by Zak Bagans
The show must go on.
There are days when you say, “I’m dying,” in a joking way, and then there are days when you actually believe that you may be on your last legs. When we traveled to Cimarron, New Mexico, to investigate the St. James Hotel, I was so sick that I honestly felt like I was dying—like one of those cases of pneumonia you hear about that eventually takes someone’s life. I could barely remember my name, let alone focus on an interview. When I eventually did do the interview, I swayed like a drunkard. I didn’t know what I had, but it was hell.
When we travel to film in some of these haunted locations, there’s nothing else around. It’s scary sometimes when one of us gets sick or ill, because there’s no urgent care in these remote areas. I’ve done investigations in faraway places that were hours from any kind of healthcare. If you slipped while rappelling down an old mineshaft, you’d be screwed. I learned long ago not to take unnecessary risks like that or to put myself in a position that could cause permanent injury so far from civilization.
In the middle of New Mexico, Cimarron is three hours from the nearest major city (Denver to the north and Albuquerque to the south). It has a population of around 900 people, so there’s no real hospital to speak of. I was sick and needed medicine, and the future of the episode was in jeopardy, so we drove north to Trinidad, Colorado, which we later learned is the sex change capital of the world.
FUN FACT:
DR. STANLEY BIBER STARTED CONDUCTING SEX REASSIGNMENT SURGERY IN THE 1960S IN TRINIDAD AND GAINED A REPUTATION FOR BEING VERY GOOD AT IT. AT HIS PEAK, HE PERFORMED UP TO FOUR OPERATIONS PER DAY. HIS PRACTICE WAS SO WELL KNOWN THAT BIBER WAS FEATURED IN AN EPISODE OF SOUTH PARK.
We found this little health food store that was selling herbal oil remedies passed down through generations of Native Americans. When we went in, we were like three city slickers walking into the High Noon Saloon in Dodge City in 1888. The music stopped. Heads turned. I felt uneasy, even through all the pounding in my head and the hummingbirds in my stomach that wouldn’t stop fluttering. A bad situation quickly got worse, but it wasn’t me everyone was wary of.
Aaron, with his bald head, goatee, and hoodie, was singled out as the criminal of the group, and the locals watched him like a hawk. We browsed the store, and while I was looking for anything that would make the golems in my gut go away, everyone watched Aaron. I hated that, but I bought a bunch of tinctures in glass bottles because at that point I would have tried anything to get better. We got back in the car, and I threw back shots of these oils, the smell of which made all of us sick. Every time my body would try to heave up the oils, I would force them back down, because in the back of my mind I thought, This is the only option I have. There’s nowhere else to go for healthcare around here. I felt like I was back in medieval times subject to ancient natural cures, and none of them worked. It was awful.
The thing about being a TV show host is that the show must go on. If I’m down, then it’s a domino effect; it costs more money, more problems, and more headaches for everyone if I can’t do my job. The network has deadlines and a lot of people were counting on me, so I had to push through it. In television, no one cares how sick or distracted or dead to the world you are; you have to find the strength to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and accomplish your mission. In the military they call this FIDO: Fuck It, Drive On.
As I’ve said, my buddies and production crew are my family, especially when I’m at my worst. My production manager kept bringing me water, and the guys kept asking if there was anything they could do. We’ve built camaraderie like I imagine a platoon of soldiers would in combat. These are your brothers, and they’re all you have out there in the middle of nowhere.
The worst part for me is that I’m a perfectionist. I want to deliver the best show, the best interviews, the best investigation. I won’t settle for anything less. That’s why I’m the leader of Ghost Adventures. I constantly push Nick, Aaron, and everyone on our production crew to do better and make each show better than the last.
So when I’m down, I don’t like it. It makes me feel insecure about my performance as a host and as a paranormal investigator, because I know that the product everyone will see, which represents me, my crew, and the Travel Channel, is not going to be as good as it could be. Is that micromanaging? Maybe, but Ghost Adventures is my life, and the show’s reputation is a direct reflection on me and all the people who believe in me, so it’s my responsibility to get it right. I had to fight through the pain to deliver a great investigation.
It ended up being a great episode, but that wasn’t the last of it. After the investigation was over, we piled into an RV that we had rented because the site was so far from civilization and headed back to the town we were staying in, which was about forty minutes away. We were exhausted. I was physically sick, mentally drained from coming in contact with several spirits that night, and ready to collapse. Aaron was sleeping in the cabin above the driver, and I was propped up like a scarecrow in between and just behind the driver and passenger. I should have gone to sleep on one of the benches, but for some reason I couldn’t. I think the events of the investigation were still running through my head, or maybe the most recent episode of Game of Thrones was on my mind. Either way, my head was still in the game, but only in short bursts. I droned in and out of consciousness as we drove until…
“Oh my God!” the driver yelled, snapping me awake and scaring the crap out of me. I’ve faced some dangerous beastly spirits in my life, but this startled me pretty badly. What the hell was going on?
An elk. Or a moose. I really don’t know which it was, but I’m guessing it was an elk since moose rarely wander that far south. Either way, it was huge. And not just one, but two. And then…a lot more. A herd. A herd of giant animals was standing in the middle of the road in the earliest hours of the morning, staring at us. The message in their eyes was clear: “No, you move.”
It was what I imagine an acid trip must be like. Giant elk—or moose or reindeer or Sasquatches for all I knew, I was so sick and tired—were standing on a road in a remote part of northern New Mexico, blocking our path. It was blacker than black. No moon. Our headlights reflected off of them, and we finally inched our way around the herd and got moving again.
The danger seemingly behind us, I started to doze off again, but what do you think happened minutes later? “Oh my God!” our driver screamed again. I looked up and saw another huge beast trying to cross the road in front of us. We were going too fast to stop in the road like we had for the herd, so the driver swerved left to avoid this 1,000-pound animal, but couldn’t. The elk hit the passenger side of the RV, and I’ll never forget the sound it made. Please keep in mind that I’m an advocate for animal rights; I’ve adopted pets and donated tens of thousands of dollars to animal shelters over the course of my life. So hearing the dull thud of a majestic beast hitting the side of our RV at 60 miles per hour and knowing that the blow was probably fatal sickens me to this day.
The right side of the RV that juts out just behind the passenger seat had caught the elk’s head. Had the animal been a few feet farther into the road, it might have come through the windshield and injured Nick. We immediately slowed down and stopped about 100 feet from the impact site, all of us dumbfounded about what had just happened.
As we turned around to go back, we saw chunks of flesh in the road, and I knew what the fate of this elk must be. There was no way it could have survived. But as we got closer to the impact point, we saw it on the side of the road. I’ll be honest, I was a little afraid to get out, because elk and moose are known to bum-rush people and stampede them, and we had just seen a herd not ten minutes before. How many more of them were out there in the darkness just off the road?
We all mustered up the courage to get out and check on the animal only to find our worst fears confirmed. It was still alive, but with half of its head missing. Chunks of its back were also torn away, and it was trying to get up but couldn’t. We all felt like shit; I was not only
sick to my stomach, but also dejected. We knew we had to either save it or put it out of its misery, but we didn’t have cell phone reception or a gun. Hunters do their best to get a clean kill so the animal doesn’t suffer, and I wanted to show this beast the same respect, but we couldn’t find any sort of rock or tool to do the job. We sat there for twenty minutes, a group of adults with the mental capacity of kids watching Old Yeller. We had no choice but to leave. People may think that’s cruel, but how many motorists actually stop and go back to check on the animal they hit? At least we did that, even if we couldn’t help it.
I had gone to Cimarron feeling like I was going to die, but determined to push through it no matter what the cost. I never imagined that the cost would be the life of an incredible and innocent animal.
SHOW BUSINESS.
19
OVERLAND HOTEL
The most painful investigation ever.
We’re all born with features we don’t like: toes that curl under, droopy jowls, unibrows, whatever. Nobody’s perfect, unless you’re Paris Hilton. Wait—she has gigantic clown feet. (I don’t hate her, but she treated a friend of mine like shit when he tried to help her, so…I’ll leave it there.)
I’ve had the hardest time breathing since I can remember. My septum is deviated, which Wikipedia says is “an abnormal condition in which the top of the cartilaginous ridge leans to the left or the right, causing obstruction of the affected nasal passage. The condition can result in poor drainage of the sinuses. Patients can also complain of difficulty breathing, headaches, bloody noses, or sleeping disorders such as snoring or sleep apnea.”
Yep, that’s me. The condition has made many facets of life difficult, so I’ve always wanted to correct it. I don’t get into the “changing yourself through surgery is wrong” argument that some people like to throw around. It’s your body. If you’re unhappy with it and you can afford to change it, then it’s up to you, not the people who disapprove for their own moral reasons. Of course I also believe that we have to live with the consequences of our actions, so if you pay some cheap, uncertified doctor to give you a boob job and end up with tennis balls under your armpits, then you can’t complain when someone stares at you in a bikini with curiosity rather than admiration.
I wanted to get my nose worked on for a long time, but always out of necessity. I don’t think it ever looked bad, but it wasn’t efficient. I never breathed well and always wanted to. So I bit the bullet. Now that it’s done, I’m much more comfortable, but the pain of surgery was way more than I expected. If you’re a hater and want to hear a story of me in severe pain, then this chapter is for you.
There were plenty of things about the surgery that scared me. First, I have a fear of anesthesia. I’m kind of a control freak, and being put under is a total relinquishing of control that makes me nervous. Putting your life in the hands of others isn’t easy. Does that mean I have trust issues? Probably.
Second, the pain. Let’s not beat around the bush here. Even the toughest man in the world feels the searing agony of being sliced and diced, and having your nose cut open and rearranged doesn’t exactly tickle. I was assured that there would be severe discomfort for several weeks afterward, but from everything I’d read, it was worth it. Breathing is rather crucial to life, after all, so I weighed the risks and decided to go for it. I knew it would test me, and I was confident that I would pass.
I called a local plastic surgeon named Lane Smith. I didn’t think I’d be able to find one in Vegas, but he looked professional and…dare I say it…trustworthy? When I went in for a consultation, the office was full of Ghost Adventures fans. That was cool, but I digress. I’m usually a proactive person, but some things you just go for and don’t think about. When I see something and am sure it’s what I want or need, I get it. I don’t wait. After meeting with Dr. Smith for an hour, I felt good enough about the procedure that I plodded forward and went all in.
We set a date for two weeks later, and the doctor prescribed some medications for me to take before I came in. That’s when shit got serious. If I ever had a chance to chicken out, that was it, so I had him charge me for the surgery beforehand. I figured that if I paid for it then and there, my cold feet would be kept warm.
The night before the surgery, I couldn’t sleep. I took a Valium and lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking through all the things that could go wrong. Like flying, I could envision all the disasters but none of the safe landings. The next morning, as my mother drove me to the clinic, I freaked out and texted Billy and Aaron a thousand jokes to make myself feel better. I was scared, I admit it. The drive to the clinic was worse than the drive to a lockdown.
I had to put on that stupid hospital gown and sit in a room by myself, alone with my thoughts. So many times in my life, spirits have come to me when I didn’t want them to, but in my hour of extreme loneliness, they were nowhere to be found. Ironic.
Finally it was time. I walked down the hall dragging an IV bag on wheels, my gown flapping open in the back. Anyone who’s ever wanted to see my bare ass missed their opportunity that day. The anesthesiologist told me to lie down and put on some music. It was good, and I was calm. I remember I was…
Boom! I woke up. Had I fallen asleep for a second? I wasn’t sure. “Where am I? When are we doing the surgery?” I asked.
“We already did it,” the nurse responded.
I think I asked her the same question three times, but she kept saying, “You were under for three hours. It’s over.” I literally lost my mind. I couldn’t get a grip on anything, and for a guy who holds on so tightly to life, this was maddening. Panic ensued. My blood pressure skyrocketed. Then I heard my mom’s voice and began to realize that I had to calm down.
I vaguely remembered the doctor telling me about this possibility in our pre-operation meeting. He warned me about those rare patients who come out of anesthesia and go apeshit trying to get control of themselves. I guess that rare guy is me, and fortunately they don’t take it personally, because I said things I don’t want to repeat. I’ll be sending those nurses flowers forever as an apology.
I got into the car with my mother and we left to go home, but we had to make a few stops on the way. Disgusting stuff was oozing from my nose. If you saw any of it on the side of the road, you’d swear that a zombie had been killed, skinned, and gutted there.
For the next three days I did absolutely nothing. For the first time in years, I had no work, no stress, no nothing. Looking back, I’m glad for it, but it was also more boring than watching C-SPAN. Facial surgery isn’t like surgery on another part of the body. Because it’s on your face, it’s impossible to put out of your mind. All you can do is be in pain and think about the pain and try to breathe through the pain and wish there wasn’t any more pain and hope the pain will be worth it someday. I had no one to blame but myself, though: I had pain medications but didn’t take them. Like I said before, I hate feeling out of control, and painkillers and psychotropic drugs are designed to do just that: take the control away from you. No thanks. All I had were some antibiotics and my own thoughts.
On the fourth day, the spirits finally visited. I could feel them in the room with me, and all I could think was, Where have you been? I wasn’t really in the mood to be around them, so I shut them out. Nothing personal, but I think there comes a point in everyone’s life when social interaction is a nuisance. Even ethereal beings can be intruders sometimes.
The worst pain was getting the stitches removed. The nurses used pliers to pluck these fishing lines from my nose, and for fuck’s sake it hurt. I actually screamed, and I contemplated taking pain drugs for the first time. This was no small surgery. I have a big schnoz. It was like chopping down a redwood tree and piecing it back together with pliers.
The day after the bandages were removed, I did exactly what the doctor told me not to do: I went back to work. I’ve always done things my way, and on this one I decided that taking a risk was worthwhile. After all, a lot of people depend on me to tough out t
he hard times and get the job done. I did listen to the doctor a little bit, though. He told me not to fly for several weeks after the surgery, so we picked a location within driving distance of Vegas and headed to Pioche, Nevada, to investigate the Overland Hotel. But right away things went wrong.
I was still in pain. Lots of it. And my desire not to take strong pain meds wasn’t helping. The last thing I want to do is look drunk on film, so all I took was Tylenol. The simple act of walking and feeling the cold air hitting my nose hurt—that’s how sensitive it was. I’m a tough guy, but filming this episode was going to be a challenge with a swollen face and a nose that would bleed without warning. I feared it would start dripping just as we caught a piece of evidence, and people would try to link an EVP or apparition to my bleeding nose and freak out. I didn’t want my nose to get any attention and was trying hard to conceal what I was going through, but if it suddenly started to bleed while we were on camera capturing paranormal evidence, then I would have to address it. My solution was to buy a cowboy hat and wear it really low, but I couldn’t hide my voice. I sounded like Lurch from The Addams Family.
The first day in Pioche it was hard to concentrate. My nose felt worse than it should have, and I started to wonder if I should go back to Vegas and see the doctor. I had never had major surgery before and had never gone under anesthesia, so I think my entire body was trying to recover, not just my nose. The doctor’s order to stay home and take it easy echoed in my head, and a few of the events that followed made me wonder why I hadn’t heeded his warning.
We were filming an interview in a cemetery with a man named Jim Kelley who was an expert on the history of the area. Before the interview I noticed that he had a gun in his holster, so I got the idea that he should shoot me in the back as I walked away. The gun was full of blanks, so I thought it would be good for dramatic effect, but as we were doing the interview I was hurting. Every time my foot hit the ground, it would vibrate up through my body and shoot pain into my nose. I wished that someone had invented pillow shoes for this very situation. I had second thoughts about Jim shooting me, but finally decided “the hell with it.” The show must go on, right?