Palmyra, MI Stray Male Dog Found Near Near Myers hwy

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Suzy K.

4 weeks ago

Both dogs?

Henry B.

4 weeks ago

Just delete it

Sharon R.

4 weeks ago

Sorry, how do I remove this?

Sharon R.

4 weeks ago

Kathleen Turner’s daughter, Rachel Ann Weiss, was still a little girl when she saw her mother fight a battle Hollywood refused to understand. The world saw a fading movie star, judged her changing body, and whispered about alcohol. Rachel saw something else. She saw her mother struggling to walk, struggling to hold a s, and still trying to act strong enough not to scare her child. Kathleen was only 37 when rheumatoid arthritis began stealing ordinary movements from her body. During the filming of "Serial Mom" (1994), her feet swelled so badly that shoes became almost impossible. Soon her hands hurt. Her neck stiffened. A glass of water, a pen, a s, even a small chair in a classroom became reminders that the woman Hollywood had sold as fearless and untouchable was fighting a disease no camera could flatter. One of the cruelest moments came after her diagnosis, when she went from the hospital straight to a meeting at Rachel’s kindergarten. Kathleen looked at the tiny classroom chairs and broke down. She knew she could not lower herself into one. This was not about glamour anymore. This was motherhood. It was the terror of realizing that the body that had carried her through movie sets, interviews, red carpets, and motherhood might not even let her sit beside her own child. Hollywood had already begun turning cold. In the 1980s, Turner had been electric in "Body Heat" (1981), adventurous in "Romancing the Stone" (1984), and unforgettable with Michael Douglas in "The War of the Roses" (1989). Her voice, confidence, and physical presence made her feel larger than the screen. But once rheumatoid arthritis changed her face and body, the same industry that had worshiped her glamour started whispering. People said she was drinking. People said she was difficult. People said her career had collapsed because she had lost control. Kathleen later described how brutal that fear became. “I fired the doctor who told me I’d be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life after my diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis in 1992. I can’t exaggerate what a battle it was against the endless pain and fear of what I’d end up like.” That fear followed her home. Rachel saw what the public did not. At one point, her daughter had to feed her because Kathleen could not hold a s. That image cuts deeper than any headline. Kathleen Turner had once commanded rooms with one look and one line. Now her little girl was close enough to see the shaking hands, the helplessness, the humiliation, and the pain her mother tried not to turn into a performance. Rachel’s honesty came from love, not cruelty. She did not see a fallen star. She saw her mother. And that made her one of the few people Kathleen could not fool. When Kathleen tried to hide how bad it was, Rachel could see it. When Kathleen tried to push through the pain, Rachel could feel the fear in the room. Their bond became one of the quiet places where Kathleen did not have to play invincible. Kathleen never pretended she handled every part perfectly. The pain was relentless, and alcohol became a dangerous escape. She later admitted, “It was incredibly stupid. I had this thing in my head where I thought I’m not taking pain pills, they are addictive and dangerous. But it was OK to have that second or third vodka.” That honesty is what makes the story human. She was not simply a strong woman conquering illness. She was a mother, frightened and hurting, trying not to disappear from her own life while the world judged her from a distance. Hollywood had loved her when she looked powerful. It had far less patience when illness made that power harder to package. Theater became her battlefield and her rescue. Onstage, she could use the voice, intelligence, danger, wit, and emotional force that illness had not taken. Broadway gave her space to rebuild without waiting for Hollywood’s old permission. She returned not as the woman the studios once sold, but as the artist who had survived them. Years later, Rachel and Kathleen were crossing a road when Kathleen ran. Rachel looked at her and said, “Mom, you ran.” For a mother once told she might live in a wheelchair, it was more than movement. It was proof. Sometimes survival sounds like a daughter noticing one step.

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