Liz and I headed straight for an Italian restaurant. We ate spaghetti and meatballs, split a bottle of Chardonnay, and did not discuss the appointment. We laughed a lot and chatted up the very sweet waitress who did not mind that I was reclining in our red booth.
Other appointments were had. None impressive. None worth writing about. All worth exposing. I created a system for how to vet the many doctors I met: I studied their shoes and their watches. Their cars, if possible. Black Gucci loafers + chunky Rolex + Boxster = not good. When a very expensive doctor is touching me, I do not take kindly to having his cold Rolex brush across my back. In the interest of full disclosure, I only wear sneakers and a Timex.
It wasn’t until I finally told my parents about my condition that we finally made some real progress. They, of course, were dismayed, but they were also very proactive. They got a referral from a specialist at UT Southwestern who suggested I see Dr. Mark Lew at USC Medical Center. I called his office and was told he was not taking new patients. So I tracked down his e-mail address online and begged him to see me in the most eloquent letter I have ever written. I got a call the next day and had a two-hour appointment with him the next week. The two-hour detail is worth noting. That is a long time for a busy specialist.
I gave him my history and described my journey that had led me to him. Dr. Lew confirmed that, yes, I had been injected in the wrong side of my body. But I had to move on. Dr. Lew could not treat me with Botox for three months—otherwise, one builds up antibodies and the treatment does not work. That meant three more months of pain due to an incompetent doctor. I went on some medications that were helpful, but Botox is key in healing, so it was a significant blow to my quest for wellness. Also, he was the first specialist to bring up getting me some pain relief with medication. Why did the many other doctors (aside from my general practitioner, Dr. Sourpik Avakian) not think that I needed help managing the pain?
For many months, self-medication was my only avenue for relief. I have expressed this before on a widely viewed television program, and it is common in the dystonia community: Chardonnay, Merlot, whatever it takes to feel like you are not at war with your body. No letters about this, please, from dystoniacs who do not want to be honest about how many of us use alcohol to have a break from the struggle.
But after getting an actual diagnosis from a capable and well-respected doctor (who wore sensible shoes and no gaudy wristwatch), a funny thing happened. I felt happiness. I would even go as far as to say I was giddy. I felt a release. Everything in my life that was unimportant (but at one time felt important) fell away. It was instant. I felt elated. It was like, “Oh, hey, my glasses are foggy. I think I will wipe them off so I can see better.” So I wiped them off, and I could see everything clearly. I could see life and my priorities from a perspective that I’d never had.
By the way, I do not wear glasses. Hopefully that does not ruin the image for you. I do wear sunglasses all the time, though, so maybe that counts. You get my point.
Anyway, I knew I would win. This was not based in fact or on my prognosis, but there was no other option for me.
I had so many thoughts in my little noggin and knew that I had to organize them to be able to make a difference. One morning, I was lying in bed and an interview on The Today Show came on about dystonia. For treatment options, the story said there was really only one: surgery. That was my call to arms.
I had never thought of writing a blog, but a friend suggested it. So on New Year’s Day this year, I began to write about my struggles and life in general. It might sound odd, but for someone who represents writers, I’d done very little writing myself, at least not since school. Now I realize I was depriving myself of a very cathartic practice. I wrote and wrote and wrote, and then people started to read and read. Turns out some of those people were the sort who make decisions about who appears on television shows.
Six weeks after starting my blog, I was on the phone with a client when my other line beeped. The caller ID read “Harpo Productions.” I clicked over and was asked if I would like to be on the show. I responded, “Actually, I am on the other line with a client. May I call you back in a bit?” Not sure the producer was used to that, but, hey, a girl’s gotta work, right? Eventually, I called them back and was booked for a show in March.
Then, after being exclusive to the Oprah kingdom, I was able to work with The Today Show and was very interested in having Meredith Vieira interview me since she deals with chronic illness in her family. My sister Kate, Liz, and I were off to New York. Live television. Yikes. But once again, I felt peaceful.
That brings us full circle, back to the green room. I hope Jean Chatsky has recovered.
Since those two shows, I have received almost 25,000 e-mails and have responded to almost all of them. I cannot ignore an e-mail that has the subject heading: HELP, I AM DESPERATE.
I responded to an e-mail like that recently and called the writer immediately. He went into detail about how he was going to end his life that night. He was going to start his car in the garage, place a hose in the tailpipe, insert it into one of the windows, roll up the windows, and lie back and wait for his pain to go away. I said, “Please don’t do that. You are stronger than that. You can get through tonight. Take it day by day.” He seemed to hear me, and I started asking him about his favorite television shows and movies. We chatted for quite some time, and his mood changed. He had never spoken to anyone else who had dystonia, so I think he finally felt less alone. We are friends now and talk a few times a week. We mostly laugh and we discuss his pain—no talk of ending his life since that night. We spoke yesterday, and he was, dare I say, chipper.
That’s been the good side of the media exposure, being in a position to help people. But there’s a downside, too. I’ve now been called a spokeswoman for dystonia. There are some people who have suffered far longer than I have, and it has been upsetting to them that I came out of nowhere. I can’t quite describe what it’s like to get nasty e-mails from other dystoniacs who are—what?—jealous that my dystonia is cooler than theirs? Here I am just wanting to get the message out, to educate the public about this disorder and to let other dystonia sufferers know that invasive surgery is not the only option. Too, there are people out there with dystonia—potentially millions—who don’t even know they have it. They haven’t been diagnosed, or, worse, they’ve been misdiagnosed. They’re desperate, sometimes suicidal. And for trying to help them, I get hate mail. Maybe I will get into therapy to help me with that. Sounds like a good idea. Mental note: call therapist in the morning.
For now, I will take my medications as prescribed, I will eat when I can, I will look forward to many shots of Botox, and I will do better with my physical therapy.
Oh, and the Chardonnay. Which, now that I think about it, is a lot cheaper than a therapist.
To contribute to Rogers Hartmann’s Dystonia Fund, search “dystonia” on the Communities Foundation of Texas site, www.cftexas.org. Her blog is www.lifewithdystonia.com.
Or write to [email protected].
