Troy Donahue was a famous actor and singer in the 1950s and 1960s, known for his good looks and charm.
However, the pressure from his fame and fans weighed heavily on him throughout most of his life.
In the end, his story took an unexpected turn that no one saw coming…
Whenever I hear the song “Summer Place,” I think of Troy Donahue. I remember watching the movie as a kid and thinking he was so handsome!
In the 1950s and 60s, Troy Donahue was seen as the ideal American heartthrob: young, blond, blue-eyed, and very good-looking. He had many young female fans because of his appearance.
Even though Troy was only a Hollywood star for a few years, many people still recognize his name, even if they might not remember him well.
Even though Troy Donahue was famous, he didn’t make much money from his career. His life started to fall apart, and things only began to improve when he reconnected with his teenage son.
Troy was born Merle Johnson in New York City. He was inspired by his mother, who was a stage actress, and wanted to be an actor from a young age. In a 1984 interview with People magazine, he said:
“I always grew up around Broadway and theater people. I remember sitting with Gertrude Lawrence while she read her reviews for ‘The King and I.’”
Troy Donahue went to Columbia University to study journalism, but he kept acting in local theater productions on the side. When he started appearing in movies, he had a new name, an agent, and was working with studio executives.
He said, “At first, they wanted to name me Paris, like the lover of Helen of Troy. But they changed it because there was already a Paris, France, and Paris, Illinois.”
Troy made his film debut in *Man Afraid*. Just two years later, he signed with Warner Bros, who saw his potential.
He recalled, “They asked me to light a cigarette, and when I did, they were so surprised, they fell down.”
In 1959, Troy starred in *A Summer Place*, which made him a big star and a popular teen heartthrob. He often played the good guy alongside a beautiful blonde actress. Despite his fame, he didn’t make much money.
Troy Donahue admitted that he was living like a movie star but not getting paid like one. He said, “I lived way over my head and got into a lot of trouble.”
In the late 1950s, Troy and Sandra Dee were known as a romantic movie couple. Over his life, Troy was married four times: first to Suzanne Pleshette, then to Valerie Allen, Alma Sharpe, and Vicky Taylor. All of these marriages ended in divorce.
As his love life fell apart, Troy began struggling with substance abuse. His unhealthy habits made things worse for his acting career.
By the end of the 1960s, his life was in a mess. He said, “I was loaded all the time. I’d wake up around 6:30 in the morning, take three aspirins with codeine, drink half a pint of vodka, and then do four lines of cocaine.”
Despite his struggles, Troy claimed that his addiction never affected his work. He insisted he was never drunk or impaired while working and that his drinking problems were not caused by his career.
Troy Donahue immediately believed the news when he learned he had a son, Sean. He saw a lot of himself in the boy and was relieved to find they got along well. Sean’s mother did not ask for child support, and they set up visitations so Sean could get to know his father. Donahue had been kept away from Sean earlier because of his struggles with drugs and alcohol.
His addiction problems also affected his career. By this time, he was no longer getting big roles and was working in smaller films like “Cry-Baby,” “Bad Blood,” and “Assault of the Party Nerds.”
In 1998, Donahue mentioned in an interview that he was not worried about his career shift to B-films. He felt his career was nearing its end but still considered himself a talented actor despite the critics.
Sadly, Donahue passed away from a heart attack in 2001 at age 65. By then, he had cleaned up his life and built a strong relationship with his son.
Troy was known for his good looks and charm on screen. Although he faced many struggles, he left behind many memorable performances.
I BURIED MY WIFE 20 YEARS AGO — YESTERDAY, SHE LITERALLY SAVED ME FROM A STROKE.
The rain hammered against the windshield, mirroring the storm raging inside me. It had been a year since the accident. A year since my wife, Emily, had vanished without a trace. The car, a mangled wreck, had been discovered at the edge of the Blackwood Forest, a chilling reminder of the day my world shattered.
The police had searched tirelessly, but to no avail. Volunteers combed the forest, their faces etched with sympathy, but their efforts yielded nothing. The prevailing theory, grim as it was, was that wild animals had taken her.
Emily’s mother, a woman of unwavering faith, had insisted on a funeral. “We need closure,” she’d said, her voice thick with grief. And so, we gathered, surrounded by the somber silence of the cemetery, to mourn a life cut tragically short.
But grief, it turned out, was a stubborn beast. It clung to me, a persistent shadow that followed me everywhere. I couldn’t escape the haunting memories – Emily’s laughter, the way she smelled of lavender, the warmth of her hand in mine.
And then, a few days ago, the unthinkable happened. I was at the local cafe, enjoying a much-needed cup of coffee, when a sudden wave of dizziness washed over me. The world tilted, the warm coffee spilling across the table. I slumped to the floor, the taste of bitter coffee and fear filling my mouth.
Panic surged through me as I struggled to breathe. Then, I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Sir, are you alright?” a concerned voice asked.
As I tried to focus, a face swam into view. It was a woman, her eyes wide with concern. “Can you pronounce this word for me?” she asked, her voice clear and calm. “Apple.”
I managed a slurred “Apple.”
“Good. Now, can you lift your right hand?”
I tried, but my arm felt heavy, unresponsive. Fear, cold and clammy, gripped me. What was happening?
Then, as my vision cleared, I saw her. Her face, pale and drawn, framed by a tangled mass of hair. The same captivating blue eyes, the same mischievous glint in their depths. And there it was, unmistakable, the crescent-shaped birthmark on the left side of her forehead.
It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be Emily.
But it was.
She looked at me, a mixture of disbelief and fear in her eyes. “Ronald?” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis once more. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. All I could do was stare at her, at the face I thought I had lost forever.
How? How could she be alive? Where had she been all this time?
Questions swirled in my mind, a chaotic whirlwind of disbelief and joy. But one thing was certain: Emily was alive. And after a year of despair, hope had finally returned, brighter than any sunrise. The rain hammered against the windows, mirroring the storm raging inside me. It had been six months since the accident. Six months since my wife, Emily, had vanished without a trace. Her car, mangled and abandoned, had been discovered at the edge of the Blackwood Forest, a place where legends of the supernatural mingled with tales of real danger.
The police had searched tirelessly, their efforts joined by a tireless band of volunteers. But all their efforts yielded nothing. No trace of Emily. Just the mangled car, a chilling testament to the tragedy.
Emily’s mother, a woman of unwavering faith, insisted on a funeral. “We need closure,” she had said, her voice thick with grief. And so, we gathered, a small circle of mourners, to say goodbye to the woman I loved. It was a heartbreaking ceremony, a hollow echo of the life we were supposed to build together.
Life without Emily felt surreal. The house, once filled with her laughter and the clatter of her cooking, was now eerily silent. Every corner whispered her name, every familiar scent a haunting reminder of her absence. I spent my days adrift, haunted by the “what ifs,” the “if onlys.”
Then, came that fateful morning. I was at the local cafe, the rain mirroring the grey haze that had settled over my life. As I reached for my coffee, the world tilted. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I crumpled to the floor, the hot coffee spilling across the table.
Suddenly, a pair of hands gripped my shoulders, steadying me. “Sir, are you alright?” A voice, concerned yet firm. I tried to focus, my vision blurring. Then, I saw her.
Her face, pale and drawn, was inches from mine. And there it was – the unmistakable birthmark on the left side of her forehead, a small crescent moon that I had kissed countless times.
Emily.
My breath hitched. “Emily?” I croaked, my voice hoarse.
Her eyes, wide with a mixture of shock and disbelief, met mine. “John?”
The world seemed to tilt again, this time with a dizzying sense of disbelief. How? How was she alive?
“I… I don’t understand,” I stammered, my voice trembling.
She looked around, her gaze landing on the concerned faces of the cafe patrons. “I… I can’t explain,” she whispered, her voice weak. “I woke up… somewhere. I don’t remember much. I was hurt, disoriented. I… I wandered for days.”
A flood of questions surged through me. Where had she been? What had happened? How had she survived? But before I could ask, she fainted.
As the paramedics rushed her to the hospital, I felt a surge of hope, a flicker of joy that I hadn’t felt in months. Emily was alive. She was here.
The days that followed were a whirlwind of medical tests, cautious questions, and whispered reassurances. Emily slowly regained her strength, her memory returning in fragments. She remembered the accident, the terrifying crash, the darkness that followed. She remembered waking up in a strange place, disoriented and alone, with no memory of how she got there. She had wandered for days, lost and terrified, surviving on berries and rainwater.
The mystery of her disappearance remained unsolved. The police were baffled, the medical professionals amazed. But none of that mattered anymore. All that mattered was that she was alive, that she was back in my arms.
Life after that was a slow, tentative journey back to normalcy. We faced countless questions, whispers, and curious stares. But we faced them together, hand in hand, cherishing every moment. The fear of losing her had cast a long shadow over our lives, but now, we clung to each other, determined to make the most of every precious day.
The accident had changed us, forever altering the course of our lives. But it had also taught us the true meaning of hope, the enduring power of love, and the incredible resilience of the human spirit. And as I looked at Emily, her eyes shining with a newfound appreciation for life, I knew that our love story, though interrupted, was far from over. We would face the future together, stronger than ever before, grateful for the second chance at the life we had almost lost.
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