— 8 — The Shutdown

I chalked up the congressional address as a win for Team Melania. We had fought for and gotten those box seats, and Melania had appeared dignified and real. But it was exhausting to fight these battles. Attempting to match Ivanka’s insincerity was wearing me out and I started to feel guilty about my own. I wish I could have been authentic and told her how I felt about her and her attempts to sabotage her stepmother, the First Lady, and maybe we could even have hashed out our differences, but that wasn’t in the cards. Every day, every hour, felt to me like drawing fresh lines in the shifting sand between the two women. I knew where I stood: on Melania’s side, no matter what.

On March 1, 2017, I awoke in the White House, and it all seemed like a dream. I couldn’t believe it: there I was, sleeping right above the president and First Lady of the United States. At the time, I truly did care for them both, despite the fact that his policies were making me and many others very uncomfortable. I met Melania in her living room and we took some great pictures of her leaning casually against the piano in the center hall. She was wearing a bright red dress—one she’d worn before—for the planned visit to Children’s National Hospital that day. She was careful to drape the dress with a cream coat, just in case someone noticed her repeat wearing of it.

Lindsay and Vanessa had scoured DC the night before to find and buy Tibetan singing bowls, recommended to me by sage-of-all-things David Monn. The bowls make a lovely sound that enhances meditation. We would donate them to the hospital in the morning. Lindsay didn’t outright object to running errands as long as she could make Diet Coke runs to McDonald’s in her truck.

At the hospital, Melania said a few words that were in essence the hallmarks of the First Lady’s initiative, which was starting to take shape after months of hard work together. “I am a passionate believer in integrating and interpreting nature’s elements into our daily lives to create a warm, nurturing and positive environment. I believe that these same natural benefits can be instrumental to enhancing the health and well-being of all children. It is important to me that children can recognize, identify and express their feelings in order to promote their mental wellness and healing process.”

We went into the hospital’s Bunny Mellon Healing Garden, where Melania dug in some dirt with a little shovel and dropped a few flower seeds—morning glories, symbols of love and renewal—into the holes.

See, Melania can garden, too!

The hospital tour and seed planting lasted about two hours, and Melania shook hands with every single kid, parent, doctor, and nurse. One girl, a cancer patient, and Melania made an emotional connection and the girl said meeting the First Lady made her feel better. When they hugged, it truly was a touching moment.

I thought to myself that moments like this were exactly why I’d signed on, for this adventure. As long as we focused on the well-being of children, we were on the right track. That day, Melania fulfilled her promise.

The two of us took her plane to fly back to New York that day for another hospital visit the following morning. We sat in her cabin alone, facing each other. I won’t travel backward in a moving vehicle—I’m not sure if I really get nauseated from it or if it’s just a superstition. But in her private cabin, I had no choice. There were only two seats and they were facing.

“Switch?” she asked.

“You’re so sweet,” I said. “I’m sure I won’t feel a thing, but if I do, I’ll let you know.” I took tons of pictures of her in her seat, profile, full face. It was fun and casual, although my continuing neck pain did distract me.

When I got back to my apartment, Alexi said, “The First Lady is home,” as I came through the door. She meant it as a joke, but I burst into tears. I’d neglected my kids. The stress and pain were grinding me down.

I still had to send out Melania’s social media. I wrote, “The pictures are on their way. Please approve: ‘Thank you for welcoming me @ChildrensHealth. My prayers and thoughts are with all of the children and families. #GROWUPSTRONGER.’ ”

“You are the best!” she emailed me.

On March 2, we went on another “OTR” visit, to the pediatric playroom at NewYork-Presbyterian/Weill Cornell Medical Center in Manhattan. She and I were both affiliated with the hospital and their word was golden to me. All three of my children were born at NYP. For many years, I’d donated a percentage of proceeds from charitable fashion events I’d hosted to the hospital.

Lindsay’s search-and-buy errand for that event was to go to Target and purchase a bunch of Dr. Seuss books to put into a gift basket. Melania intended to read to the kids from Oh, the Places You’ll Go!. We’d tried to get books from Random House, the publisher, but they couldn’t deliver in time. The event coincided with the late author’s birthday, too. Like I said, this was all carefully planned.

The press release for the event mentioned National Read Across America Day, which, as it turned out, isn’t really a thing in the US. Melania approved the statement in full, but she asked for one line to be edited out: “Barron and I have read Oh, the Places You’ll Go! repeatedly, and it inspires and captivates us each time.”

Why cut that sentence? Because her private life was not for public consumption. “It’s no one’s business what I read to my son,” she said. She just didn’t want anyone to know the details of their intimate interactions.

A small press pool was permitted to come to the event, with strict stipulations. Melania said, “No audio of me reading on camera.” She would shoot B-roll only, meaning press photographers could get shots of her walking and greeting the kids. No audio. No interviews. No questions.

Tim Tripepi played the big man and said, “They may try [to get audio]. I’ll push them out if they do!”

You go, Tim. Flex those muscles.

The NewYork-Presbyterian event went well. The kids, wearing pajamas, gathered around Melania. “So you know what is today?” she asked. “It’s a reading day. So I came to encourage you to read, and to think about what you want to achieve in life.” I watched from just outside the circle of kids. She seemed to be in her element, and the children were captivated by her beauty and warmth.

My phone ringer was off, but I noticed a call come in from Ivanka, quickly followed by a text asking me to get back to her. What did she want now?

About halfway through Melania’s reading, I could no longer move my neck and my left side went completely numb. Something was definitely wrong with my body. This was obviously more than a sore neck or cramping leg. Fortunately, I was already in a hospital—my hospital, in my town. I turned to my friend Peggy Oswald-Manning, now deceased and dearly missed, the director of VIP services at the hospital, and said, “I need to see a doctor.” She looked into getting me some appointments.

After the event, we motorcaded back to Trump Tower. I walked home in agony.

Tim called me angling for Easter Egg Roll tickets for himself and all his friends. Tickets were hard to come by because Melania had ruled that the event would be scaled way, way back from the Obama administration, when it used to draw thirty-five thousand visitors. Melania said, “Why do we have to do this so big? It’s not necessary. Cut it back.” Her decision was to gear it toward military families only.

The next day, I returned to the hospital and began what seemed like an endless series of medical tests, X-rays, scans, blood samples.

I wasn’t able to reply to Ivanka until the next day. “Hi, Ivanka,” I wrote. “Catching up after a very busy week. I have a few personal appointments in the a.m. that I have been neglecting, but, in between, I will call your cell.”

She replied immediately, “Call my cell. If you could send me the one pager [about the International Women’s Day luncheon] beforehand that would be great. I may have some ideas of interesting people you could invite as well.”

This again? Ivanka was still trying to insert herself into a First Lady–hosted event? On a group text, I alerted Lindsay and Rickie that I was making some changes to the list, adding Ivanka, Dina Powell, and Rachel Roy. Rickie, who continued working closely with David Monn on this event, wrote, “Got email addresses for those beauties?”

Lindsay replied, “Sending get well thoughts your way. I’m glad you’re at the hospital. Get some rest and meds! Xoxo.”

Rickie wrote, “Please get rest. Please take care. You are loved and we are right here to help.”

Throughout the day, I kept them updated about my MRIs and CAT scans. Rickie wrote, “We love you. Just get better. We have your back!”

Lindsay quickly added, “Even if it’s a bad back with pinched nerves!”

Rickie said, “Shut up! I was emotional. How is our fearless leader?”

Meanwhile, Ivanka received her International Women’s Day invite but nothing else. She texted me on March 4, “I received the invitation from someone on your team but I have no context on what the event is about. Karen Pence asked me as well. It would be great to have some details (who will be attending, topic of discussion, etc.). I appreciate your guidance. Thanks.”

I didn’t reply for a whole day, then wrote apologetically on March 5, “I didn’t call during the Shabbas. We are still revising all elements. Can send you and Mrs. Pence an overview once Melania signs off. Please send me any names you have, and MT is happy to review and invite. Please don’t say anything but I am in the hospital. There is a disc or spur against my spine and pinching a nerve. A few more tests…”

She replied, “I am so sorry. Hopefully you will recover quickly! Once the overview/guest list is approved, send it my way. Based on the event theme/topic, I will suggest women you may want to consider including. Sounds great!”

Two whole sentences of sympathy before she went right back into what I could do for her.

Melania and I were in contact by phone, LOLing about Ivanka’s trying to get into the loop. I told Melania about her sympathy for my health. If I’d said that I had a week to live, she would have written, “So sorry! Hope it’ll be okay! About that guest list…”

The following evening, my husband, David, was out to dinner with his friend Ian. I texted him that I’d checked into NewYork-Presbyterian because the pain in my neck was excruciating and I was in a dire state. They immediately came over to be with me. Once I’d finally acknowledged that something serious was happening to my body, my physical symptoms went into overdrive. For months, I’d been writing checks that my body couldn’t cash. Months of no sleep, bad nutrition, constant stress, traveling, hauling my heavy bags. Months of tension and burnout. Months of my body’s screaming at me and my turning a deaf ear. I was now paying the price for all of it.

And yet… the show had to go on.

From my hospital bed, IVs in my arms, I continued to work on the IWD lunch scheduled for the following day. Emails between Lindsay, Rickie, and me flew. David Monn texted updates about table placement and seating charts. Tim kept me abreast of his management of the press pool’s no-audio rule during Melania’s speech, which I was still in the process of helping compose.

I wouldn’t delegate, not for something this important. The IWD lunch, Melania’s first solo event in the White House, was her moment, her first chance to step up and put herself forward as the First Lady. It had to be perfect, and it had to be hers alone.

Ivanka hadn’t let up asking for info about the event, in particular to get a copy of Melania’s speech. The team would never send her anything.

Rickie got it. Regarding one of Ivanka’s repeated requests, she wrote, “[Ivanka] does not know her place. Inappropriate of her to demand.”

Lindsay, on the other hand, kept pestering me about releasing the speech to the West Wing. I wrote, “You can tell them that Mrs. Trump is still working on it and when she is ready she will send it to them. Lindsay, you have sent us the same request 4 days in a row! We are not READY!! Have you told them that?!” I knew she was under pressure by Hope Hicks about our press release and the speech, but what about “Not yet!” didn’t she understand? Whose side was she on? She was Melania’s COS, not Ivanka and Hope’s lackey.

Meanwhile, Melania was sending me a million s per day. On March 7, I woke up to her text, “Good morning! How are you feeling? I love you! Donald is saying get well soon. That he loves having you around in the White House. ” She sent a link, too, to a glowing article in the Washington Post with the headline “Melania Trump to Host White House Luncheon Marking International Women’s Day.” She was happy and proud of the portrayal.

I busted my ass to make her look good. I worked hard to create a positive persona for her by collaborating with the media. She was the First Lady. That was my job. I was doing all this work in secret, with no official title, and no salary. I believed she wanted this, because she told me so. I didn’t need to be recognized publicly, but I did feel a need to be respected for the work I was doing and acknowledged as a member of Melania’s team by the people who needed to know.

As the sacrifices I endured grew daily, I questioned myself more and more over why I was destroying myself for her legacy—or lack thereof. I’d put myself in the hospital, ignored mounting pain to keep working for her.

I kept going back to the fact that this was my patriotic duty, to help our country in any way I could. But, as time went on, it seemed more and more like Melania’s interest(s) were being stonewalled and thwarted, with constant interference and road blocks. At one point, I thought perhaps Melania’s interests in fulfilling her role as First Lady were waning, and the drive to see them through to fruition was mostly coming from me. I felt like I was a passenger in a speeding car, heading into gridlock, and realizing no one was behind the wheel.

---

David didn’t leave my side at the hospital while we waited for news about what was wrong with me physically. Nor did my parents and in-laws. The diagnosis was yet to be determined. I heard one of the doctors say the word “mental.” As in, the pain was all in my head. I wanted to install him in my body so he could feel the pain himself and then comment.

The International Women’s Day (IWD) lunch at the White House, meanwhile, went off without a hitch on March 8. Melania had the support of the UN Women for Peace Association, whose mission is to build awareness for, and help prevent violence against, women and girls all around the world. I’d reached out to the president of the organization, my mother, Barbara Winston, as well as to Muna Rihani al-Nasser, the chairwoman, so we could work together to recognize and honor IWD. Their dedication and tireless work to end violence against women and girls is critical. They sat on either side of Melania. Although I was too sick to attend, FLOTUS was protected.

Rickie and David Monn sent me peppy updates throughout the event. Melania’s speech had gone over well, apparently. It hit on the themes we hoped to promote in Melania’s as-yet-unnamed initiative, like gender equality; the rights of women and girls; the betterment of society through the collaboration of women; ensuring a just, safe, and kind planet for children; and the power of education to promote children’s rights. She also announced the Girl Scouts’ Global Action Award, to encourage girls from ninety countries to learn about global issues affecting girls, young women, and their communities and to sow the seeds of global social change. She gave a special mention to author, engineer, and businesswoman Sylvia Acevedo, the CEO of Girl Scouts of the USA, as she discussed the initiative to mentor girls in STEM education.

David Monn texted, “It was a huge success based on the accolades of the guests! I hope you are feeling better!”

A few days went by, and the doctors still didn’t know what was causing me such pain; some started to suggest that I might have lost it. Melania’s support and concern flowed my way with constant texts and calls. She asked to visit, but my husband told her it wasn’t a good day.

I was in New York, strapped to a hospital bed in pain and agony, and didn’t have the ability to go anywhere. I missed Melania’s first solo event as First Lady in the White House, the IWD Luncheon, but I knew she was in the best of hands.

However, on Friday, March 10, 2017, my doctors hesitantly discharged me from the hospital so I could go to the United Nations. I am grateful to Dr. Neel Mehta for accompanying me to make sure I didn’t fall down, get sick, or pass out.

I’d made a commitment to deliver the opening remarks as a representative of the First Lady at the UN Women for Peace Association’s annual awards luncheon at the UN Headquarters, which reiterated the same messages as her remarks at the IWD lunch. I wasn’t going to miss this one, too. As board secretary for Hopeland (a children’s advocacy organization), and as a board member of the UN Women for Peace Association, it didn’t matter if I was on my deathbed, I was going to be there. And I was. I returned to the hospital immediately after.

That night, we celebrated my daughter’s tenth birthday. We had a party for Alexi in my room on the twelfth floor of the hospital with balloons, sushi, cake, and the whole family. I smiled and laughed with IVs in both arms and a brace around my neck, but I was gritting my teeth the entire time.

Then CNN’s Kate Bennett reached out and I took the call. We spoke about Melania’s initiative and next steps. My mind was racing, so at 1:24 a.m. on March 11, I sent Bennett an email saying, “I will no longer sit back and allow the media to scrutinize our First Lady, whose actions and abilities speak far greater than anyone is even aware of. My hope, one day, is that thru her humanitarian work and achievements, her true empowerment will prevail and she’ll be recognized and appreciated for her true qualities.”

Kate’s response: “As with any First Lady, the platforms and initiatives are vitally important, and an integral component of this presidential administration.” She went on to say, “I sincerely hope you’re feeling better. I understand the monster responsibility it must be to operate all of Mrs. Trump’s events and initiatives with a scant staff, while navigating a new world in the White House.”

“Hope you are feeling better today,” Melania texted the next morning. “Peggy [Oswald-Manning] request I postpone my visit to you today. You are going for testing. Stay strong. Call me later I love you. ”

Also that day, I received a communication that sent a chill along my damaged nerves. It was from Stephanie Grisham, underminer and all-around bad apple, asking to FaceTime, perhaps to see with her own eyes that I was in no shape to argue with her about Melania’s messaging. “Hi Stephanie,” she wrote. “I don’t know if Tim told you where I am. Really look forward to ‘meeting’ you and hope you’re feeling better! All my best, Stephanie. P.S. About to watch the CNN segment about the First Lady. From the tease it looks like it will be a positive piece. If it is, you guys may want to tweet it out or post it on Facebook.”

Oh, shit. Why was she reaching out to “meet”? Why was she telling me how to do my job? I wondered if Melania was aware of Grisham’s run-ins with the law?

Of course she was dropping Tim Tripepi’s name. I’d tried to maintain a firewall between the East Wing and the West Wing, but he and Lindsay had been in contact with Katie and Hope—and Grisham, evidently. In my absence, the wall had come down.

I was flat on my back, barely able to walk or talk, on so much pain medication I could hardly see straight. While I was incapacitated, Ivanka had pounced and moved her girl Grisham into the East Wing.

My worst fears were confirmed when I got a text from Melania that said, “I met with Stephanie Grisham about communications. When you feel better, you should FaceTime her. How are you?”

How was I? I was freaking out!

Grisham was known for being combative with the press. I’d been trying to get journalists on our side from the beginning. All of the inroads I’d made would be destroyed if Grisham took over.

Hands shaking, I called Pamela Gross, who had been asking to join Melania’s staff since the transition. I’d kept her at arm’s length at the First Lady’s request. From her years as a correspondent on CNN and as the wife of the Hill owner Jimmy Finkelstein, Pamela knew everyone in politics. Before Melania officially offered Stephanie Grisham the as-yet-unfilled job as communications director, I needed to find someone else ASAP.

Pamela recommended Mercedes Schlapp, a lobbyist, National Rifle Association board member, Fox News correspondent, and longtime Republican Party veteran. She was an easy sell. So much for a politically balanced team. I texted Melania that afternoon, “Do you know Mercedes Schlapp? Pamela loves her. Could we meet her?”

“Don’t know her. Yes, you can meet her.”

“Might be better than Grisham,” I said.

“We need communication and press,” wrote Melania. “Grisham can be communication.”

“Mercedes can be director? Pamela advisor.”

“Meet her and let me know what you think.”

I wasn’t exactly in a position to do job interviews, but I might have bought some time.

The most excruciating aspect of my hospitalization was feeling stuck in the bed, unable to escape my pain, with no treatment plan. But at least I wasn’t afraid for my life, nor my child’s life. I’d been there. My darkest day had been when two-year-old Zach’s lips blew up bigger than his head when he got his hands on a French fry cross-contaminated with peanut oil and David and I rushed him to the emergency room in terror.

If the best doctors in the world couldn’t figure out what to do for me, I might be in physical agony forever, and I didn’t think I would be able to stand it. What made it even worse was that my doctors kept telling me they didn’t see anything on my scans. One of them mentioned relocating me to the psych ward.

“The what ward?” my mom asked. My mother-in-law, Michele, put her hand over her mouth. They thought I’d lost my marbles.

Dexter Sun, MD, board-certified neurologist and a clinical professor of neurology, and Roger Hartl, MD, professor of neurological surgery and director of spinal surgery and neurotrauma, came to see me. Regular CAT scans and MRIs couldn’t identify the problem, so they brought a colleague who specializes in radiology. He looked at my MRI and dissected the images, splicing and dicing the film into sections, first by halves and then by quarters, and with God’s intervention, because I was about to be sent to the loony bin, the radiologist was able to see a sliver of fragmented bone or cartilage lodged against a nerve.

By March 16—eleven days after I’d checked myself in—I finally had a diagnosis: a bulging disc and a large bone fragment were compressing the nerve root where it exited the cranial spine. I needed to have the disc and fragment removed, followed by multilevel cervical fusion.

When they wheeled me into the operating room, I wept in anticipation of the relief I’d one day feel. The surgeon, Dr. Hartl, made a three-inch vertical slash at the nape of my neck and inserted metal rods in my spine. Melania was in contact with David all day. She sent flowers and texts.

My room on the twelfth floor of the hospital had two huge windows. When I opened my eyes the next morning, I saw my mom on the black sofa, the sun shining into the room through the window over her head, giving her a halo effect. I knew it was a new day.

My doctors saved my life in more ways than one. Dr. Sun and Dr. Hartl made sure I didn’t end up in a straitjacket for the rest of my life.

Zach later told me that that afternoon, which I don’t remember because I was on enough oxycodone and morphine to tranquilize a horse, we were having a conversation and I took a bite of food, and boom, my head fell forward, right into my food, and I was completely out. The kids laughed at how sudden it was, and seeing them smile was the best medicine in the world. Granted, the punch line was how drugged up I was post-op, but I’d take it. My family had been through hell and any joy in that hospital room was welcome. Tyler cuddled up next to me and told me, “Everything is going to be okay.”

Melania visited the day after my surgery, although I don’t remember that either. David told me she showed up unannounced (another OTR), Secret Service swarming, no doubt, and stayed for over an hour, graciously offering her assistance in any way possible. I remember her calling me a couple of times a day and not being able to talk to her very well. David took her calls; he took all my calls and was the hero of my heart and my life for the duration of my hospital stay. I hadn’t been around him or the kids enough since I’d joined Trump World the previous November, but David was always there for me, never more so than when I was at my absolute worst.

The relief I’d prayed for? It was short-lived. After a few days, my pain came roaring back, and no amount of morphine dulled it. Everyone thought I’d actually lost my mind. I was screaming, slouched over, unable to keep myself calm. Once again, the doctors were left scratching their heads.

Days in a miasma of pain passed. I was swimming in drugs.

On March 25, I had my second operation. The postoperative diagnosis: disc herniation, more pressure on a different vertebrae. This time, the incision was a two-inch horizontal slash across my throat, a truncated coup de grâce. A titanium plate was inserted, and bone screws were placed on my cervical spine.

A side effect of my two spinal fusions was a pair of pulmonary embolisms that, had I traveled on a plane in pressurized air, would have killed me. Another fun one: edema had made my ankles look like they belonged to the Elephant Man. They were so swollen, I couldn’t find socks big enough. I wish this were an exaggeration. My eyes were black-and-blue. I wore a thick neck brace. “Today is the first day I’ve been able to walk,” I texted Melania on March 27. As always, she sent s,  s, X’s, and O’s.

That same day, Stephanie Grisham was announced as the First Lady’s new director of communications. Melania didn’t send me any accompanying links, texts, or emails. It was almost as if she was hiding the news from me. Through Melania, I learned that the West Wing was in the process of vetting Mercedes Schlapp for a position in their communications shop. Melania told Donald that Jared and Ivanka “knew [she] was vetting her and took her!”

Two weeks later, to my complete shock, I discovered that I’d been locked out of my government email and contacts. Using my personal address, I wrote to Reince Priebus and Katie Walsh, cc’ing Melania, and asked what the fuck was going on. “No clearance? I have not been able to be at the office due to medically unstable flying conditions but have been working as a volunteer for the First Lady on ALL of her events, platforms and major initiatives. I would like an explanation immediately please,” I wrote. As if they didn’t already know.

Twelve hours later, Lindsay confirmed that things were even worse than I thought. Not only was I locked out of my email, the volunteer advisor contract that my lawyer Bob Rizzi and White House counsels Don McGahn and Stefan Passantino had been finalizing for months, which had been on the verge of readiness for signing, had abruptly been killed. Plus, my secure phone had been deactivated.

“Hello. Give me a ring if you have a moment and want to discuss,” wrote Lindsay. “BB [Bella Blue, a.k.a. Melania] tried to call you and asked me to relay that White House counsel has spoken to your lawyer Bob Rizzi a couple of times this week and can relay the status of your agreement. If you could call them and then let me know if you need anything. I am not privy to those conversations and the current status. The temporary suspension of the email and phone is standard for all ‘extended leave’ cases. I had made our East Wing team aware of your position but did not share the information with the West Wing. All best, call when you can, Lindsay.”

No contract, no phone, no communications. I’d already had my neck sliced open, and this felt like multiple stabs in the back. I didn’t blame Lindsay or Melania. The West Wingers had wanted me gone from my first day. I was nothing but a thorn in their side, the one person who fought for Melania and her office and made demands on her behalf. Now, with my being out of commission, they could finally get rid of me.

I checked out of the hospital on March 29 at eight p.m., still in bad shape, walking unsteadily like a newborn giraffe, my throat so sore I could only eat baby food. For the first two weeks post-op, I struggled to find flavors of Earth’s Best that didn’t make me gag. I was so frustrated (and hungry), I just wanted to scream, but I couldn’t do that either! My voice was gone.

I was disheartened and furious about all the time I’d invested and money I’d wasted on that now-dead contract. Couldn’t Melania reinstate my email and phone? Then again, I wasn’t recovered enough to go back to working in any capacity. I was physically and emotionally devastated and needed time to heal. My mind, however, would not stop churning.

Where were those Tibetan singing bowls when I needed them?

On top of all that, the members of the press—the colleagues I’d known for decades—noticed that I wasn’t around anymore, and they had questions. Texts and emails came in daily from the Wall Street Journal, the New York Post, CNN, the Washington Post, ProPublica, WWD, and others asking, “Where are you?” The same queries reached the press offices at the White House, but Grisham and Hicks were not releasing any information about where I’d been. With the truth withheld, it looked like I was another casualty of the Trumps’ “Off with their heads!” employee retention style.

I sent Melania an email on April 2 that was probably way too raw for someone with her emotional detachment to deal with, but I had to get the feelings out. It’s a bit rambling, but I was on pain meds…

Hi BB,

It has taken me quite some time to get this to you properly. The daily grief I have felt has been overwhelming and the anger is self-explanatory, not only for what I have endured in the past month, but for what this inauguration has done to us. I committed myself to you and DJT in hopes that your strength and ability to make a difference in this world would have me by your side making this a better world, too. I would do anything for you and I love you and trust you and will always be your trusted Senior Advisor, Chief Strategist, Best Friend and sister… and I hope you know that.

Look at what WE did and prepared!! With NO help. NO guidance. And no support. We will prevail my dear First Lady. I must recover. I love you!! 

I also sent her grisly info about my surgeries and half a dozen graphic photos of my scars. I closed with a request for her to call me.

I wasn’t the only one having problems with Melania. Hervé Pierre had been in loose touch. He was at his wit’s end. He still didn’t have a contract and was in urgent financial straits.

At the end of March, he texted, “I really enjoy working for her, but I need to get compensated!” He wrote that he’d heard Ivanka’s stylist was paid $5,000 a day. I don’t know if that’s true, but it wasn’t so far-fetched. “You know you are the reason I designed the gown,” he wrote to me, “but I have to move to Europe in the next three months if I don’t have a revenue!” He hadn’t been reimbursed for months’ worth of cabs and expenses. He asked me to ask Melania for an Uber account, which I did, of course. She said she would speak directly with him about that. I hoped she would.

On April 4, I sent her a picture of my medication bag with the caption “more issues than Vogue” and its contents styled like the “What’s in your bag?” feature in the magazine. It was basically bottles of pills and medical supplies. She replied by sending me back my photo filtered to black and white to make it look “more editorial,” just like in Vogue.

Because of my close relationship with Melania and the mutual trust I had with my colleagues in the media, we had kept Melania’s messaging on point, consistent, and separate from Donald’s. Kate Bennett explained Melania’s favorable ratings: “For a long time she hid in obscurity, so people made their own narratives.” In truth, now Bennett and Grisham were creating the narrative about Melania together. I told Melania, “You’ve lost your voice!” Melania noticed all her quotes came out of Grisham’s mouth.

During the inauguration, CNN had reached out to request Melania’s involvement in a one-hour special. Melania’s participation was contingent on my involvement. At the time, I was swamped; it was not happening. But Melania gave me the authority to help produce a segment about her. CNN’s Jake Tapper was hosting an hour-long special each night during the week of April 24 on President Trump’s first hundred days in office and offered to pretape a segment with Melania “to include her very important voice regarding her many initiatives as First Lady,” wrote his team.

Stephanie Grisham emailed me a week later with nauseating perkiness. “Hi Stephanie! Hope you are on the mend and feeling much better.” She wanted to let me know that Melania had passed on—or Grisham had talked her out of—the request from CNN. “FLOTUS forwarded this to me, and I will let them know that she will pass. Going forward, feel free to send me any media inquiries that you receive, and I will handle. Really look forward to meeting you, I’ve heard great things. All my best, Stephanie.”

Grisham’s attitude with the press was apathetic and purely adversarial (during her nine-month stint as White House press secretary she held precisely zero press conferences). There is a difference between protecting Melania and hiding her. Grisham wrote that I should forward any requests to her and that she’d manage them. More like she’d delete the requests, insult the journalists, and isolate Melania. This really burned me up. Not to mention, if Melania didn’t do TV specials or talk to the media, they’d create their own narrative and turn to Ivanka, who would trample her own stepmother for more attention.

A couple of days later Tyler and I went to see Melania and Barron at Trump Tower. The boys went upstairs and I visited with Melania for as long as I could stay upright. Between the pain in my neck, the medication, and my exhaustion, I still wanted to spend some quiet time with her.

Afterward she wrote, “Loved seeing you!”

It had been nice to be together again. But I was still very weak, and needed to heal.

In mid-April, I began the process of getting my phone and email back. Melania told me to connect first with Don McGahn, White House counsel (later to become a key source of information, and whose name appears more than one hundred fifty times in the redacted version of the Mueller report). I was quickly passed on to Stefan Passantino and Katie Walsh, like a hot potato. It was as if I needed every person in the entire building to approve the items I’d had just two weeks ago.

By April 22, nearly a month after I’d left the hospital, after several requests from the media about my whereabouts, I wrote a draft of a press release and sent it to Melania directly, bypassing Grisham and Lindsay. It covered all the necessary information about who I was, what had happened to me, and where I’d been, and I even supplied a quote from Melania that read, “Stephanie was in the best hands at NYP Hospital. My speaking with Stephanie daily reassured her that she would be fine and I was only a phone call away if she needed me.”

Melania replied with her approval: “Is good.”

Ten minutes later, she texted me that the White House lawyers said not to do it.

By late April, I’d all but given up completely on working with the West Wing lawyers on anything. I needed a new strategy and a new legal team for a new contract, since the old one had been killed while I was lying in my hospital bed.

I shared the news with Melania, who wrote, “Good luck. XXOO.”

“Thank you, MT!! I am very hopeful. XXOO.”

Despite all I’d been through and the way they’d treated me, I was still dedicated to helping Melania in the East Wing. The path wasn’t clear, and I’d have to limp. But I didn’t come this far to give up now.

The East Wing staffers, most of whom I’d hired, must have thought I was gone for good and happy about it. I had been tough on them, and now they could assume more powerful roles without my being on-site telling them what to do. With Grisham in place in the East Wing, the West Wing must have believed I’d never return. But they had no idea just how committed I was. They would have to do more than rip up my contract and cut off my phone to get rid of me.

But they kept trying. They dangled a huge carrot right in front of my face, and, at first, I hopped right after it. On May 9, I received an offer from the US State Department to be an ambassador to the United Nations General Assembly. Melania herself sent the details of the job.

For fourteen months, I would represent the US State Department as an ambassador of the USA for the seventy-second session of the United Nations General Assembly (UNGA), to serve as a public-sector advisor to the US permanent representative to the UN on issues that came before the UNGA, attend formal sessions, and work with ambassadors, counselors, delegates, and officers to develop strategies for furthering US policy goals, support sponsored resolutions, provide advice and assistance in individual areas of expertise, and represent the US at functions and social events.

To qualify, I’d have to be confirmed by the Senate and turn over a financial disclosure statement. The vetting process would not require me or my husband to divest. I needed to give my answer soon so they could get started on the vetting process in time for me to step into the role by September 2017.

“Please let me know if you have any questions, and I can try to get additional answers. Pls let me know if you are interested. XXOO ,” wrote Melania.

It was perfect for me; the people who wanted me gone knew it. No way would I pass up an ambassadorship. It was a natural fit. I’d worked with the UN for years. As magnificent as this offer was, in my heart, I couldn’t help thinking, What about Melania?

I accepted the role with the State Department.

The East Wingers said they were overjoyed for me. Lindsay pushed me to accept the appointment. “Hi SWW!!!! I have attached the Appointee form for you to complete for the UN position.… We are all thrilled that you are willing to accept this role and look forward to working together again!” she emailed.

The vetting process began. The first link I received was the SF-86 security form, the one I’d been waiting for Katie Walsh to send me while I was in the hospital. She’d told me she’d sent it, but if she did, I never got it. I’d begged, borrowed, and pleaded for that link. It held up my security clearance and without it, the White House was able to cancel my contract.

I supplied every document they asked for. As the month wore on, I was more and more conflicted about taking the position. In mid-June, I concluded that as much as I wanted to represent the United States in the seventy-second session of the United Nations, if I wasn’t in the East Wing, Melania’s initiative would probably go nowhere. She would be isolated by Grisham and her role would be usurped by Ivanka.

I talked about it with Melania, and she said the decision was mine alone to make, but she was grateful when I told her I’d return to serve as her advisor. We knew it was us against them and there wasn’t anyone we could trust. She assured me that she was still passionate about working on the initiative for children, and I believed that we would succeed in our plans.

On June 14, I wrote a letter to Jennifer Wicks in the State Department and declined the position, citing my recent medical crisis. I rejoined Melania’s team in an unofficial capacity to work on her initiatives.

I could only imagine how Lindsay, Tim, Grisham, and the whole West Wing crew felt when they learned they hadn’t seen the last of me yet. Picturing the looks on their faces when I walked into the East Wing and said, “I’m back, bitches!” probably speeded up my recovery time by weeks.