A Brief Conversational Detour About Sheree North’s Face

This is a detour from the Golden Girls: “Transplant” recap. (Sheree North guest stars as Blanche’s sister in that episode.) It’s about the time I got a little too Lou Grant-ish while unwittingly close to death.

Sheree North is one of those actors, like John Schuck, who lingers in my memory for medical reasons. On a Sunday morning only eight days into 2017, I was sitting on the couch with my wife (then-fiancée), watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show. It was one of the episodes in which North appeared as Charlene, Lou Grant’s lounge singer girlfriend.

Normally I would’ve been alone for most of a Sunday, so it was fortuitous that my wife noticed something was ‘off’ about me and chose to stay nearby. This was during a time when it took some effort to keep me out of the hospital. I was having a Crohn’s flare and my hapless doctor, who was soon to be replaced by someone more competent, was in over her head. My potassium kept falling into the twos.

All I remember about that MTM episode, whichever one it was, was that I simply couldn’t keep up with it. I had no idea what was happening and couldn’t quite focus on North’s face. That was odd, because I normally had a bit of a crush on her wisecracking Charlene. Several times, my wife looked at me and asked if I was OK. Several times, I stubbornly insisted I was fine. She didn’t believe me.

She was so suspicious that she took my vital signs and listened to my heart with a stethoscope. “We’re going to the hospital,” she announced. I disagreed. She looked at me as if I were a recalcitrant child, which in fairness was how I was acting. At that time, I was physically frail, and her arms were action-movie sculpted from weightlifting. She stood over me and gave me a choice. “You can get up and walk to the car on your own, or I can throw you over my shoulder and put you in the car myself, but we’re going to the hospital.” 

I chose to preserve what remained of my dignity by walking, but complained the entire drive there. “They’ll send us home without doing anything and charge us $5,000,” I grumbled, or something to that effect. Occasionally she looked over like she wanted to strangle me. Eventually, she spoke. “Do you not trust my professional judgment?” she asked. If I said anything in response, it was probably rude.

Once the triage nurse directed us to the waiting room, my complaints resumed. “We’ll probably wait here for five hours and they won’t even give us a room…” My wife lowered her magazine just enough to give me an exasperated look but said nothing before turning back to her reading. Within moments of being seated, we were taken to a room. 

They immediately began pumping me full of fluids, which continued for hours. (Meanwhile, the dehydration problem persisted for months. I was eventually prescribed potassium chloride packets to dissolve into water at home. I drank the equivalent of four IV bags each day to stay out of the hospital. Citrus flavor still makes me gag.) My wife removed her laptop from her backpack and settled into a chair to work. She knew we’d be there all day and possibly overnight. 

I conceded that I was a moron for having been so defiant, and she asked if I’d noticed my vitals at the triage desk. I’d seen the numbers without processing them, much as I’d watched Mary Tyler Moore without processing it. “You were in hypovolemic shock,” she said, a term that didn’t sound familiar. Once my cognition improved, I realized with irritation that I’d experienced it before, due to blood loss and dehydration, without ever knowing its name.

Later, she explained what she’d known all along and I hadn’t: “You had altered mentation, your heart rate was through the roof, and your blood pressure was almost nonexistent. If we hadn’t gone to the hospital, you would have died.” Technically, she might’ve said, “You would have died, you asshole.” I wouldn’t have taken offense—I’d been unusually cantankerous that day specifically because of the “altered mentation.” 

Anyway, that’s my Sheree North story. She began her career as an ingénue, a Fox prospect for replacing Marilyn Monroe, and ended it doing guest spots on television. (In 1980, she played Monroe’s mother in a made-for-TV movie.) Every time I encounter her work, I think of that trip to the ER and how, on any other Sunday, her face might’ve been the last I ever saw. Though, with my luck, it would’ve been Gavin MacLeod’s instead.

04-27-25 note for DLers: This evening I glanced at my WordPress dashboard and noticed a spike in traffic from Datalounge, which usually means another round of discussion about Kate Jackson or Loni Anderson. Tonight North was apparently the woman in question and I hope you’re all behaving yourselves. A few times a year, I receive emails or comments from readers asking if I’m familiar with the site, and the answer is yes: DL’s caftan-wearing eldergays took me under their bitchy wings more than 20 years ago, when I was in high school. The occasional DL reference in a TV movie review is intentional, even if it’s not as explicit as I’d prefer. For example, when writing about Jackson’s “Inmates: A Love Story,” her character’s stint on garbage detail is mentioned but I was unable to incorporate the rest of that Michfest callback.

Cranky Lesbian

Cranky Lesbian is a disgruntled homosexual with too much time on her hands. Click for film reviews or to follow on Instagram.

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