord Wedgwood is descended from Josiah Wedgwood, who started his famous china company in 1759. At Ashley’s, this qualifies him as a celebrity. Customers are lined up at the front of the store, waiting to get their limited-edition Wedgwood Peter Rabbit 1-2-3 Money-Box signed by the Lord himself. “Here’s three for my children,” says one woman, “and one for my niece and one for my mother.” A man steps forward and says, “This one is for my niece. She’s the only grandchild and she’s got four gay uncles to spoil her.” As luck would have it, he was by far the best-looking guy in the queue.

I hear a plate smash and turn to see one of the Lord’s fans trying to slither out of sight. “Stuff gets broken all the time,” a sales clerk tells me. “We don’t hold the customers responsible.””That’s a relief,” I say jokingly as I swing my purse. One customer who has obviously encountered the Lord on a previous visit observes that he’s lost weight.” After my cardiac arrest and major heart surgery three years ago, they told me to take the weight off,” he tells me. The heart attack occurred on the golf course. He has also quit smoking, which he had done since the age of 13. When all of his fans have had their money boxes signed, I ask the Lord his age. “I’m 49,” he deadpans. Seeing my look of disbelief, he adds, “I’ve looked like this since I was 23 and my hairline started to recede.” Look at the picture on this page. I’ll let you be the judge.

The Lord spent 25 years in the House of Lords, until the hereditary factor was eliminated. “The idea was to elect, but now it’s a ridiculous mess. They kept 91 members, supposedly for an interim period of time, but it has been indefinite. One of the 91 died, and they had to go through a whole election process of those who are eligible.” It may be in disarray, but he is full of praise for the institution. “It’s a chamber of legislative debate. And it’s all volunteer, with no payment, a group of intelligent, well-meaning, learned individuals who give of their time, energy, experiences.” Then he adds with a laugh, “It’s also a bunch of old buffers past their due dates.” The Lord, naturally, is a staunch monarchist. “I believe in God, the Queen and country.” He explains it this way: “The monarchy plays a key role for all of us in Britain. We have a Prime Minister, Tony Blair, who is the leader of the elected government. But then we have someone who’s wise [the Queen], who’s seen many prime ministers come and go. And with her we know we’re in a very safe pair of hands.”

Of the war, Lord Wedgwood (who’s married to an American) says, “If you belong to a democracy, it’s important to follow the decision that your leader makes.” Why do Americans and Britons know this but not Canadians? Just curious. The interview over, I get up to leave — but slowly. I saw Lord Wedgwood on television last week and he gave the interviewer a small Wedgwood gift. But he just shakes my hand in a friendly fashion and invites me to visit the factory next time I’m in Britain. As I leave, the publicist approaches me and asks how the interview went.
“He didn’t give me a gift,” I sniffle. She rolls her eyes.
“He gave the girl on Breakfast Television a gift,” I say defensively.
“Do you want me to send you one?” she huffs. Of course I do, think to myself. But I tell her, “no, it’s too late now”. I know how to get even… and I think I just did!

by Sharon Dunn

Shakosientha:

“At least the kids will listen”

 From the

Sharon Dunn
‘At least the kids will listen’
Spiritual healer offers students a different perspective

[Photo: Yvonne Berg, National Post]
Ronnie, or Shakosientha (he who heals), is an Algonquin shaman who does emotional and spiritual healings in his native traditions.

Last week my 12-year-old son announced, “A healer came to the class today.”
“A healer?” I asked. I’d heard of visiting police officers, physicians and firefighters, but a healer in an elementary school?
“He has special powers,” my son told me. Surprised, I approached the teacher. “I studied science and am completely logical,” she reassured me, “but I want the kids to learn to think for themselves and to decide. I can tell you that kids at this age are so interested in life and death and different perspectives on it.” Wondering how parents reacted to the news of a visiting healer, I was surprised to learn that it was a student’s mother who was responsible for bringing the healer into the school. “Just think about it,” said Laurie, the mother, “this guy from the native community is being accepted, even into the kids’ schools. Kids are starving for spiritualism. Prayer is a dirty word. And he’s up there talking about spirits and ESP and being intuitive — a guy who doesn’t want to sell a book and doesn’t have an axe to grind. If you can’t pay him, he doesn’t care. He works on donations.” And how did the kids react? “They were so fascinated,” said Laurie. “Every hand was up.” Later I found out that, actually, not every hand was up. Apparently, a few students weren’t comfortable with the healer, and some mothers were aghast that he had found his way into the school system.”

As a parent, maybe I would have wanted to be advised beforehand that he was coming in,” said one mother. “He’s a bit mystical. My daughter said it bothered her. I question whether he should be there.” But Laurie thinks spirituality in schools is long overdue. “People don’t want to talk about what’s happening in their spiritual life. I even hide the books [on spirituality] from my husband.”, she says.
I decide to pay the healer a visit. Ronnie, or Shakosientha (he who heals) as he likes to be called, tells me, “I’m a natural-born Algonquin shaman, which means that I do emotional and spiritual healings in my native traditions.” His office is the size of a postage stamp and very basic. There is little furniture. Calming music is playing.” Call me Shakosientha, please,” he says. “That’s what I’m known as.”
“I can’t,” I tell him.
“Why not?” he asks.
“Because you look like a Ronnie.”
“OK, call me Ronnie.” Ronnie tells me he’s often asked to speak in schools. “Every child who goes to school has stress because children are being bullied, misunderstood and ignored,” he says. “And kids are more accepting to the kind of thing I do than adults. At least they will listen. When I go into schools,” he continues, “they know that I’m a healer so they want to know about that. But I was asked the strangest question by a Grade 6 student recently. He asked, ‘Can you bring someone back from the dead?’ After that question, I talked about death because I realize that these children really don’t know what death is.”

Ronnie also tries to help children with day-to-day issues like bullying. “I don’t believe in fighting,” he says. “I say to the kids, ‘You’re being bullied because the bully is afraid. Maybe he’s had a miserable life, he’s not understood.’ ” Show kindness and try to talk your way out of situations, he advises. “I teach people from eight to 80,” he says. His adult clients include doctors, lawyers and therapists.
“I make people take a look at themselves. Most people are not happy with who they are.” As one of Ronnie’s clients told me, “it’s not that when he puts his hands on my head I feel better, it’s that over the next few days I can handle things better.” And does the healer have any advice for coping with the stresses of war? “What I tell my clients is to every day take a few minutes and do a little meditation and send positive energies toward the battle and the people who are fighting. Not necessarily to stop the war, but to see things in a different light, to look at how the other person feels.”

He then announces with great fanfare that he’s going to give me a healing.
“But I don’t need one,” I tell him. He insists, and I sit patiently as he wraps his hands around my head for what feels like an eternity, but is actually about a minute. I have to admit that it is relaxing. “Can I put your phone number in the story so people can reach you?” I ask him, figuring he’ll jump at the chance to advertise his services. “No, please don’t,” he says — he doesn’t want crank calls. “If someone really needs me, they’ll find me.” As I’m leaving, he hands me a gift. It’s a piece of suede with feathers and beads and a native drawing on it. It’s almost two feet long. “I made this for you to put in your car,” he tells me. “It’ll protect you while you’re driving.”
“Do you give this to everyone?” I ask.
“No”, he assures me, telling me I need it (I wonder how he heard about my rather erratic driving?). He comes with me to my car and attaches the gift to my rearview mirror. As I wave goodbye, I decide I’ll just let it hang there until I’m out of sight. But a month later it’s still there. Who couldn’t use a little protection these days?

by Sharon Dunn edited 2025

Dr. Stephen Mulholland

Did you change your hair?

 From the

Sharon Dunn
Did you change your hair?
At the anti-ageing show, doctors tell the secrets to keeping a youthful appearance

[Photo: Glenn Lowson, National Post]
“It’s never too late to look your best” says Dr. Stephen Mulholland, director of plastic surgery at SpaMedica.

Suddenly the idea of a facelift is intriguing. Maybe it’s because so many of my friends have reached the stage where they’re considering one, or should be. Not me, of course. I haven’t changed since I was 21. Or have I? “You have beautiful skin over the cheeks, but from the lower lids up you look older,” Dr. Stephen Mulholland tells me bluntly. He is one of Toronto’s leading plastic surgeons and he was one of the many professionals on hand at New You 2003, the anti-ageing show at the Convention Centre over the weekend. I was like a kid in a candy store, strolling from booth to booth, learning about botox, laser demonstrations, dermabrasian, cosmetic dentistry and all the other ways to look younger. “Your neck is fine but if you look in a mirror and do an endoscopic brow lift [this involves pulling the skin upward with your index finger pressed above your temple], you’ll see that your problem is your upper lids,” says Dr. Mulholland. “And there are bags under your eyes.”
“I didn’t sleep well last night,” I say defensively.
“Could be,” concedes Dr. Mulholland. “That’s why, if you came to the office, we would want to look at pictures of you when you were 25 and 35, to see what you were then and what you could be again.”
“I’ve changed?” I ask.
“Not everyone wants to be what they were,” he continues, ignoring my question. “If you don’t want what you were before, then we need to create the beauty that was never there.”

I ask if Joan Rivers is an example of creating beauty. “She looked good four facelifts ago,” Dr. Mulholland observes. And Raquel Welch?”A beautiful facelift,” says Dr. Mulholland, “and Kim Basinger’s had a good one too,” he says, adding that Madonna, too, has “had stuff done.” He doesn’t think she looks great, but “she would look worse if she hadn’t had it done. “Indeed, he continues, what I need is what she appears to have had done: “a brow lift, upper-lid lift, cheek-and-jowl lift, lower lids tightened and less bags.” And here I thought I was looking OK when I left home this morning. Dr. Mulholland consoles me by saying, “Even younger women are having work done. Catherine Zeta-Jones has had work done to maintain her good looks.” And he adds that her husband, Michael Douglas, is an example of a man who has had a successful facelift. “But Al Pacino is an example of a bad facelift.” Continuing, he says Sylvester Stallone has had a bad facelift and Robert Redford has suffered from skin that is extremely sun-damaged.

I must admit everything he is telling me sounds good, but I wouldn’t consider going under the knife for mere cosmetic reasons. “Fear is a big factor,” says Dr. Mulholland, who does 200 to 300 operations a year and tells me there’s a one in 600,000 chance of dying from the anaesthetic. And what should you expect after the procedure? “To look like hell for the first week,” he says. “By the second week, you’ll look like you were hit by a door. The third week you’ll look like you had your wisdom teeth out. By the fourth week you’ll be ready to go to the store. But you won’t want your friends to see you. When you do feel ready to confront people you know”, he says, “you should tell them you’ve lost weight or changed your hair colour.” They’ll notice something is different, but they won’t know what it is,” he promises.

Mulholland says it’s common for patients to feel some level of disappointment after. “But that’s all about expectation,” he says, surprising me by adding he refuses about one in 10 patients because of unrealistic expectations. “Some women come in because they want to save their marriage. They’re considered bad candidates because they’re doing it for the wrong reasons. “He also refuses people who aren’t in good physical shape. The cost of cosmetic procedures”, he says, “ranges from about $8,000 to $25,000, which would be “from stem to stern, ear to ear, which,” he adds judiciously, “is less than a fully loaded SUV, so patients who value their car more than their face are not good candidates. And if you drive a K car, there are less expensive facelifts in the city.

“So what are the right reasons for a facelift?”, I ask.
“When you wake up in the morning and it affects your mood. When you look in the mirror and say, ‘Who the hell is that?’ When you feel good and look bad,” he says. “You’re a candidate now,” he tells me”. Ouch, that hurts. “Most women”, he says, “start in their early forties with brow lifts, then move on in their late forties and early fifties to cheek and jowl, and by their late fifties they’re doing their neck. Women like to do it one room at a time,” he says, adding that “it’s never too late to look your best.” And the difference between men (who represent 10% of his practice) and women? “Men come to my office in their fifties. They want a strong jaw and a dangerous face. They want that, ‘I can take you anytime’ kind of face. Women, on the other hand, want to be alluring, they want that, ‘You can have me anytime’ kind of face.

Finally, I ask Dr. Mulholland, who is in his early forties and doesn’t have a single line or wrinkle, to name his plastic surgeon. He denies having had any work done. Oh, well, he’s probably just lost some weight or perhaps he’s had his hair dyed.

by Sharon Dunn

Brad Peyton

Embracing his inner weirdo

 From the

Sharon Dunn
Embracing his inner weirdo
24-year-old Gander filmmaker hired by Tom Hanks to write and direct

[Photo: Peter J. Thompson, National Post]
Brad Peyton is writing and directing the feature film The Spider and the Fly for Tom Hanks’ production company. It was his short film Evelyn: The Cutest Evil Dead Girl that opened the doors to Hollywood.

Looking like a Tim Burton character, 24-year-old Brad Peyton is wearing a band jacket he picked up in Toronto’s Kensington Market, and his hair is piled on top of his head. “It’s kind of a bun but it never really made it. It’s the way I feel on the inside showing on the outside.” Originally from Gander, Nfld., and a recent graduate of the Canadian Film Centre, Peyton has been hired by Tom Hanks’ company, Playtone, to write and direct the feature film The Spider and the Fly. “I don’t know where my love of film comes from,” he tells me. “Maybe from drawing and writing when I was a kid.” Growing up in what he calls an isolated household (the family lived in a rural area outside of Gander), Peyton says, “I didn’t have a neighbourhood. The nearest neighbour was over a mile away. But I loved to watch movies like The Wizard of Oz, Rudolph [at Christmas], The Invisible Man, Warner Brothers cartoons. I didn’t get to see a lot of eclectic stuff. What I saw, I would watch over and over again. If my parents rented something they didn’t want me to see, I’d get it on top of the fridge after they went to bed.” At the age of 14, Peyton would often go to the local Cable Atlantic building to borrow a camera. “I would shoot and try to train myself.”

Wanting to be a filmmaker didn’t go over big at home. “It was a totally insane idea to everyone in Newfoundland. There was no one in Gander making movies. I had to leave Newfoundland to see it as a reality.” After winning awards in school for art, Peyton received a small art scholarship from Dalhousie University in Halifax. He stayed only a year and then moved on to Toronto where he started taking night courses. It was mainly to gain access to video equipment, he says. “I would shoot a short film a week.” He also worked at Toronto’s Uptown Theatre for about a year — “just to see free movies. It was great.” From there, he tried school again, this time Ryerson. That lasted six months. “Certain people like me know what they want to do,” he says. “I didn’t need the guidelines they [Ryerson] offered. I knew they were hindering me.” (“Be gentle,” he tells me. “I don’t want them to hate me.”).

Things quickly got better for him when he received a grant from the Canada Council after writing a script for a movie called Full. “It took 2 1/2 days to shoot, a month in prep and a month in post. It got played at a lot of festivals,” he says, “and it got played on CBC.” After Full, his life started to change. The film got him into the Canadian Film Centre. This time he had a good experience in a structured learning environment. “The centre was much more conducive to someone like me. They embraced what I wanted to do and supported me wholly as a creative person.” He credits director in residence John Paizs and producer in residence Greg Klymkiw with being particularly helpful. “I went in with a very distinct idea of what I wanted to do,” he says, “and they were supportive of my creative risks. I was handed the strange stuff because I was considered the weirdo in residence.” He laughs. “I was doing Coen brothers homages to Gone With the Wind on a $500 budget in a small room. I would say, ‘I need 500 sheaves of wheat, some Styrofoam and a backdrop.’ ” Don’t ask.

His thesis project was Evelyn: The Cutest Evil Dead Girl, a nine-minute film he wrote and directed. Described as a darkly twisted comedy about a lonely dead girl who tries to bring herself back to life in order to make friends, it is currently winning rave reviews and awards at festivals around the world. “They [the film centre] saw that I wanted to do very visual and progressive strange films. As a weirdo growing up in a small town, what I needed most was other weirdos to relate to.” Evelyn, which Peyton describes as “very, very Seussian and Tim Burtonish” premiered at last year’s Toronto film festival. The public will get a chance to see it during this year’s Worldwide Short Film Festival running June 3 to 8 in Toronto. It was Evelyn that opened the doors to Hollywood for the young filmmaker. Universal heard of the film and sent it to Playtone. “They sent me a book based on an 18th-century famous cautionary tale called The Spider and the Fly. All it took was for me to look at the cover of the book,” he says. He was hooked. “And then when I saw her, the female fly, I knew I could fall in love with her.” Hanks and company wanted Peyton’s thoughts on how to adapt, write and direct the book, so they flew him to L.A. to do the pitch. “I had never done a pitch in my life,” he says. “I felt like I had landed in Oz. But when I went in, I kind of knew I was in the right place. The executive had an autographed Rob Zombie skull from the movie House of 1,000 Corpses.” Peyton spent an hour and a half pitching his proposal and just when they thought he was finished, “I opened my bag and took out swatches for all the characters, character designs, set designs, wardrobe. When I was finished, the executive says, ‘Great, we’re doing it.’ I was told that almost never happens.” Peyton signed the contract, and although he won’t tell me exactly how much he’s getting paid, he does admit it’s in the range of “six figures for writing and six figures for directing.” He intends to write the script this summer and expects the animated film to be in theatres in about 2 1/2 years. For his success, he credits “progressive people allowing me the freedom that I need to make movies. I hope,” he adds fretfully, “the talented people around me get opportunities.”

by Sharon Dunn