Hazel Would've Loved It!

July, 1992

After a long and painful battle, my mother, Hazel - the woman who taught me how to write, who forced me to become a great speller, who bought me my first typewriter - died of lung cancer.

She fought like hell. Just like she’d done so many times before when life threw her a curve.

She outlived every prognosis, defied every expectation, and refused - right up until the end - to believe that this insidious disease would be the thing that finally got her. And who could blame her? She’d already overcome so much in her short time on earth.

She tragically lost the love of her life - a strappingly handsome Marine Corps hero - to a freak and ironic military accident. On his 32^th birthday no less. He was awarded the Silver Star of Valor for his battlefield heroism in Korea, then died on the Camp Lejeune base in North Carolina after his parachute failed to open.

His death left her a widow at age 30, with three kids under the age of 7.

After that, she survived two brain surgeries to remove a massive tumor in her head. Then, she endured a terrible second marriage that would have broken most people.

She’d proven - over and over - that she was a survivor.

So she believed she was going to beat this too.

She didn’t. Hazel Johansen was only fifty-nine.

As devastating as the loss of our hero, role model and swiss army mom was for my sisters and me, we found a modicum of comfort in knowing her pain was finally over.

And that she could rest now.

SUPPORT FROM ALL CORNERS

At her wake, in my eulogy, I said something like: They say you can tell a lot about a person by the friends they’ve made over the years, and by how many are still at their side. I believe you tell what kind of parent someone is by their children’s friends.

By that measure, my mother was extraordinary.

Because in addition to those who knew her, the room was also filled to the rafters with my friends. People from every chapter of my life - colleagues, childhood friends, people who had shown up for me on this sad day the way my mom had shown up for so many others over the years.

Among those was my old college writing partner, pal and fellow NBC Page, Norm Gunzenhauser.

Norm had flown in from Los Angeles, where he was now a successful Emmy-winning sitcom writer at the top of his craft, with credits like Cheers, Newhart and Murphy Brown.

My mother had always been very fond of Norm. She loved everything about him: his humor, his warmth and his larger than life personality. And that fact that not only was he one of my best friends, but one half of what was going to be a very successful Hollywood writing team.

When we were still in college, Norm and I performed in each other’s elaborate tv productions, cranked out countless sketches and one liners together, conned our way into the SNL offices of writer Alan Zweibel and wrote jokes for a borscht belt comedian repped by Zweibel’s manager. We knew what we wanted to do.

Mom saw a bright future for the Gunzenhansen team. So did we.

It didn’t quite work out that way.

Even so, she still never let go of that dream for me - even after it was no longer possible. She made that clear on more than one occasion.

You should ask Norm to help you. Just tell him you need a break. Ask him to hire you as a writer. You guys should be working together. You’re great friends, and you’re a great team.

I know, mom, you’re right. But it’s an awkward situation.

You should ask him anyway. And tell him I told you to ask.

Okay, mom, I will.

Johansen to English translation - I absolutely will not be doing that.

TIMING IS EVERYTHING

The fact of the matter was, even though were were great friends, Norm didn’t owe me anything. When he’d headed west to chase what was once our mutual dream of writing comedy, I just wasn’t ready to go. For one thing, I’d just landed my first real tv job - on The Tomorrow Show, working with Tom Snyder - one of my late-night college tv idols. And, more importantly, my mom was in the middle of a brutal second marriage to a pioneer in the art of gaslighting. As much as she wanted me to leave and head west, I just couldn’t.

So I stayed, while Norm made the gutsy leap solo, and travelled three thousand miles to his left.

The fact that he flew back across the country to say goodbye to my mom meant more to me than any writing assignment he could ever have tossed my way.

But my mother had made a request. And I was duty (and blood) bound to honor it.

Even if I had to do it posthumously.

A REUNION AND AWKWARD REQUEST

When Norm arrived at the funeral home, we greeted each other the way we always did: with a bear hug, an inappropriate grab of the crotch, and an impression of one of our old Newhouse professors, a bespectacled dude who always sounded like he was running out of oxygen.

Hello, Mister Gunzen… (long wheeze)… hauser.

Hello, Mister Johan…(wheeze)…sen.

Some things between old friends never change.

I asked if he wanted to say goodbye to my mom. He hesitated, which I totally understood. It’s an unsettling thing, to see someone who was once vibrant and full of life, just laid out, motionless. But out of friendship, and respect for the woman he grew fond of when he stayed with us during a college break, he walked up the aisle with me..

Together, we stood at her casket. The disease had taken its toll. She was so small. So broken. And so, so still. The mortician had done his best, but this wasn’t the woman everyone knew. Her wig was askew and the cheeks were too rosy. But I could tell from Norm’s expression, he was remembering the woman that was, not the one in the coffin.

She really loved you, Norm, I said, fighting back tears.
I loved her too. She was a great lady, Pete.
Norm, I just want you to know that even though you weren’t her son, she was still very proud of you, and everything you’ve accomplished in LA.

Then I called attention to something I noticed. There was a folded piece of paper in her hand.

Norm, what is that?
No idea.

I leaned back slightly, a little freaked out. Norm, can you grab it? I need to see what it is.

I’m not grabbing it. You grab it.

Please, I can’t do it. I don’t want to disturb her. That’s my mom.

I know it’s your mom. What makes you think it’s okay for me to touch her?

Please, Norm.

He could tell I was upset, so he grudgingly, and very carefully, approached my mom’s body. His movements were slow and precise. He carefully controlled every muscle in an attempt to avoid making contact with my mother’s cold, lifeless hands.

It was as if he were 8 years old again, and playing Operation. He must’ve excelled at that game, because Norm skillfully reached into the casket and removed the piece of paper. Without touching Haze.

There was no buzzer, and my mom’s nose did not light up red.

He handed me the note, and wiped his hands on his pants. (Yeah, Normie, I saw that.)

I opened up the folded note, and paused in disbelief. Norm saw the shock on my face.

What? What is it?

I handed him the paper.

Norm, when are you going to give my son a writing job? Love, Hazel.

Norm lost it, collapsing to the floor in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Right there, next to my mom’s casket.

People at the back of the chapel must’ve though he was insane.

Or a Tourette’s patient.

Or just a cold-hearted bastard.

He was none of these, just a dear friend appreciating the flawless execution of a practical joke.

We hugged.

I’d written the note the night before, and my sister Karen volunteered to place it in our mom’s cupped hands once she saw Norm arrive.

The family that pranks together…

More than pulling off a joke for the ages, I’d finally honored my mother’s wish. It’s the least a loving son could do.

To this day, Norm and I still talk about the moment. And the story’s been repeated back to me from unlikely sources many times. So it’s made the rounds.

But was it worth it?

Norm never did give me a job on one of his writing staffs, or throw an assignment my way.

Which is okay. I took a different path, which worked out just fine.

But yes it was worth it, because mom taught me to always shoot my shot. And I took the shot.

And she would have loved knowing that she was a key part of it!