my public success, my private war
Upon Summer of Sam’s release, directors began to consider me for bigger and bigger roles. I was flying back and forth to Los Angeles frequently, but I paid a price for it. I always loaded up on my Xanax, Dramamine, and ginger ale, but flights were incredibly uncomfortable. Every flight, I feared a panic attack in the cramped airplane cabin, knowing I wouldn’t be able to escape for hours.
I was getting beat up by the business as well. I was disillusioned as I came to realize that acting was, first and foremost, a business that operates according to some very specific rules. I realized that talent, acting chops, and individuality weren’t valued nearly as much as generic, all-American good looks, youth, and the latest box office tally. I kept pushing on through some very rough patches to make a career for myself, and it was working, but it took a toll on my soul as well as my body. My panic attacks began to recur more regularly, and my nervous stomach issues increased. I started to get severe headaches followed by severe sinus infections again. Of course, my doctors always treated these with course after course of antibiotics, and when those didn’t work, steroids.
I’ve always had olive skin with a yellow tinge, but my skin began to get sallow, a duller, unattractive yellow color that makeup artists often complained about. They had a terrible time trying to match my tone, or make it less yellow with gray. It looked unnatural, and I got labeled as “difficult” among the makeup artists, as if I had some control over the color of my skin. Another strange thing that constantly plagued the wardrobe people was my changing size, as if my body was swelling and then deflating according to a will of its own. I’d always owned “bloated clothes” and “unbloated clothes,” but try explaining that to wardrobe! On swollen days, I often turned down social events. I couldn’t bear to walk the red carpet and be judged by the media. No thanks. So I hid away, which didn’t help my career. Publicists and managers often directed me to go to this or that event, present this award or make an appearance, but I frequently said no because I was afraid that my health might play tricks on me, and to be judged when I already wasn’t feeling well didn’t seem appealing. Then, as I felt I was foiling my own career, I became more and more depressed. Finally, I decided to seek out a therapist on my own, not because a doctor was telling me to, but because I felt like maybe I could use some calm and objective advice.
My therapist was a sweet, kind woman who believed in the mind/body connection. I worked with her for about two years, and she inspired my interest in the many ways that the mind and body are connected. I didn’t know what it was like to be free of pain, nausea, depression, and panic attacks. It had all become “normal” for me, especially because that was my mother’s life as well as mine. It was my cross to bear, as she had once told me. Everyone has problems, right? But I did read many of the books my therapist recommended, and I began to learn more about my body and adopt new strategies, hoping to feel just a little bit better.
One of the books in particular struck me. It said that every organ is attached to an emotion, and your entire emotional history lies in your cells. That idea fascinated me. Therapy helped me work out a lot of things. We discussed my past, and she helped me begin to understand that my current health situation maybe wasn’t so normal, and maybe there was a deep bodily connection between my health and my emotions. I remember reading a line in another book she suggested for me: “Your health is a direct manifestation of your thoughts.” That one really startled me, and I couldn’t help wondering if it was true. On the one hand, you can change your thoughts, so that sounded like I could change my health. On the other hand, it also implied I’d brought it all on myself. That thought discouraged me. Maybe it was all my fault. Maybe I really was my own worst enemy. Still, I couldn’t swallow that completely, and my searching continued. I went to healers who claimed they could bring light into my body through their hands. I went to chakra cleansing classes, and even to past life regression people, all in hopes of finding some peace with my health. I tried a vegan diet. I tried a macrobiotic diet. When something worked, I kept it. When something didn’t work, I moved on.
Through all this, I was continuing to work on set, doing a lot of movies and appearing on various TV shows. I was busy, and it was awesome, but my health issues always loomed. Life on the set can be tough at times. For example, one morning, on the set of a movie I was doing, I was walking to the makeup room. I had my pre-mixed makeup in my hand. I was tired. We’d been filming late the night before, and what can I say?—it was 5 a.m.! I passed a group of producers talking amongst themselves and I didn’t pay much attention because they seemed pretty occupied with their conversation. It didn’t seem like my place to talk to them—I was always a little bit fearful about saying something stupid or doing something wrong, so I wanted to just do my job and go home. I vaguely remember picking my head up long enough to offer a small smile. They nodded, and I kept walking.
Midday, I got a call from my agent.
“Jennifer. Are you happy on set?”
“The producers called and said you don’t seem happy. They said you didn’t even say hello to them this morning.”
I thought: Seriously? Happy? Am I happy? It was 5:00 a.m.! I never meant to be rude at all, but this is how it can be on set. Every move you make might be scrutinized, and any suggestion of an attitude will be noted. Every pimple and every line will be counted. Everything you say, do, even your expression will be up for interpretation. The set is not a place for being tired, for having health issues, for sadness, headaches, or stupid questions. Add to that the stress of having to perform and be great. Sets can be amazing environments, but they can also be hard environments where the judgment is constant. When you’re not feeling your best, it can be tough.
AFTER 9/11, I began to despise planes even more than usual. I decided to get a place in L.A., while still keeping my place in New York. Like many people, I was shaken by how I now saw the world after that horrific occurrence. I needed a place in L.A. so I wouldn’t have to travel back and forth so much. A place that felt safe. I found L.A. to be overwhelming and I only knew a few people there. To ease my heart a bit, I brought home a Golden Retriever puppy, part of a litter from a veterinarian who bred his two Goldens. Frankie Beans came with me to many sets, and sat on many cold bathroom floors with me while I was sick. He was, and still is, my very best friend. He has always known when I was feeling badly, and he always had the most hopeful expression on his face, like he was trying to will away my pain.
I had learned to keep my health issues to myself, for the most part—only Frankie Beans knew how bad it was—until I got the movie of a lifetime: Crash. I was cast playing the detective partner of Don Cheadle’s character. The script was one of the best things I’d ever read. I was beyond excited…until I realized I was going to have to be naked. On camera. On a big screen in movie theaters. My body, right there for all the world to see.
Usually, when you come to a sex scene or a nude scene in a script, you can modify it to the level that makes you comfortable by talking to the director about it, and what you will and won’t do goes into your contract, but, for this movie, the naked scene was necessary. The director thought it was important that my character be naked because it makes her vulnerable in the scene. From a purely artistic standpoint, I completely agreed with him. But personally? Yikes! I had one month before filming the scene, and so I felt incredible pressure to look and, more importantly, feel as comfortable as possible. I didn’t want to be worried about my body and not have my mind on the scene at hand. The Atkins Diet was the diet of the moment—protein and vegetables only, no carbs. I decided that, for one month, I would cut out all breads, pasta, and sweets. It was hard, but I did it.
I was determined not to cheat. I also signed up with the best personal trainer there was. I began to live on hard-boiled eggs for breakfast, lots of salads, vegetables, and tons of protein. For dessert, I had fruit, or the occasional sorbet. The change was amazing—I was full of energy and my stomach bloat completely disappeared. I began to get leaner and the swelling subsided, too. My whole lower body looked different. I think if I hadn’t been feeling so focused on the part, the changes might have been more obvious to me at the time, or I might have made some connection to my new diet, but I just thought I was losing weight because I was dieting and exercising regularly.
The day of the shoot, I was nervous, but I felt good and tried to forget about my insecurities. Don and I both laughed at the awkwardness of the whole situation, and on one of the breaks, he admitted he’d been dieting and working out, too—he had the same worries about exposing his body as I did. His honesty relaxed me. We finished the scene and we were both relieved. The craft services girl walked by us with fried chicken, and we both gladly took a giant piece. The scene was over, and so was the deprivation! That night, to celebrate, I went out to meet some friends, and we had pizza and some kind of double-chocolate something for dessert. The next day, I was sick as a dog. It was time to start shooting again. My call time was later in the day, so I stayed in bed for as long as I could. The headaches were back and I felt like I had a terrible hangover. I was nauseous and my stomach sent me to the bathroom every twenty minutes.
About ninety minutes before my ride was scheduled to pick me up and bring me in, it started in earnest. My nervous stomach was taking no prisoners and letting me know exactly who was boss. I couldn’t stop running to the bathroom. Then I contracted a fever. I felt like I’d been poisoned. I remember being so weak that all I could do was lie on the bathroom floor with Frankie Beans at my side. I called my manager immediately and said the dreaded words I’d hoped I’d never have to say: “I can’t move.” She told me it was probably food poisoning, or the flu that was going around the set. The producers sent a doctor to my house—something they had to do for insurance reasons. The doctor was shocked at how weak I was. He said I was so dehydrated that my blood pressure had dropped dangerously low. He wouldn’t let me go to work. What?! Up until that day, I’d never missed a single day of work since that major illness during the Spin City days. I couldn’t believe this was happening, on one of the best projects I’d ever had the honor to be a part of.
I was devastated beyond words. The doctor hooked up my bed to support two IVs so he could rehydrate me. The producers weren’t happy, of course, but they did have many people dropping from the flu, and they figured I’d gotten whatever was going around as well.
It was just two days before Christmas. I was due back in New York. Even though I now spent most of the year in L.A., I couldn’t bear living there full-time. I’m a New Yorker at heart and I’d needed my regular NYC fix, so I always kept my apartment. I wanted so badly to get home, so I nursed myself as well as I could. I ate nothing but chicken soup and crackers, and loaded up on Imodium AD Extra Strength and Xanax to get me through the five-hour plane ride. When I was back in New York, I was so glad to collapse and finally get some rest. I began to feel better and I wondered if stress had caused the entire episode.
I got through the holidays, not at my best but doing well enough to join in my family’s holiday festivities. I was due back in L.A. five days after New Year’s to shoot my remaining scene. I was still exhausted and my stomach was still acting up, but I thought the bagels and crackers I was living on must be helping. I went to a restaurant around the corner from my apartment a few days before I had to be back in L.A., and suddenly, the nausea and the urgency to find a bathroom swept over me again. I ran home, and six hours later, I was in the emergency room. I was sick for hours. The Imodium I usually relied on wasn’t working. I became so dehydrated that I was taken to a room and kept for observation. The doctors poked and prodded me while I stared at a TV that was playing repeats of Spin City. The doctor who had his finger up my rectum asked me if that was me on the television. I kid you not.
My mom and dad came to the hospital as soon as they heard, but the blood work didn’t show a thing. My liver enzymes were very high, but they decided I probably had food poisoning. Again? And for an entire month? I told the doctors that didn’t make sense to me. Just a month ago, the exact thing had happened to me. Something wasn’t right. All I got was, Sorry, that’s our diagnosis.
I went home and stared in the mirror. My skin was sallow and yellow, and I was so weak, I couldn’t imagine flying back to L.A. I called my therapist and she agreed to see me. I was a bundle of tears. I told her about my health issues and how I had to be back in L.A. in two days. Was it stress? Was I doing this to myself? I needed to know! Although she believed in the mind-body connection, and she did believe stress was playing a part, she also thought something else was going on. What a relief that was to me! She sent me to a gastroenterologist the next day.
The gastroenterologist was at least focused on my stomach. He took more blood and prescribed four doses of Pepto-Bismol daily, and put me on an antibiotic. He believed I had some kind of bacteria. I did what he said, but by the next day, I was in severe pain and panicking about not being able to go back and finish the best movie that I ever made. My mother begged me to just let the movie go, to call the producers and tell them I wasn’t coming back, that my health was more important. I refused. I had to go back! But there I was, lying on the bathroom floor in sheer agony.
The next day, just as I was beginning to think I might have to call them after all and throw away everything I wanted so badly, the producers called to tell me that the shoot had moved to a few weeks later. Then I found out it was because the director had had a heart attack, but was okay. I was worried and sad for him, but also so relieved that I had a little more time to get myself together. That night, I ended up back in the hospital. They purged me of all the Pepto-Bismol because they said it was backing up my system, causing pain. When I awoke the next morning, my sister called to tell me she’d got me in to see this supposedly amazing gastroenterologist. I was ready to try anything—I had to get in shape to get back on the set!
This new doctor was touted as one of the best. He was a kind man who believed in incorporating both eastern and western medical techniques, including acupuncture and stress management. Once I got into the exam room with him, I broke down into tears. I explained that my stomach issues had plagued me for my entire life, and now they were actually interfering with my career. I begged him to help me. I wanted to set up a colonoscopy for the next day, but I was so sore that I couldn’t bear the thought of it. The doctor said it sounded like my nerves were wreaking havoc on my body. He sent me home with a stomach relaxer and some mega-doses of acidophilus. He said it would help regulate the good and bad bacteria in the gut. He also wanted me to meditate every day, for my nerves. I’d had other people tell me I should meditate, but I never thought it would have anything to do with my stomach.
With this doctor’s help, I made it back to L.A. and managed to finish the movie without having another health breakdown. After I finished, I went back to New York to get the colonoscopy. I still wasn’t feeling well, but I liked what that doctor had done for me so far, so I wanted to give him the chance to find out more.
The day of the exam, my mom took me for the test. A very sweet nurse took me into the exam room, trying to comfort me and minimize my fears. She told me to get completely undressed and put on a paper robe. I did what she said, feeling ridiculous in the flimsy paper. She told me to lie on my left side facing the wall, with my knees up. Then she asked for my arm, where she put in an IV with a mild sedative. I began to relax and I even closed my eyes as the doctor came in and asked if I was okay. I nodded drowsily. I barely felt a thing, until the doctor said, “Oh my. Jennifer, can you look at the screen?”
I craned my neck around, and there was the inside of my colon. Not something you see every day.
“Do you see all those little pockets?” he said, pointing to the screen. I nodded groggily. “Those aren’t supposed to be there. This is pretty unusual.” After it was over, I got dressed and sat down with him in his office. He said I had something that looked like Clostridium difficile colitis, often called C. diff. This is a very dangerous bacteria in the colon that takes over, often after too many courses of antibiotics, but it’s unusual to see in a young person. It’s usually confined to older people, often in nursing homes, who don’t have strong immune systems. He put me on a medication called Flagyl and a stomach tranquilizer. I went home, weak as can be, and my mom made me a bagel and some tea to calm my stomach before taking my medication.
By the end of the day, I couldn’t walk. I would stand up to go to the bathroom and my knees would give out completely. The pain in my stomach was astounding and my head felt like it was in the clouds. I couldn’t think clearly, and then I could barely form sentences. My mother didn’t like how I looked so she went back to my apartment with me. When my dad came by to check on us, he found me collapsed on the floor on the way back to my bedroom. He called my name and asked me if I could hear him, if I was okay. I could hear him, but I felt like I was slipping away. I couldn’t speak. I knew I was in trouble, but there wasn’t a thing I could do to help myself. My parents rushed me back to the hospital.
Once there, the nurses propped me up and gave me a dose of Benadryl. The doctors believed I was having some kind of allergic reaction. Once again, my blood pressure was shockingly low. They admitted me, and then immediately quarantined me, to prevent the C. diff from spreading, as it’s highly contagious. For four days, I lay there, quarantined, getting Flagyl pumped through my veins to kill off the C. diff. Nurses came into my room wearing what looked like hazmat suits. I was either completely out of it, or sobbing uncontrollably. I spent a lot of time wondering why this was happening to me. I didn’t have an answer. Nobody seemed to have an answer. Finally, after one more colonoscopy to confirm that the C. diff had cleared, they let me go home. My instructions: No antibiotics unless absolutely necessary!
Why was my gut bacteria so off? I had been on plenty of antibiotics in my life, but I couldn’t believe that I was the only one. Why did I get this C. diff? The doctor’s only answer: “You probably contracted it from someone.” Yuck. I assumed he was right, and tried to forget about the whole thing. One more bizarre and seemingly random health crisis to add to the list.