NEWSLETTERS

June '05 GoatNotes
 
"The way I see it you can stew or do
You can turn yellow
You can turn blue
Or you can strut your stuff down the avenue
And, get your goat on!"
— from "Get Your Goat On" (Terri Hendrix)
 
At a relatively young age, I learned that life can literally change overnight. In the early ’90s, before going to bed one evening, I closed the blinds in my downstairs apartment and awoke the next day in a lime green gown, in the hospital, chilled to the bone, and in a scary new world. Thinking I was in the middle of a nightmare, I lay shaking underneath a thin cotton blanket as a doctor (or possibly Freddy Kruger) stood over me, tapped a clipboard with his claw, and splashed me with an ice-cold dose of reality. He informed me, in a nasal drawl, that I had epilepsy, a neurological condition which affected the nervous system, making people like myself susceptible to seizures. "Great," I thought, "I've got a mental disorder that causes me to lose consciousness and bite the #*&@ out of my tongue!"
 
Thankfully, my tongue healed in a week. And in the months of testing (accompanied by some really alarming medical bills) that followed, I discovered that although my condition had yet to be destigmatized, I did not have a mental disorder. I learned that, yes, seizures were *freaky* (read: scary), but they could be explained as a result of a sudden burst of excess electrical activity in the brain. To control this disruption in the normal message-passing between my brain cells, I would have to take medication. In spite of the side effects (like gaining 15 pounds), I did as told and soon I felt stable enough to meet my friends at a local Mexican food restaurant. As they slurped down margaritas, I proceeded to nod off (drowsiness was a side effect of my medication) at the table. That was when our waiter sized me up with a haughty snort and, thinking I was intoxicated (I hadn't had one sip of spirits), lifted me out of my seat and proceeded to usher me out of the restaurant. With my confused friends in tow (they hadn't been told about my epilepsy), I slurred (yet another side effect of my medication) "shokay ... Iam ssshokay" as the establishment's door slammed shut in my face. And thus began my hatred for my medication, known as anticonvulsants, because their side effects hurt the quality of my life more than having epilepsy did.
 
Luckily for me, a few years later I met Marion Williamson, who aside from teaching me guitar lessons and how to milk goats, turned me into a bonified health nut. With a new lease on life, my "episodes" tapered off until I all but forgot I even had epilepsy. After all, I was a distilled-water-drinkin', leafy-green-and-fruit-eatin', lentil-bean-lovin', flax-seed-oil-and-salmon-cookin', vitamin-poppin' granola girl who embraced yoga, aromatherapy, acupuncture, magnets, salt lamps, and the virtues of (as Marion had instilled in me) "all things organic, herbal, and holistic for the enhancement of my immune system." But in 1997, Marion suddenly passed away. Not only did heartbreak pull the guts out of my soul, without her as a mentor, I soon returned to my old ways. Having never educated myself on just how life threatening epilepsy could be, I convinced myself that given time, my seizures would disappear, just as they had in the past. And true to form, they did. I quit taking my medicine so I could concentrate and therefore finish writing songs for my second album, "Wilory Farm." After several episode-free years, I once again forgot I had epilepsy. But as I said previously, life can literally change overnight.
 
In October 2003, the "smells," or "auras" (this is a seizure too) returned during soundcheck prior to a show. It had been so long since I'd had a problem, I'd forgotten what an aura was. I quizzed Lloyd, "Do you smell something bad?" And ironically we were told that some varmint had indeed curled up and died beneath our stage. Still, the uneasiness stayed with me as my head pounded and my stomach grew increasingly queasy. I did my show, returned to my hotel room, and ... well, that's the last thing I remember of that evening. The next day I learned that I'd had a severe grand mal seizure. In the weeks that followed, Lloyd and his wife Tina helped me recover and saw me through the situation as I was prescribed yet another anticonvulsant. Within a couple of months of taking this drug, I lost 15 pounds (side effect; it's now being marketed for weight loss) and had grown so jittery, unable to concentrate, and depressed (all more side effects, none of them marketable) that I retreated into my bedroom and into one of the darkest times of my life. I simply forgot what it felt like to feel good. With an immune system that had been weakened by many years of opting out of healthy choices and choosing instead a stress-filled lifestyle with a diet of greasy fries, burgers, truck stop munchies, and a bottle of vino to wash it all down before bedtime, I had a long road towards recovery.
 
But one day I woke up, and then I woke up some more. I could stew or I could do. I wanted my life back. I mean, after all, I had performed for quadriplegics, cancer survivors, victims of violent crimes, heart patients, children with deadly diseases, burn victims … you name it! And if they could face their lives with a game face and a smile, then by God, I could too. It was alright to get down about epilepsy, but using my condition to stay down was something I'd seen quitters do. The songs for my fifth studio album, "The Art of Removing Wallpaper," are a direct reflection of this time in my life when I weeded out bad habits and got my seizures under control as I began the tedious trek towards getting my health back. That meant confronting my condition head-on instead of hoping I could make it go away by trying to ignore it.  
 
So perhaps you're wondering why I'm telling you all this now. You see, last year I learned that a long-time fan of my music (who had passed away years before) had died in her sleep from a seizure. I'd actually played at a gathering in her honor shortly after her death, but at the time had no knowledge of her condition. When I finally found out the cause of her death, I told her husband that I, too, had epilepsy ... and had recently read James Redfield's book, "The Celestine Insights," about there being no such thing as "coincidence." It was then that her husband encouraged me to tell my story to others, because I was in a position, as a performer, to raise my hand, "admit" it, and in doing so hopefully help destigmatize the mystery behind epilepsy. I could encourage others with the condition to both recognize its danger and to find their own unique path towards health and happiness. Since every person with epilepsy is different, I discovered what worked for me by researching and absorbing every scrap of information I could read on anticonvulsants, epilepsy, and alternative therapies and then applying what I learned — along with a regimented diet and a combination of Western and Eastern medicine — to my lifestyle and my work.
 
You know, life can change overnight. But often, what happens overnight is years in the making — meaning, it's never to late to start. I'll be honest — epilepsy is hard. And traveling and performing for a living hasn't made dealing with epilepsy any easier. Let's just say it's been a steady uphill struggle to get my life back. But as Jack Lemon said, "Failure seldom stops you. What stops you is the fear of failure." And the way I see it, I'd rather *do* than stew. I have epilepsy, but it doesn't have me. It's taken me a while, but I'm glad that I've finally shared this with you as I continue my quest to "get my goat on" and to keep it on.
 
Here's to gettin' and keepin' your goat on,
 
Terri Hendrix
(C)(P) THM Music June 2005

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