Believe Me
Page 3
I am reluctant to go back to L.A. I am humiliated and distrust the life I built there and most of the people in it. I’m actually toying with the idea of staying in Punta Mita for a year. I have grown to love this town and its people—I feel connected to the simplicity and honesty of life here. It will make me happy and give me hope. It’s far away from Gucci and Chanel on Rodeo Drive and the fast, superficial world that now feels even emptier than ever before. As in every defining moment in my life thus far, however, I wake up one morning with a clear vision. I see us moving to Montecito, a small town close to Santa Barbara. That was the California I fell in love with some fifteen years earlier when I was modeling on the Santa Barbara pier with Kathy Ireland, a native of the area.
“If I can ever live in America full-time, this is where I want to be,” I told her back then as we were looking at the breathtaking coastline in front of us. The town was so charming, the architecture magnificent, and it felt as if you could be anywhere in Europe. I always remembered the safe and familiar feeling it gave me, and now it suddenly makes sense that Montecito is where I need to go and raise Gigi, age six; Bella, five; and Anwar, just eighteen months old. I call a broker and start inquiring about rental properties and find out that I have only a week to get the kids enrolled in school. I ask my mom to stay with the little ones for two days so I can fly to Santa Barbara with Gigi to visit the Montecito Union School. It’s the cutest little school, with beautiful green trees, a track field, and outdoor spaces. Gigi immediately loves the art studio and the assembly room, which has a stage where they do musicals. We visit the local barns and this gets her very excited about a new home and the opportunity to bring her pony, Prince Philip.
I guess when things are meant to be, everything just falls into place. It’s like God waving his magic wand. I find a furnished house we love on a little street right off Middle Road, which is a two-minute walk to Scoop, the ice cream store, and Rusty’s Pizza. I am sure Bella is going to be very happy about that.
Although my life feels upside down, I can sense we are going to feel at home in this charming little town. It’s important to me that my children can attend public school and enjoy a simpler existence with horses and the benefits of a close-knit community. A week later, I pack up my three children and move to Montecito, where Gigi starts kindergarten and Bella enters pre-K.
Although the children and I move two hours away, Mohamed stays in Beverly Hills, and of course my goal is to keep him close and involved in their lives. Establishing a friendship after our separation takes great effort and a lot of swallowing my pride, but I believe it’s essential in order to raise confident and stable children, and that’s really all that matters to me at this point. Regardless of our past, I’m not going to allow my bruised ego to destroy the commitment I made when we brought our children into this world together. The love of both parents is important, and it’s valuable for the children to see us get along. I work on forgiving him and choose to focus not on the pain he caused me but rather on what it’s teaching me. Mohamed and I come from such different cultures that sometimes we clash on parenting issues, but we always come back around the table.
At the end of the day, this journey is about the happiness and well-being of my children and how they feel about their daddy. What I feel is not important. Around seven forty every morning, I phone Mohamed as we drive to school so they can say good morning and connect with his voice. I remember missing my daddy as a child so my heart hurts for them and I try to compromise in many different ways. Even though separation is a hardship for any family, the children and I manage to plant strong roots in Montecito.
We create a beautiful and happy life filled with joy and a fantastic group of friends at school and at our barn, who become our extended family. One of these family members is Paige, whom I met almost seven years earlier at the Santa Monica car wash. Back then, as we were sitting next to each other on a bench waiting for our cars to come out, she asked, “Okay, I know why I’m at the car wash, but why the hell are you here?” she said, nodding toward my engagement ring. “Because if I had a ring like that, someone else would be taking my car to be washed!” Her tone was sweet, and I couldn’t help but laugh at her comment.
“I just got engaged last night,” I said. “So I’m still feeling very uncomfortable with this big bauble on my finger. I’ve never even seen anything as big as this.” We laughed and made small talk for a few more minutes until Paige’s car was ready. She got up to go and we said good-bye.
That night, Mohamed and I attended a dinner party, and there was Paige! It turns out that she was hosting the dinner with her boyfriend, Sylvio, and they were both Mohamed’s friends. Small world, isn’t it? We were instant friends after that.
In Montecito, I start horseback riding again and spend endless hours at the barn teaching my children to ride. They learn to work in the barn, clean tack, and ride six days a week. I find solace in the same quiet place where I’ve always found comfort since I was a little girl: in nature. It’s a rough first couple of years, and I’m lonely at times. My life is nonstop crazy busy raising my three rascals, but I’m proud of myself for coping and learning to run this family single-handedly, especially living so far from my mother and brother in Holland. I feel strongly about investing this crucial time into creating a foundation for the children. They’re thriving, and our life is absorbed with horses. Although Anwar is not crazy about riding, he loves being at the barn and is always digging in the dirt looking for crystals. I try to get him into different sports, but none of them really interest him. He is always just content to be with his girls. Once all the emotions around this chapter are settled, I feel like I am entering the happiest time of my life. I just love being a classroom mom in charge of photography at my kids’ school.
After the first two years, I buy a little farmhouse on East Valley Road. It overlooks horse pastures with a beautiful barn. I decorate it in a Ralph Lauren equestrian theme, and we’re in heaven as we are woken by the roosters each morning at sunrise.
Toward the end of 2006, Mohamed calls me on a Monday night.
“Yo, I’m having a dinner party next Thursday and you should come,” he says, using my nickname. “It’s at seven thirty at my house.”
“Okay, that sounds like fun,” I say. But a week later on that Thursday, the kids and I don’t get back from the barn until six o’clock. I’m still wearing my riding clothes, helping with homework, and have spaghetti Bolognese cooking on the stove. I am juggling a lot and by seven I’m definitely not ready to shower, get dressed up, and go to a dinner party all the way in Los Angeles, so I call Mohamed.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t make it tonight,” I say.
He sounds pretty annoyed. “Yo, if you don’t start making an effort to go out and meet people, you’ll be single for the rest of your life,” he says. “Nobody’s going to ring the doorbell on East Valley Road and ask you out.” It’s sweet that he worries, and I know he is right, but I honestly am happy immersed in the lives of my children. I’m used to being on their schedule, going to sleep at eight o’clock and waking up at six, and like it that way.
The next morning, Mohamed calls me. “There was this really great guy at my party, David Foster. He saw your pictures with the kids and asked who the beautiful woman was,” Mohamed says. “I told him you were my ex-wife and that you were available.” We both laugh at how silly this sounds, but it is endearing.
“Maybe I’ll meet him some other time,” I say. We carry on our conversation about kid stuff. When I hang up, I think it’s interesting that, after all these years, Mohamed finally wants me to date and get a life. A couple of months later, it’s Paige’s fortieth birthday party, which Mohamed hosts at his home. When David Foster walks in, Paige elbows me.
“That’s the guy who asked Mohamed about you,” she says. “Let’s go say hi.” We walk over to him and Paige introduces us.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. Then I step back and take a head-to-toe look at David because I’m cur
ious what type of guy Mohamed thinks is good enough for me. Our eyes lock and we make small talk. After a few minutes, I excuse myself from the conversation because David is with a date and it feels inappropriate to talk to a man who is with another woman. Several days later, David, who gets my number from a mutual friend, calls to ask me out. We meet at Lucky’s in Montecito for dinner and then head to the bar at the Biltmore hotel. We have an instant connection and talk until three in the morning. We fall in love, and because David lives in Malibu, we start to date long-distance. This actually works out really well: I’m running my own household, and my main priority is raising my children, and he is the hardest-working man in the music business and spends most of his time recording in the studio.
In 2007, after I’ve been coughing on and off for months and experiencing sinus issues, I go see Dr. Joseph Sugerman, an ear, nose, and throat doctor in Beverly Hills. When he checks my thyroid, he feels a mass and immediately sends me for an ultrasound downstairs. Results reveal a pretty large tumor. Because of my mother’s battle with breast cancer, I freak out when I hear the word “tumor” and don’t think twice when the endrocrinologist tells me that I should have my thyroid removed. After the surgery, the mass is sent for a biopsy. It is discovered that three of my four parathyroid glands were encapsulated with my thyroid so, unbeknownst to the surgeon, they were removed as well. These little endocrine glands sit behind the thyroid and regulate the body’s calcium level. This is crucial to keep your nervous system and muscles, like your heart, working properly. To help my body manage without my thyroid and these glands, I am prescribed Synthroid, a synthetic thyroid medication. Although I recover quickly from the surgery, I do experience a number of side effects from the medicine, including hair loss, exhaustion, and insomnia. I see a different specialist to get educated because blood tests show that my body’s thyroid-stimulating hormone is not working properly.
In 2008, I start thinking about moving to Malibu. Mohamed likes the idea of having the kids closer so he can see them more often, especially because Gigi and Bella will be off to college before we know it. I find a beautiful piece of property on Carbon Canyon Road. It’s on a hilltop with a spectacular view of the ocean, and I am excited by the thought of building one last special family home for my children. Every morning, I drop my kids off at school, drive sixty miles to Malibu, work at the job site with dozens of construction workers, and then drive back to Santa Barbara for school pickup at three o’clock. It’s a crazy schedule. My afternoons and evenings are like those of many busy parents carpooling kids to and from volleyball, basketball, horseback riding, and tutors; cooking dinner; and helping with school projects and homework.
I do this five times a week for two years, which is why I don’t think much when I begin feeling more fatigued than usual and having migraines. After all, braving Los Angeles traffic, not once but twice a day, is enough to give anyone a headache. However, soon the occasional migraine comes a few times a week.
This project is a lot more than I had imagined. It’s double the budget and the financial burden is starting to crack me and I’m starting to feel exhausted most of the time.
Of course, I’m tired. I had a glass of wine last night.
It’s the stress. I’m doing too much.
Maybe I need to adjust my thyroid medication.
These are just some of the twenty excuses I have running through my head while I stubbornly ignore these symptoms and keep going. After all, when you’re strong-headed with a type A personality like me, you’re determined to do it all. Nothing—no headache, severe fatigue, or other symptom—is going to stop me. I’m on a mission to finish my house in Malibu. Occasionally, I go to my holistic doctor, Michael Galitzer, in Montecito, for things to boost my immune system and give me energy, such as vitamin C drips and B12 shots. Unfortunately, they give me only temporary relief and don’t resolve my problems. Despite this, I refuse to acknowledge that something is wrong. My body is giving me warning signs and screaming at me to pay attention, but I am in ignore mode. Getting sick isn’t on this busy woman’s to-do list.
One afternoon, I’m on the construction site in Malibu and my phone rings. It’s my best friend, Ellie, one of the first friends I made in Montecito when our children were little. For four years straight, we had coffee Monday through Friday at Starbucks in Santa Barbara after we dropped our children off at elementary school. She recently moved to New York because of her job with 1stdibs.
“Hi, honey bunny,” I say, but hear only crying on the other end of the phone. “Ellie? What’s wrong?”
“You know the back pains I’ve been having?” she asks, trying to get the words out between sobs. “It’s not my back. They say it’s ALS.”
“Are you sure?” I say. “Should we get a second opinion?” My heart is beating rapidly, but I am trying not to reveal how shocked and scared I am. I don’t know much about ALS, but I know it’s bad.
“What do I do? What about Gracie?” she says, referring to her daughter.
“I love you and we will find someone to fix this problem. Okay?” I say.
As soon as I get home that afternoon, I google “ALS” and I am devastated to find out what a horrible disease this is, one without a cure. ALS affects nerve cells in the brain and spine, and eventually people with the disease lose the ability to speak, eat, move, and breathe. Apparently, the mind stays sharp while one’s body becomes paralyzed. I’m sick to my stomach when I read that life expectancy of someone with ALS is just two to five years from when it’s diagnosed. Two to five years? This is crazy. Ellie has a daughter to raise and a life to live! There are no words to describe how I feel, and this added stress gives me another excuse for my symptoms. Of course, I feel sick. My best friend has ALS!
I call a powerful friend in New York and ask him to find me the best ALS specialist. He gets Ellie in to see the doctor the next day, but unfortunately he confirms her diagnosis. Shit. Why is life so unfair at times? I feel sad and helpless from this devastating news.
By December 2010, the new house is finished, and I convince myself that I will feel much better once we move in. Unfortunately, things get worse. I am starting to have really strange moments of brain fog. My kids tease me about tripping over my words and how I ask them the same question two or three times. Of course, this is all in good fun, but I know deep in my heart that it’s no laughing matter. Also, my migraines become much more severe, lasting three to four days, accompanied by strange puffy half circles under my eyes. I experience severe hair loss, which is disconcerting, but I fix that with hair extensions. I don’t share these crazy and serious symptoms with anyone—not my mother, not my close girlfriends, not David. I do mention them to my friend Tom Hahn, who is helping me unpack boxes in the new house. He was my agent at L.A. Models almost twenty-five years earlier and has become somewhat of a father figure to me. We are upstairs in my bedroom when I stop in my tracks and lean against the bed.
“I feel like something’s eating my brain,” I tell Tom.
“Eating your brain?” he asks, confused.
“I can’t explain it, but that’s what it feels like.”
“To be honest, I’ve noticed that you’re not yourself lately,” he says. “But I thought it was the move and all the balls you’re juggling. I know it’s hard for you but you need to slow down and take time to regenerate.”
It’s mid-2011 and about a year since my symptoms first appeared. They come and go regularly. It’s as if I have the flu for a week, then have a little bit of a reprieve and think I’m over it. But then the next week it’s back, and I feel awful again. When I used to get the flu once or twice a year, I climbed into bed with a cup of chicken soup and rested it out for a couple of days. But when what seems like the flu comes and goes every other week, I have to learn to cope and push through. I keep going. Still, despite some good days here and there, I feel like things are really going downhill. I make an appointment with David’s internist, Dr. Lawrence Piro, one of the best doctors in Los Angeles.
Yes, I am juggling a lot, but juggling is my forte and something I’ve been doing my whole life. Many people get overwhelmed when they have too many balls in the air, but I thrive on it. It’s stimulating and exciting. I never go to sleep without a to-do list on my nightstand. So, although Dr. Piro’s diagnosis is a seemingly obvious one, it doesn’t resonate with me. Yet it gives me another excuse to avoid the truth that is staring me in the face: my body is trying to tell me something. I’m struggling, but I keep pulling up the bootstraps.