My Love Story Page 2

  On a more frivolous note, I also got to see how fabulous they looked! Our invitation specified a dress code—white for the women and black tie for the men. I acknowledge that it is unusual to ask women to wear white to a wedding, but I had my reasons. The designer in me didn’t want random colors competing with our carefully composed décor. I also knew that people would look glamorous in classic black and white . . . and they did! White looked beautiful against the greenery and the flowers; it was so picturesque. Later, several of the ladies said to me something along the lines of “Tina, my dress was hard to find, but you were right.”

  I enjoyed seeing the guests’ reactions as they stepped into the magical setting we had created for them: the front of the house was draped with oversized floral boas, the grounds a fantasy come to life. I wanted a Garden of Eden effect, with cascades of blossoms and banks of greenery everywhere, and it turned out just as I had imagined. Jeff Leatham even constructed an enormous hedge of 140,000 bright red roses, which I saw as a nod to my trademark red lips. I took one look at it and said, “That’s me!”

  I am Rock ’n’ Roll—Tina Turner is Rock ’n’ Roll—and I can’t envision performing any other way. But there is another side of me, the Tina who wears ballet flats and pearls, who believes in elegance: on my wedding day, I wanted my garden, my house, my guests—myself—to be the best that we could be. When I saw my friends strolling through the grounds, sipping champagne, I felt like I was watching a scene from The Great Gatsby.

  Eventually, I had to pull myself away from the view to put on my dress. At the appointed hour, the children, precious cargo, arrived in their festive vehicle. Their beaming fathers helped them out and lined them up for the wedding march. It was the prettiest sight—they were so excited. The older girls swanned down the aisle, practically dancing. The youngest, an angel with long blond curls, barely knew how to scatter the rose petals from her basket. Our handsome page boy was sweet and shy. He was so serious that he made everyone smile. Those children stole the hearts of all the guests.

  Erwin, who is a car enthusiast and knows everything about them, selected my black Rolls-Royce convertible for our entrance. He was at the wheel, as usual, while I sat by his side, not at all nervous, just happy. As you might expect, we put a lot of thought into our choice of wedding music. If you listen to Frank Sinatra’s “My Way,” the words fit my life perfectly. “The record shows I took the blows / And did it my way.” I had to have that one! The song built to its dramatic climax as we arrived, and it was a very emotional moment for us and our loved ones.

  We walked down the aisle to the music of our friend Bryan Adams, who played his guitar and serenaded us with his romantic ballad “All for Love.” The song has the beauty and power of a vow set to music. A wedding vow. “Let’s make it all for one and all for love,” Bryan sang, and I ended up singing a few lines with him. How could I resist?

  The ceremony was traditional, with a few “Tina touches.” The backdrop behind the officiant was a wall of white, yellow, orange, and pink roses arranged in a beautiful tree-of-life design, which is a symbol of knowledge, creativity, and immortality. Dear friends said a few words about our history together. A few weeks earlier, on July 4, Erwin and I had exchanged rose-gold wedding bands (engraved with the letters “T” and “E”) at a civil ceremony in Zurich, so technically we were already married. But it felt different to be surrounded by a loving and enthusiastic group of witnesses who never stopped smiling. They were so happy and excited. They looked at us as if we were the center of the universe, and I liked that! With the words “You may kiss and embrace each other with God’s blessing,” we were a couple in every way, a couple with a commitment.

  After the ceremony, during a chorus of congratulations, we gathered on the stairs for photographs. That’s when I started to feel a little funny. It must be the heat, I thought, or the dress, which was getting heavier by the minute. I tried to ignore my discomfort until it got the better of me, and I let Rhonda lead me inside the house. I sat in the dining room for about half an hour, trying to compose myself, praying the sensation would pass. I didn’t want to miss a minute of the wedding, and here I was in a chair, wondering when I would feel well enough to join my own party. Eventually, sheer willpower propelled me to my feet and I walked outside. I didn’t want to think about it, so I just pushed the troubling episode out of my mind and focused on enjoying my wedding.

  I like food that’s spicy and exotic, so that’s what we served—thinly sliced beef with coriander and vegetables, Tom Yum Goong, which is a Thai hot-and-sour soup, and a banquet of other tasty and beautifully plated dishes. At one point, I heard Oprah say, “Ummm . . . I don’t know what it is, but it’s really good!” The children had their own little fairy table under a tree. Instead of a traditional cake, we had a gorgeous, five-foot tower of miniature tarts—fruit, cream, marzipan—a dream come true for me and anyone else with a sweet tooth.

  I had worked for months to organize the wedding, and fretted over every last detail, yet there were two wonderful surprises in store for me. During dinner, we were told to look up at the sky. A helicopter flew over the house, and suddenly it was raining rose petals! Friends had arranged this for us, and it was such a romantic thing to have happen.

  Erwin came up with the real high point of the evening. I don’t know how he did it, because he is generally a little quiet and reserved. He and about fifteen of his friends walked out in front of the crowd and sat down with sombreros pulled down on their heads—like hombres. The music started and boom! All the guys jumped up and started dancing with their guitars. They weren’t really playing, of course, but the lively gypsy music and their energetic steps roused all our guests from their seats. The whole place lit up. I have to hand it to Erwin: I’m the entertainer, but he stole the show. It was the moment, the one people still talk about when they remember Tina and Erwin’s wedding.

  After everyone left, I walked down to the lake alone and sat down at one of the tables. I was exhausted, my beautiful dress was squeezing me, and I welcomed the chance to take off my shoes, rest, and enjoy the quiet. I looked back at the decorated house, beautiful, just the way I wanted it. Then I looked up. God had given us a clear, clear sky and the most glorious moon, which bathed the garden in an incredible light. As I looked at that moon, it seemed to be looking right back at me, blessing our union. It was magical. I’d known it wouldn’t rain on my wedding because, when you’ve suffered as long as I have, you deserve some kind of reward. Every single thing I’d done, every choice I’d made—on my wedding day, and in my life for that matter—was from instinct, and it ended up being exactly right.

  I’d labored all my life. Nobody gave me one thing. After so many years of hard work and, frankly, hard times, I looked forward to living in the moment with Erwin, to rising peacefully each day without worry, want, or agenda. I’ve reached my nirvana, I thought. That complete happiness when you wish for nothing. It’s a wonderful place to be.

  * * *

  Three months later, I woke up suddenly and in a panic. A lightning bolt struck my head and my right leg—at least that’s how it felt—and I had a funny sensation in my mouth that made it difficult for me to call out to Erwin for help. I suspected it wasn’t good, but it was worse than I ever imagined.

  I was having a stroke.

  2

  * * *

  “BACK WHERE YOU STARTED”

  “Who’s going to help ya, throw you a lifeline?”

  I’m sitting in a dialysis chair at a hospital in Zollikon, Switzerland, only ten minutes from my home, trying to ignore death tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “Tina . . . Tina, I’m here.” I’m desperately trying to stay healthy, or as close to healthy as someone with 5 percent kidney function can get, while I wait impatiently for my body to be strong enough to accept my only possible salvation—a potentially life-saving kidney transplant.

  “Wait,” you might say, “I’m confused. Weren’t you having a stroke?”

  Darling, I’m confused, too
. I’ve been on such a wild roller-coaster ride during the four years since my wedding that even I have difficulty keeping my medical catastrophes straight. High blood pressure. Stroke. Intestinal cancer. No! No! Wrong order. Stroke. Vertigo, or Der Schwindel, as they call it in Switzerland, then intestinal cancer. And now, kidney failure. I need more than the proverbial nine lives to survive everything that’s been thrown at me.

  I have to report to the clinic several times a week. Thanks to Erwin, who is very careful and protective, our routine is always the same. On treatment days, he parks in front of the Château Algonquin at exactly the same time, and in such a way that I can go straight from the steps to the car. He’s such a gentleman that he’s already opened the passenger door. Then, we drive to a small bakery in Küsnacht, not far from the train station. I stay in the car so that no one recognizes me, while Erwin runs in to buy an assortment of Swiss pastry. This way, we’ll have something nice to eat during the long hours ahead.

  The trip to the clinic is always a tense game of hide-and-seek. Somehow, we’ve managed to keep the fact that I’m seriously ill an absolute secret for several years. This is possible because we live in Switzerland, where people have considerably more respect for privacy than in other countries. And Erwin and I have developed a precise system to ensure that no one recognizes us, especially in the clinic, where I would be easy prey for paparazzi.

  When we arrive, Erwin parks at a back entrance. From there it’s a short walk directly into the dialysis rooms. I usually wear a black cape in the winter, or a heavy coat with a large hat, so that I can hide behind all of that fabric. Erwin and I are silent on the way in so no one can hear my voice and figure out that I’m speaking English. Otherwise, passersby might recognize me and take a photo to sell to the media.

  I’m not assigned a private room—I would be upset if the staff gave me one because I’ve never been a diva. I want to be treated like everyone else, not stand out just because I’ve had a little more luck in my life. The doctors make some allowances because, like me, they want to avoid photographers. Whenever possible, my appointments are scheduled at quiet times, when there isn’t very much patient activity, and the nurses close off my area with a curtain.

  I try to make my time in the chair as pleasant as possible. I eat the pastry, when I can stomach it, and read my books. Weirdly, I tend to bring the same three books each time: The Book of Secrets by Deepak Chopra, The Divine Comedy by Dante, and a book of photography by the extraordinary Horst P. Horst. Something for the spirit, something for the intellect, and something for the senses. I never get tired of these books, which stimulate deep thoughts and feelings within me. I turn to them repeatedly for inspiration and comfort.

  Day in, day out, I maintain these rituals while my blood is being washed. Read, fall asleep, wake up, drift. I think about Erwin. I replay memories of my late mother and sister, my children, my own childhood. And I’m surprised to find myself thinking about Ike. I keep saying that I’m finished with all that, but here he is again, calling for my attention. I reexamine the early days, the bad times, my decision to leave him and start a new life. Many of these thoughts have been on my mind before, but never so vividly. This time, I’m asking myself questions and looking for answers. You think differently about your life when faced with your own death.

  How did I get from a fantasy wedding at a château on Lake Zurich to a dialysis chair? That’s a long story. How did I get from Nutbush, Tennessee, to that château? That’s an even longer one. When I’m tethered to the dialysis machine, I see everything through the piercing lens of mortality. I have all the time in the world. Time to think about the past, what it means to me in the present, and the big question: will I have a future?

  I believe that in order for you to really know my story, you have to know where—and what—I came from. My struggle began at birth, on November 26, 1939, when I entered the world as Anna Mae Bullock. Ever since then, I have spent my entire life fighting my way through a climate of bad karma. What did it feel like to be an unwanted child? What was that child’s life like? How did that child prevail in spite of the many strikes against her?

  Let me tell you all about that.

  There was a shadow looming over my earliest years, and it was cast by someone who was absent more than she was present: my mother, Zelma Currie Bullock, whom we called “Muh,” the first syllable of the word “mother.” She was a spoiled little girl who grew up to be a spoiled adult. Her daddy favored her over her three brothers, encouraging her to think that she could reach out and take whatever she wanted in life. When she grew up, that included my father, Floyd Richard Bullock. She stole him from another girl, just because she could. That’s how they got together, which never should have happened in the first place. Their marriage was a battlefield from the beginning, right through the birth of their first child, my sister Alline. Then, when Muh finally decided they should separate once and for all, she found out she was pregnant with me and had no choice but to stay.

  My mother was a woman who bore children, but she never really wanted them, especially not a rambunctious baby like me. I was totally different from Alline. I was the tomboy, always in motion, doing everything I could to force Muh to pay attention to me. Even as a child, when I watched how she treated my sister, I knew there was a difference. She’d look at Alline’s face and caress her affectionately, and I’d think, That’s nice, because I loved my sister. But I wished she’d do the same to me. Muh had a gentle touch when she combed Alline’s hair, which was soft and fine. When it was my turn, she impatiently tugged and pulled at my head because my unruly hair was woolly, not pretty like Alline’s, and much harder to comb. Maybe she found it harder because it was mine.

  She didn’t punish Alline with the switch as much as she whipped me, because my sister was better behaved. In Muh’s eyes, I was too active. I was either in trouble, or was trouble, so I always seemed to be running away from her and her switch—hiding under the bed, climbing a tree, anything to escape the whoosh of that stick, with its hard, little point that stung and made a popping sound when it hit the skin.

  I knew then that my mother didn’t love me. I wonder now if she loved anyone other than herself and maybe Alline. She didn’t love my father. My earliest memory of my parents was of them fighting. Although, for better or for worse, Muh could hold her own in any argument. She was a strong, fearless woman who knew how to take care of herself. She used to sit at the window on a stool, thinking her way out. When she’d had enough, she was the one who walked out the door, not caring who, or what, she left behind.

  I was eleven years old when my mother abandoned us. It was 1950, and Alline and I had been in that sorry position before, when our parents moved five hours away from Nutbush to find better paying jobs in Knoxville during World War II. But they often sent for us to visit them, and eventually they came back. This time was different. I was at a tender and complicated age. School was difficult. Life was difficult. Oh, how I needed a mother! I ran through the house in a panic looking for her. I went to the mailbox, wishing for a letter that would give me some connection to Muh. But, of course, she couldn’t write because my father would figure out where she was. When he did find out where she was living in St. Louis, he sent me and Alline to visit her, hoping the sight of her daughters would make her want to come home.

  “Come here, baby,” she cooed when she saw me. What right did she have to call me baby? I wondered. Whenever Muh tried to be nice, I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t believe her. It was safer to keep my distance. She never came back and I avoided visiting her.

  Looking back on our relationship now, I realize Muh and I were either estranged or at odds with each other our whole lives. But that didn’t prevent me from being a good daughter and taking care of her after I became successful and had the money to do so. I made sure she had a nice house and nice things, no matter how much friction there was between us. When I was living in London in the late 1980s, I went to a psychic who told me, “You weren’t wanted when you w
ere born and you even knew it when you were inside your mother.” She confirmed what I had always felt when I was growing up.

  When I told Muh what the psychic said, she started to cry. Trying to defend herself (although there was no defense), she said, “I saved your life.” She meant that on one occasion when she was fighting with my father, she did something to protect me from getting hurt. I didn’t let her get away with that. I said, “I’ll bet you’re happy you did, Muh, because look where you are now!” More than anything, Muh loved the status that came with being Tina Turner’s mother. I wanted her to know that by “saving” me, she had really saved herself.

  I guess you could say I was born with a Buddha nature inside of me, because the miracle is that I didn’t give up. With all the instability and pain in my life, especially my troubled relationship with my mother, I was still a happy, carefree, and optimistic child, and I’ve kept that attitude my whole life. People ask me, “Where do you get such strength?” I tell them I was born with it. I’ve always been strong and independent. I had struggles, but I was also given the strength to endure them. I’ve always been able to find the good in any situation.