by Naomi Judd
When Brian started to tire, I helped him adjust his pillows and lowered the hospital bed, so he could lie down. He looked at me for a moment and then asked poignantly, “Am I dying? No one will tell me what’s going on.”
His question took my breath away. I mumbled, “I don’t want you to. So, don’t.” A flash of a grin moved across his face in the same way it happens on the lips of a sleeping infant. The rest of the night, I sat in my little metal chair with my forehead on the edge of his bedcovers and wept. I couldn’t imagine my life without my good-humored, redheaded brother. After spending these precious hours with him, I knew this might be the last time I would ever see him.
In the hallways of the hospital, I could hear other children and teenagers whimpering in pain, or crying out for their parents or a nurse. Some of the nurses who came in during that night to check on my sleeping brother seemed rushed and exhausted, but others were warm and compassionate.
The nurses came to work, every day, in a place where the children were hurting or scared. They had to handle worried family members, look them in the face, and explain both good news and bad news. The nurse is often a buffer between the doctor’s diagnosis and how a patient and his family receive the news. If a nurse can’t give hope, they can at least give comfort. It was the first time I had seen what a respectable and helpful career nursing could be. Watching these nurses on that sad night made such an impression on me that, years later, I adopted their best characteristics in my own approach to my career as a nurse.
Subsequently, I was appalled by the lack of compassion that came with my own diagnosis of hepatitis C. I’ll never forget the distant and impersonal look on the doctor’s face when he showed me the results of my liver biopsy. Even though I had already been through nurses’ training, had my degree, and had worked for five years as an RN, hepatitis C had not yet been formally defined, so I didn’t recognize the symptoms. In 1989, the doctors could only use the term “non-A, non-B,” because scientists didn’t yet know how to identify this virus.
I was busy taping a Christmas special with Bob Hope when I began to feel extremely exhausted and decided to see the doctor. I expected I would be told I had a resistant bacterial infection that was making me feel like I had the flu every day. Truthfully, though, I had not felt well for three years, and I was pushing out of my mind the fact that as time passed it was getting worse instead of better. I assumed it was the pace of touring and performing live concerts, almost daily press interviews, and TV shows.
When the doctor informed me that I had the hepatitis C virus and that my liver was on the brink of cirrhosis, I thought he must have been reading the wrong chart. Now, twenty-five years later, there has been tremendous treatment progress and a successful oral cure developed that is working for many. But in 1990, my diagnosis was grim, with no hope of a cure. With the same tone of voice as someone ordering at a fast-food drive-through the doctor told me that I should go home and get my affairs in order, as I probably only had about three years to live, yet another traumatic event for me.
There was no comforting advice or hint of a possible cure on the horizon. No suggestions on how to improve my nutrition or any types of alternative treatments that might help. As I was leaving, he actually yawned and nonchalantly said to come back in a week. That was the first time I had laughed in days. It wasn’t a happy laugh; it was an incredulous one. I knew if I continued to see that insensitive doctor I would end up dead within a year. I returned to our tour bus dazed but defiant. No matter what it took, I would find the doctor who would be my partner in my healing and who could give me what we all need most: hope. It took me some time, but I finally found “Dr. Right” for me, Dr. Bruce Bacon, who brought me through my worst fears of this insidious viral disease.
I faced a harsh foe in hepatitis C, one that took my singing career away and made even the least exertion daunting. But I fought back. Besides doing the medical treatment of a rigid course of interferon shots in my abdomen, I studied everything I could find on integrative types of healing. I learned about the brain and neuroscience along with the mind, body, and spirit connection, and psychoneurology.
I called on every current expert I could find. I pored over years of research and applied their knowledge and experience to my own disintegrating life. I practiced meditation, affirmations, and guided imagery of what my healthy body would look like. I went to biofeedback sessions, studied nutritional healing, had massages for my lymph system, saw a chiropractor, used aromatherapy, music, and pet therapy, incorporated mindfulness and spirituality, and read countless books and articles about how your belief impacts your immune system. When my health would allow, I attended seminars on natural modalities of healing and went to every lecture offered.
And I rested—a lot.
At one natural medicine seminar I listened to a keynote address given by Dr. Mona Lisa Schulz, a brilliant behavioral neuroscientist and neuropsychiatrist with a medical degree. She began practicing medical intuition almost thirty years ago and is one of the pioneers of studying, lecturing, and teaching about the relationships we have with health or illness. Her lecture resonated to my core. I had an intuitive feeling that she could play a big part in the hope that I was seeking.
In 1995, Dr. Bacon proclaimed me miraculously cured, entirely free of the hep C virus. I felt vibrant and full of life again. I shared my healing journey with everyone through a book and a speaking series. I was in demand as an inspirational speaker. I had a lot of placebo-based, double-blind clinical trials and good research to share. People wanted to hear my miraculous story, especially those in the medical field and those suffering with chronic illness, especially hepatitis C.
As I was descending into debilitating depression in 2012, I had a number of engagements as a keynote speaker, often at conventions of nurses, doctors, or medical practitioners, university professors and students, and community organizations. These engagements are usually booked a year ahead of the actual date. A few were scheduled for the spring of 2012. I knew I couldn’t let people down. I’m extremely responsible.
I feel the most alive in front of groups of people. I absorb and reflect the energy of the audience and it brings me unbridled joy to know that I have information that can be shared and learned in an entertaining way.
In the past, I usually only required a bare outline of notes and a few PowerPoint slides and I was good for a forty-five-minute talk. I’d always been delighted to participate in a fast-paced question-and-answer period right after my speech. I was intrigued by the lives of others and I could always learn something from them, as well. But I could no longer imagine doing any of that, especially since the third prescribed antidepressant made me so anxious I constantly felt trapped in the confines of my own jumbled brain. I had no idea how I would pack a bag, prepare my talk, fly to the location, meet the coordinators, be social, and then give a worthwhile speech. I felt overwhelmed at the thought of it all.
When the time came to pack for these lectures that spring, I would stand at my closet door for long periods of time, not even able to pick out an appropriate outfit to wear. As soon as I would put something into the suitcase, I would have to check over and over again to make sure I had what I needed. I was scared I would show up with shoes that didn’t match, or a skirt with no top. I packed and repacked my makeup bag, because I couldn’t keep track of what I had already put in it. Once I had zipped up my suitcase, I would become extremely nervous that I had not packed pantyhose or the right bra and I would open it up and lay everything out all over again. This was totally unlike me. I’m always organized to the point of obsession. I had prided myself on the fact that I could probably pack a bag for two weeks in Europe within twenty minutes because I knew exactly where everything was. No longer.
I would get little sleep the night before the speaking engagement. I even traveled with a small one-cup coffeemaker, because I knew I’d be up at 4 a.m. preparing for the events of the day, long before room service could serve breakfast. I would pace the hotel room fl
oor, rehearsing my talk over and over. By the time I was taken to the speaking venue, I would feel exhausted, but I wouldn’t let on. I would laugh and chat with the other presenters as though nothing was wrong. When the host read my long introduction with all of the Judd career triumphs as well as my books and successful recovery from hepatitis C, the crowd would cheer and look up at me in anticipation of a humorous and uplifting report. They came to learn the secrets to my happy life. Little did they know that it had been six months since I had had a single moment of feeling happy or peaceful. If I wasn’t in a zombie state lying on the couch, I had to keep myself from running screaming onto the freeway.
As I waited backstage, I would feel like bursting into tears and yelling at the top of my lungs. I wanted to be truthful and tell them that even though hepatitis C was hideous, it was minor compared to the misery I was going through with anxiety and depression. I wanted to shout out that I understood how people could get addicted to alcohol, heroin, and crack if they were in the emotional and physical pain I was suffering.
I wanted to confess that if someone took out a gun and killed me onstage he would be doing me a favor. But I didn’t. The fans mean everything to me. I was there to regale them with stories and I was not going to disappoint. I gathered every ounce of strength I had, straightened my shoulders and did the twist to loosen up, adjusted my suit jacket, said a quick prayer, found the will to put a smile on my face, and strode out onstage. I never showed my mental anguish in public. By the end of the forty-five-minute talk I would feel like I had spent every bit of energy I had. I had not one more smile left in me.
After the third antidepressant proved to be ineffective, I told the psychiatrist that my anxiety was off-the-charts unbearable. He prescribed one of the four benzodiazepines, Klonopin, to take as needed. Klonopin slows down the brain function and blocks the receptors that signal anxiety and stress. Considering how I was feeling, it was something I started taking every four hours. It buffered the emotional and physical pain of my unbearable anxiety. It gave me the feeling that I could, once again, take a deep breath. The doctor also gave me prescription for Ativan, in hopes that my nighttime panic attacks would be less frequent. Over the course of the next year I also had prescriptions for two other benzodiazepines, Valium and Xanax, but Klonopin became the drug I depended on to get me through my most anxious days. And there were many of those.
In the past, I would have read extensively about every prescription, the success rate and the side effects. But one of the frustrating symptoms of my depression and anxiety is that I had no attention span at all. I would read one paragraph and then realize that I had no idea what I had just read, or I’d accidentally reread the same paragraph, over and over. I was desperate to find articles or research by someone who understood what I was going through.
I put myself in the hands of the professional. I took the prescribed antidepressants and Klonopin by day, and Ativan at night, even taking another when I would wake up at 3 a.m. This amount of antianxiety medicine left me groggy and emotionally flat.
In June 2012, I found out through People magazine that Wynonna had married her fiancé, Cactus, in her backyard. I wasn’t invited and neither was Ashley. Wy was quoted in the press as saying that she wanted the wedding ceremony to be kept simple and small, only her and Cactus and their children from previous marriages. She also used the hands of a clock to describe the placement of our farms in this beautiful Tennessee countryside. She said that her home was at six o’clock and mine and Ashley’s were at eleven and one. Her description could have been a metaphor of our relationships as mother and daughters. We operate from different points of view but each hand, though it moves independently, shares the same clock. We are three very strong-minded women, yet very impressionable, too, because of our emotional hearts, and time has never changed that. I was happy for Wy’s marriage news, but sad at the same time. Because of my harsh upbringing, I will always long for the close family unity I didn’t feel in my childhood.
It does satisfy me that my daughters think for themselves and are fiercely independent. But I’m still their mother. I worry when Ashley goes on her humanitarian missions, especially to countries that are politically volatile or have outbreaks of violence or disease. As I write this, Ashley is on an extensive trip to Jordan and Turkey working in refugee camps. But it’s her passion, so I wouldn’t try to change her, either.
Ashley and I are extremely close and have an unbreakable bond of understanding each other’s needs. We share much in common: books, animals, outdoors, interesting people, community service, solitude, self-improvement, close friends, bluegrass music, state parks, and cooking. I appreciate that deeply. It’s different with Wynonna because we spent almost all of our hours together from her birth to her preschool years, during my most turbulent times, all the way through intensive years of touring during her young adult years. Of course these are the years when most young people move away from their parents and live independently for the first time. We were constantly in the spotlight together, on and off stage. We had a public image to live up to and represent. It brought Wy and me close together in a mutual bond and it pushed us far apart because of the challenges of not having enough individuality. I think the OWN show being filmed during our Encore tour reminded us both of those feelings, because we were, once again, in the spotlight, on camera, on stage and off. The three of us had come through a lot together over the years and it hurt my heart that we couldn’t all be together for happy times, like a wedding.
Chapter 6
The Future Isn’t What It Used to Be
In July 2012, I thought I had hit an all-time low emotionally. I had concluded that I was of little value to anyone and had the lowest feelings of self-worth I had ever had my life.
Then, while changing into clean pajamas one evening, I found a large lump in my breast. It seemed like a sequel to a bad dream, one in which you wake up in fear, try to shake it off, and then fall right back to sleep and continue the same nightmare.
Larry set me up for a doctor appointment at Vanderbilt Breast Center. When the doctor told me that the mass seemed very worrisome and suggested an MRI, I wanted to leave immediately. The idea of being enclosed in a large metal tube for forty minutes was more than I could possibly bear. My anxiety started a steep ascent and I had a hard time catching my breath. Larry convinced me to go through with the test, pleading with me not to risk my physical health. Relying on Klonopin to keep me calm, I somehow made it through the test, with Larry speaking gently to me the entire time, reading scriptures from the Bible. The results of the MRI were inconclusive and so I was scheduled for a biopsy.
My nerves now felt like they had come through my skin and were exposed to the elements. No one, except Larry and Ashley, knew what I was going through. I didn’t even call my group of “Ya-Ya” girlfriends.
I was admitted to the hospital, where under anesthesia I had a cluster of cells removed from my breast. In a couple of days, the doctor called with the good news that the results had come back negative but that I would have to keep an eye on the lump. Larry hugged me, smiling in relief. I was happy for him, but I could not feel much relief for myself.
Being away from Wynonna and having Ashley travel so often for her acting career or humanitarian work left me feeling desperately lonely for family. I still had great friends I could call, but during these days of extreme vulnerability, I longed for family. I craved a guaranteed stability, since I felt like I had none in my diseased brain. I wanted to bring my loved ones close and build a fortress around us all. I was deeply fearful that we would all drift apart. With my emotions feeling so out of control, I wanted to feel protected and surrounded by those who knew me best. I became even more terrified of being alone. I had to know where Larry was at all times. I didn’t want him to leave my side.
If someone had told me that the fiercely independent Naomi Judd would become a nerve-racked, clingy wife, I would have laughed. Depression and anxiety had drastically changed my perspective on feeli
ng safe and secure. I felt a pervading sense of danger or threat, like something worse might descend on me, even though I couldn’t label it exactly. It was a heightened fear of the unknown future. Was the severity of my mental health a passing phase or would it forever be present, dooming my life to a misery I could never shake?
My fears of being alone brought up a long-buried sorrow, a heartbreaking memory of a time when another unknown factor first threatened, and then forever changed the stability of my family home.
On a warm Saturday morning when I was eighteen, I took my baby daughter over to my parents’ house for a drop-in visit. My day-to-day life had changed drastically in the previous six months and I found myself yearning to be back with my parents and the familiarity of the house I grew up in, and away from the overbearing and constant critical attention of my perfectionist, controlling mother-in-law. Being at my childhood home made me terribly homesick.
As a daddy’s girl, I was sad that we had grown distant with each other ever since the day he heard that I was pregnant. I thought it was all because of his disappointment in me, but that wasn’t the only reason for his detached attitude. About thirty minutes after my arrival, he grabbed the keys to his truck and a small duffel bag. I chased after him to the front porch.
“Where are you going, Daddy?”
“Fishing,” he said off-handedly, without looking back at me.
I knew he was fibbing because the bed of his pickup truck was completely empty. “Is your fishing stuff in the cab of the truck?” I asked.