Even though it was fifteen years ago, I remember exactly how I felt when I looked in the mirror and realized how disfigured my face actually was. How I tried—in vain—to put on eyeliner or mascara, as if adding makeup would somehow make the paralysis go away. Or how each time I got the makeup on, I would inevitably cry it right back off. I spent those weeks perpetually worried, weighed down by the doctor’s prognosis that this could last a few days or months on end. There was no way to be sure.
In retrospect, I never thought of myself as conceited. I never wore makeup or styled my hair until I was an adult, but having Bell’s palsy made me hyperaware of the way I looked. I became completely depressed. I only got out of bed to go to work, and as soon as I got back home, I got back under the covers. I never wanted to leave my bed or even answer the phone. On the rare occasion that a friend talked me into leaving my apartment, I was mortified at the way people stared at me or pitied me when I tried to speak.
In the midst of it all, the bullet I had been trying to dodge found its mark. Dave broke up with me.
Okay, yes, breaking up with a girl with a paralyzed face was not his finest moment, and I feel the need to point out that sometimes we do stupid things that hurt our loved ones when we’re trying to figure ourselves out. Since the moment we got back together, though (which happened when my face was still broken, by the way), he has been an incredible partner. The point is that I’d made myself severely ill trying to keep something inevitable from happening. When the palsy finally subsided a month later, I was beyond thankful, relieved that the worst was behind me. I chalked up the experience to a onetime bout of terrible luck.
A few years later Dave and I decided to take our first trip to Europe. This was back when we were child-free and could just dream up plans like, “What if we went to Europe?” With no babies or dogs or real responsibility, we just got ourselves a flight and toured old churches with our passports buried under our clothes for fear the “gypsies” we had heard about would rob us. God bless us.
When we made it to Florence, it was everything I dreamed Italy would be. We ate loads of pasta, walked the cobblestone streets, and made out like it was our part-time job. We spent whole afternoons imagining our future and what we would name our unborn dream children. It was one of the most romantic experiences of my life.
By the time we got to Venice a few days later, my tongue had started to go numb.
I stood in an Italian hotel room and sobbed because I knew the palsy had come back. Our beautiful vacation was now being marred by the stress of trying to get medical help in another country. As an aside, using my English-to-Italian translation guidebook to explain to a Venetian pharmacist that I needed an eye patch is still one of the most comical experiences of my life! Also, the eye patch—plus my paralyzed face—meant that we got to go to the front of every line in customs. Silver lining.
Ever the comedians, Dave and I made jokes about the assets of such an illness. For example, I did an amazing Sammy Davis Jr. impersonation! Also, the pirate jokes were endless. Yar! It wasn’t until we arrived in Paris—a lifelong dream destination of mine—that even jokes couldn’t lift my spirits. As we walked through the Champ de Mars, I realized the photo I had always dreamed of—me in front of the Eiffel Tower—would forever be a reminder of this illness. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve never felt sorrier for myself than in that moment. In that old photograph (which you can Google, by the way, because I’m not afraid to share any pic on the internet, apparently), I’m standing alone in front of the tower, bundled up for the weather. I’m wearing sunglasses to try and hide the eye patch, and since a smile would have only worked on one half of my face, I just did nothing at all.
When we got back home, the doctor put me on steroids and sent me to see a neurologist to make sure the palsy wasn’t a symptom of something greater. After the doctors didn’t find the brain tumor I was sure was there, they gave me an interesting prognosis. Both times I’d gotten palsy I’d been under extreme stress. Like many women, I was working so hard and not taking good care of myself. I argued that this couldn’t be the case. After all, I’d gotten sick again while on a romantic vacation. That’s when Dave pointed out that it was the first vacation we’d taken in three years. Three years of sixty-hour weeks followed by one two-week break does not a decompressed girl make. I was also at the beginning of launching a business, and I was staying busy, desperate to prove myself. We were trying to get pregnant at the time, and though I was only twenty-four, month after month after month had passed by without a baby. Rather than managing that stress, I had just given myself more things to do.
Our bodies are incredible. They can do unbelievable things. They will also tell you exactly what they need if you’re willing to listen. And if you’re not, if you try to do too many things without rest, they will absolutely shut down to get what they need.
About three years ago I started to develop symptoms of vertigo. I’d stand up at work, and the room would sway around me. I felt dizzy throughout the day, my eyes had trouble focusing, and I spent most of my time feeling nauseous. For weeks I assumed I must need more sleep, more water, or less Diet Coke. When it got so bad I was afraid to drive with my kids in the car, I decided to see a doctor.
I saw so many doctors.
Internists, allergists, ENTs . . . Nobody could quite figure it out. I ate well. I was healthy. I ran marathons, for goodness’ sakes. They all agreed I had vertigo but couldn’t definitively tell me why. Eventually the ENT suggested it was seasonal vertigo brought on by my allergies, and since no one else had a better idea, I went with it. “Take an allergy pill every day,” he told me. So I did.
Every night, without fail, I took my pill. Sometimes when the spinning got really bad, I took a second one, which made me crazy drowsy, but at least it calmed the vertigo. I did this for over a year and resigned myself to the fact that life would be a little dizzier forever. It wasn’t a big deal, I told myself. It only meant that instead of giving 100 percent, I now would need to give 130 percent to make up for not being able to work as fast anymore. It sounds crazy to write that, but in my overachieving mind, it made absolute sense.
Then, about two years ago, I heard about a homeopathic doctor who specialized in vertigo. I’d never gone to a homeopathic doctor in my life, but at that point if someone had said I could cure my constant nausea with voodoo and the sacrifice of a spring chicken, I would have seriously considered it.
I went to meet with him, his ponytail, his shirt made of organic hemp, and his life-sized statue of Ganesh, and I tried to keep an open mind while he talked into the air beside him instead of to me. I laid out the whole story of when I got sick and how it affected me, and he asked a hundred questions about my emotions, my childhood, and the deeper reasons why I felt a certain way. I kept thinking, When is he going to prescribe some medicine? Why are we still talking about stress? And, What’s the deal with that little collection of crystals? Before I’d gone to him I assumed homeopathic doctors tell you to stop your sugar intake, or, God forbid, stop eating dairy because it messes with your chakras or whatever.
But after two hours of me talking, he abruptly interrupted and announced to the room, “No more. I know what’s wrong!”
Then he blew me away. He pointed out that my vertigo had come on for the first time when I was under extreme stress at work. And every time it got so bad that I couldn’t even lift my head off a pillow? It was because the stress had gotten worse.