“I’m going back,” I quickly tell David as I run from the table down the hall to our room. I make it to the bathroom just in time to violently throw up. I climb onto the bed fully dressed because the room is spinning. I curl into a ball and pray for this awful feeling to go away. I’m pushing myself too hard to please David, to do the things he wants me to do. What’s wrong with me? And what’s wrong with him? We both know that I’m in no shape to do any of this.
The next morning, I feel not only sick but totally embarrassed. I e-mail Oprah, apologizing for being so disrespectful and getting up in the middle of the movie and her speech. We go to her house for a beautiful brunch with an amazing choir and the entire cast from the movie before driving back home, where I get into bed immediately. A few days later, David pushes me to take a walk, probably because of the advice he got from Magic.
“Come with me to CVS to get razors,” David says. “It’s just a few blocks.”
“It’s not that easy,” I tell him. “I don’t feel like getting dressed.”
“It’s fine, it’s dark,” he says. “We’ll go slow.” The thought is daunting, but I want to give it a try. I’m wearing my pajama bottoms and throw on a big sweatshirt. The store is only two blocks from the apartment, but it takes monumental effort. When we get there, I go inside, but after a couple of minutes the glaring lights, bright colors, and loud music starts to bother me and it makes me feel light-headed.
“I’ll wait outside,” I tell David. I pull my hoodie up over my head and sit on the stoop of the handicap ramp right outside the double doors. A group of women in their twenties come strolling down the sidewalk and pass me when one of them turns around.
“Do you know where the Seven-Eleven is?” she asks.
“Yes. Make a left at the corner onto Westwood Boulevard and walk two blocks. It’ll be on your right.”
“Yolanda?” she says. “Are you Yolanda from The Real Housewives?”
“Yes,” I say. It’s funny how people recognize my accent before they recognize my not-made-up face. I go out so infrequently that I often forget that people recognize me from the show even in my pajamas and a hoodie.
“Can we have a picture?” the woman asks.
“Sure,” I say. I’m obviously not looking too cute, but I don’t have the heart to say no.
A few days later, one of the top Lyme specialists in the world reaches out to me. As I’ve mentioned, people constantly contact me through e-mail or social media to tell me about the latest Lyme treatments. Some are opportunists, but many are just great people who want to help, and I feel lucky that one of these amazing and legitimate people is Dr. Richard Horowitz from New York. He’s one of the most Lyme-literate doctors in the world and he practices Western medicine with a lot of success. Although he can’t diagnose or treat me without me flying to New York to see him in person, he offers to review my records on my behalf and for Dr. Piro.
“Send me all your medical files since the day you got sick, everything,” he says when we speak briefly for the first time. Little does he know who he’s dealing with! If he knew, he probably wouldn’t offer. I have four binders with my test results and doctors’ reports, which we scan and e-mail to him. Because I can’t read or comprehend much information, Dr. Horowitz is kind enough to send me his book Why Can’t I Get Better? on audio and I start listening to it on my laptop over and over again as I try to work my way through all the important information it conveys.
One week later, Dr. Horowitz sends me a written summary of my whole case that’s more brilliant than anything any other doctor or health-care professional has provided within the past three years. I’m grateful and thrilled to get his opinion and point of view. The frustrating part is that I’ve given every doctor I’ve seen on this journey this same information in advance of my appointments. But most of the time, they don’t take the time to look at more than a few pages, if any, before I arrive. Dr. Horowitz, on the other hand, went through every piece of information and every test I’d done with a fine-tooth comb. We FaceTime to discuss his recommended treatment plan.
“When they did that spinal tap at Cedars-Sinai in 2012, they should’ve known that those encephalitis cells were a sign of Lyme,” Dr. Horowitz says. “Anyone who is Lyme educated would know that.” What? It is frustrating to learn that I’d seen some of the best doctors in L.A., who, because they’re not Lyme educated, gave me a week of antibiotics and sent me home with a chronic fatigue diagnosis, and never retested me for Lyme. I feel so helpless.
“Does this mean that I could have been helped years ago?” I ask.
“Yes,” Dr. Horowitz says.
“Encephalitis? Is that part of Lyme?”
“Yes, but Lyme is really just one part of your problem,” he adds.
“Is that why I’ve made such little progress?” Right now, it’s almost three years since I got sick and almost two years to the day since I was diagnosed with Lyme, and I’ve reached a new low. Although I didn’t think it was possible, I feel sicker than before. I’m weak and spend most of my time in bed, forcing myself to get up only when Anwar and David leave or come home. Even that is hard to do.
“There’s a whole army that has invaded your body, and you need to start taking them down systematically,” Dr. Horowitz explains. “You’re not just fighting Lyme and co-infections, like babesia with possible exposure to Q fever, another tick-borne infection, but you also have evidence of heavy metals and mold toxins, with detoxification problems, nutritional deficiencies, mitochondrial dysfunction (i.e., a problem with the energy production inside your cells), multiple hormonal abnormalities, chronic insomnia, an imbalance in the part of your body that controls your blood pressure, called the autonomic nervous system, as well as your being deconditioned. These are all part of the sixteen-point Lyme-MSIDS model that you are learning about in my book. And there is also the problem of ‘persister’ cells and biofilms. These are cells that are resistant to the long-term antibiotics which you have taken. Specialized medication and natural therapies are needed to address that.” I’m confused. I don’t even know what I’m fighting anymore.
Dr. Horowitz works with Dr. Piro to create a very clear plan of attack using antiparasitics and antimalaria medication for babesia. I am very goal oriented so I am happy to understand my next move. I’m appalled and infuriated though by how expensive these medications are. Just one bottle of Mepron medication is two thousand dollars and my daily Bicillin shots will be three thousand dollars per month, and none of it is covered by my health insurance! I want to scream from the rooftops how wrong this is. I’m blessed to be able to afford this protocol, but what about the people who CAN’T afford it? They are forced to self-medicate with alcohol and drugs to numb the pain and suffering of their disease until they slowly die or kill themselves to get out of their misery. There’s something morally wrong with this picture. God, if I get out of this, I’ll be your humble servant and fight for the Lymies in the world to find a cure that’s affordable for all.
I start this new protocol a few days before Thanksgiving. Forty-eight hours into it, Mr. Herxheimer hits me hard, but I don’t complain because I think that David is over my being sick and of course so am I. Although my life is so isolated, I’m more and more connected to my inner spirit and strength. I learn to focus on myself without feeling guilty and I am consciously letting go of anything and anyone toxic in my life. My focus needs to stay on my reason for living: my children. They’re truly the only thing that keeps me fighting. Even though they don’t always understand why I can’t get better, my kids never let go of my hand or question my journey or our journey together as a family.
My love and support of them never stops, and my girls consistently return this love and support, even though they’re flying all over the world for work. Anwar and I are very close. He’s got my back at all times. He gets what I am going through and works relentlessly on his own recovery. Often, we sit on the couch and have our IVs together and talk about life. I have always known that he is an o
ld soul, but during this difficult year he’s really starting to tap into his own spirituality, perhaps because I’m becoming more enlightened about my own. He has surrounded himself with a great group of friends who are discovering the higher consciousness and purpose of life. It’s a beautiful thing to watch.
I get up with Anwar every morning to make him breakfast and see him off to school. I make an effort to perk up my voice and put somewhat of a smile on my face before he leaves the house because I know he’s extremely sensitive and deeply connected to me. But as soon as the elevator door closes, I get back in bed and rest. I often FaceTime with Ellie, who lives in Paris, where her daughter Gracie is at the American University. Supporting her in her courageous battle with ALS inspires me and always puts things in perspective. I also try to reach out to two or three of the hundreds of Lyme patients who contact me each week asking for any advice or direction. Some of the e-mails leave me in tears, especially the sick teenagers and desperate children who ask me to help their moms or dads who have Lyme. Although I can’t do a lot, somehow giving back and helping other people makes me feel better.
One night I’m watching an episode of the Housewives, which began airing recently but was filmed months earlier. I was at Brandi’s housewarming party, and it’s a sentimental moment for me because that was the absolute only day in the entire year that I felt somewhat of a spring in my step and had enough brainpower to speak with a clear train of thought and give a toast. I’m proud of Brandi for creating a happy home for her two little boys. Her journey hasn’t been easy, and I admire her strength.
Regardless of my struggles, I keep my commitment and fly to New York because I’m scheduled to go on Watch What Happens Live to talk about my third season on the Housewives. These appearances are part of my job. After flying, the inflammation in my brain severely affects my eyesight and brain function. I’ll feel better tomorrow, after a good night’s rest. But I wake up feeling awful and petrified to go on a show that, as the name implies, is live. I can barely focus on finding the words to speak a proper sentence. But I can’t cancel after Bravo has flown me out from California. Who says no to Andy Cohen? Plus, I’m staying with Bella and want to show my girls that sometimes we have to put on a brave face in order to honor our commitments. My word is only as good as I am, so off I go to the Watch What Happens Live studio on this freezing-cold December day with my girls by my side.
“I’ve had a flare-up in my Lyme brain and I’m afraid I won’t be able to talk much,” I tell Anthony, the producer, and Andy.
“Yeah, you don’t seem like yourself,” Andy says.
“I’m worried that my brain isn’t working well enough to respond to questions on the spot, especially on live TV,” I tell him.
“Please don’t worry about it,” Andy says kindly. Thank God he is compassionate enough to show me his questions in advance so I can mentally prepare. But even then, I don’t know if I can do it. I settle into my chair on the set next to the other guest, actress Anna Kendrick. Immediately, the lights in the studio bother me, but I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. Just make it through without crying.
“I wanted to know how your Lyme disease is going,” asks Liz from Massachusetts, a viewer who calls in to the show.
“Well, I’m struggling at the moment. It’s been a long journey. Every day I wake up trying to figure out how to get over this and today especially is not a great day,” I respond. “But unfortunately, these are the cards that life dealt me, and I’m going to figure this out because there are millions of other people suffering just like I do.”
“Thank you so much for standing by your commitment to come on the show tonight, because I know when I went into your dressing room, you weren’t feeling well,” Andy says. “And I know that you’ve been going through it really hard for the last couple of months. I’m so sorry, because in the show it seems like you were so strong this season when you were filming.”
“I guess that’s the most frustrating part of this disease: you look so normal from the outside. It’s not like people with cancer, where you can tell they’re sick,” I say. “Lyme is a silent killer and an invisible disability.” With Andy and Anna’s help, I make it through the best that I can. When I leave the studio, I go straight to the airport and fly home.
Midway through the flight, I have difficulty seeing and feel a severe migraine coming on. I get home at three in the morning, and by the time I wake up at eight, I’ve lost 70 percent of my eyesight. My limbs are burning, and my brain function seems like that of a two-year-old. By that afternoon, I end up at St. John’s hospital, on IV fluids, Medrol, and pain medications.
My Diary
Dec. 19–23, 2014 at St. John’s Hospital
Realizing that I’m in the midst of a badass relapse. Nothing in me has the strength to keep it together. Experiencing absolute loss of words, slipping into an abyss with a feeling that I am slowly dying. My body doesn’t belong to me anymore. Something confiscated my brain.
I’m released from the hospital two days before Christmas. Despite my extreme joint pain and feeling totally debilitated, my girls are coming home for the holidays and I want to keep our traditions alive, even if I barely am! I invite our entire large blended family to our Malibu home for Christmas dinner. I also invite my wonderful sisters-in-law Jaymes, Maureen, and Mary Lou and brothers-in-law Ian and Marty. All of them have been right by my side during this journey. They’re always a great help at our annual Christmas dinners, and I love the family cooking in the kitchen together. I decide to make things a little easier and order the entrées from a local market while we cook the special dishes ourselves. All I want for Christmas is love, health, and happiness.
December 25, 2014
All I want for Christmas is what money can’t buy.
#LoveHealthAndHappiness
#MyMostPreciousBelongings @gigihadid @bellahadid @anwarhadid
David is scheduled to go to Miami tomorrow to record an album with Andrea Bocelli. He’ll be there for a week and insists that I come with him.
“I really feel horrible,” I say. “I’m not sure if I can travel.”
“You’ll be okay,” he says. “We’re flying private, and once we get there you can just sit by the pool and relax.” Even though David has seen me sick and struggling these past couple of years, it’s still hard for him to understand that this is not a sit-by-the-pool-and-recover kind of thing. Trying to be the good wife, however, I go with him. I wear sweatpants on the plane, and the second we arrive at the hotel, I get into bed. Yes, it’s a big bed in a beautiful suite overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, but unfortunately none of these luxuries matter to me anymore. I may have a different view out my window, a different ceiling to stare at, and different lightbulbs to count, but I still feel terrible. After weeks of antiparasitic medications and Bicillin shots, I get hit hard with an array of difficult symptoms. Besides a severe chronic cough, my hands are trembling, my fingers and toes are gnarled, and my body alternates between shivering in a cold sweat and breaking out in a fever. If I’m not in bed in the hotel, I’m naked and curled up in a fetal position on the bathroom’s cold marble floor. It seems to be the only way to soothe myself. I also experience severe anxiety for absolutely no reason. Oddly enough, smoking raw tobacco on the balcony seems to be the only crazy thing that calms my nervous system. When this absurd craving first hit, I researched it and learned that, back in the day, Native American Indians used tobacco for its powerful parasite-killing properties. So rather than hit the whiskey bottle, I smoke out of utter desperation to soothe myself. I trust that my body craves what it needs.
When I was healthy, I often walked barefoot on the beach to charge my body with ions. Tonight, our second night in Florida, I have a strong urge to do that and connect with the earth. I feel so disconnected from any and all aspects of my life, as if something has confiscated my being and all I can do is surrender, hold on for dear life, and pray. Maybe I need to be closer to nature. When David returns from the studio late that night, I
ask him to take me to the beach. He’s always pushing me to move, so he’s happy to come with me. My balance is off, I’m weak, and my bones are burning like fire. I can barely get one foot in front of the other. As I reach the shoreline, I take off my clothes and slip into the dark blue ocean, which is cool and comforting. The waves gently wash over my naked body, and I can feel the current tugging at me. Tears pour out of my eyes, roll across my cheeks, and meld with the salt water as I try to still my mind to become one with the water’s ebb and flow. God, please just take me in a wave. I can’t live like this for one more day. Please carry my body away. I just want to disappear. My next thought is a clear image of my three children. It shifts my consciousness immediately and it’s the only thing that keeps me from letting myself drift off and drown. I lift my head out of the water and hear David’s panicked voice in the distance.
“Yo, what are you doing?” he yells. I can’t tell if he’s irritated or scared with the time that it’s taking me to float and go through my own thinking process. He doesn’t understand my connection with the earth or my spirituality. Sadly we are existing on two very different vibrations. The freedom of floating in the cool water without pain for a moment felt so good. If David wasn’t so tired from work and in a hurry to get back to our room, I could stay here for hours.
My Diary
December 28, 2014
In Florida and unable to leave my bed. Impossible to function or make any decisions. Feel 100 years old. So disappointed that I can’t figure this out. Spent whole day in bed, staring at ceiling with no brain function. Unable to write my blog. Very stressed about it, because I can’t pull my thoughts together.
Believe Me Page 18