It Happened To Me: It Girls In The Fashion World Don't Get Epilepsy. But I Did
PLUS: The horror of that ICU nurse in Minneapolis, the fact that we have to say "latest fatal shooting" there to differentiate it, and how is your storm going? Let's talk about it all.
Hello good people,
As we have discussed, there is pretty much never an opportunity these days to talk about anything in the world without something more pressing and important interceding . (I understand that this is largely by design.) I was writing you this intro this morning when the biggest topic circulating seemed to be Fern, the storm. I was questioning how they knew so far in advance about this weather pattern in particular and how it feels like we have been warned about it for weeks and weeks, right? And asking you why they seem even more certain this time that it is going to be as extreme as they are predicting? Maybe it’s because of being in media for most of my long life, but even before that stupid oversimplification called “fake news” I have taken everything in the “news” with, well with those quotation marks around it (and with a grain of salt because I love salt and add it to everything. Before even tasting, yes. You?).
And then I got a text from my lovely little brother, Ben. (I will give you a 100% guarantee by the way that if you name your child Ben, they will turn out to be sweet. Have you ever met a mean Ben? I rest that case.) Anyway, Ben wrote me from Minneapolis, where he lives, to tell me about the shooting. He sounded shaky and said that on top of the horrific video many of us have now seen that it would be hard to describe the angst and gloom that hang over the community there right now. And how they too had been amazed that so many people there were even out in that weather for the protest. So now I am fixated on the news about it and not sure how else to process it but talking to you about it in the comments will probably help more than the news, so let’s do that, as much as you are up for it. I’ll be there.
My original goal for this blizzard that it sounds like many/most of us are expected to experience (or are you exempt? Tell me where you are, if so.): To give you all plenty of engaging and distracting things to read and talk (and talk to me please!) about while we hunker through it. And now through another man-made tragedy. So I am starting right away with this beautiful story by someone in my same line of business whom I had not met until now, Christine Morrison. We met the old-fashioned way - through the AJPT comments where I meet everybody pretty much, so please do ask me there if you are interested in writing for AJPT and I will definitely respond - or email me, jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com and I will see it that way and respond too.
My second hope for this blizzardmageddon is for it to be all cleared up by Wednesday night so I can go to the party for Christine’s book(!) here in NYC and hug her in person. Come on, weather goddess.
Let’s talk more about this story and about the horror in Minneapolis and about whether you have cared about the whole Beckham family thing enough to see before and after plastic surgery pictures of Nicola and been concerned about how she and Brooklyn will feel about their children’s looks should they have them or whether they will go ahead and book their kids’ plastic surgery now too. And everything else you want to talk about or don’t want to talk about but know you will feel better if you do. (You can also distract yourself by thinking of books for the AJPT Controversial-Books-Only Book Club so we can pick one and get that party set up.) For now, let’s hang out in our nice place, those kind and accepting and comforting comments. See you there, sweeties.
Love forever,
Jane
PS Apologies for this being disjointed, and for life being that way now too. And I will disjointedly end with quotes from two protest posters this week:
“Our country is on the rocks - We ordered it neat (MELT ICE)”
And this uplifting and true message:
“None of us are as strong as all of US.” We love you, Minneapolis.
By Christine Morrison
I was thirty-six when I had my first seizure. I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time. For months prior, I had felt strangely euphoric—floaty, a frequent sense of déjà vu, almost high (even though I don’t partake). Like I was falling in love or getting promoted or winning at life. Coincidentally, I was doing all three.
By morning, I was in the emergency room.
I walked into St. Vincent’s (RIP) wearing the only thing that felt soothing enough for the hospital visit: a crisp white button-down shirt, baggy boyfriend jeans and black Converse high-tops. Clothes I could disappear into. Clothes that didn’t ask anything of me. James, who’d recently settled into his boyfriend title, sat beside me as doctors ordered a CT scan and then an MRI. They whispered outside the nearly sheer curtain before returning with blank faces, I knew it wasn’t good news. They informed us the euphoric feelings were “auras,” precursors to seizures. What James had witnessed in the middle of the night were three seizures in my right frontal lobe.
“What are your plans for children?” the doctor probed the two of us.
We hadn’t even said “I love you.”
The epilepsy diagnosis was swift.
As medication options were discussed for my seizure disorder, the doctor looked at me, then at James.
“What are your plans for children?” he probed.
We hadn’t even said “I love you.”
I immediately began grieving as if there’d been a death. Wasn’t there? The diagnosis felt surreal. I was a healthy, over-achieving fashion executive living in the West Village, boxing three times a week and falling madly in love with a veritable unicorn — a kind investment banker. Now suddenly I was a patient. An epileptic. My scrambled mind raced: Would I lose my intuition, my creativity, my job?
“I couldn’t drive for a year. There’d be no more cocktails. The medication disrupted my memory…. At work, I lost my train of thought mid-sentence. Once was forgivable. Twice was unsettling. The third time, in front of my CEO, I went home and cried in my closet.”
It was the tail end of the Y2K era, and New York City was obsessed with the “It” girl —front-row fixtures who seemed untouchable. Famous by name alone, the lives and looks of these heiresses, socialites and industry darlings were chronicled and envied. I never aspired to be this type of trophy; my ambitions were more professional than performative. Being It for me would mean writing for Vogue, not appearing in it. But illness didn’t factor into this fantasy. Fragility is far from fashionable. I had worked my way up to a vice president role at Calvin Klein, overseeing ready-to-wear and beauty, where control wasn’t just valued, it was the currency. Taste. Editing. Restraint. The ability to make New York City chaos look chic. I had mastered the art of looking composed, while running in heels, in a city that rewards hustle. Overnight, it was gone.
Even before working for Calvin, my wardrobe mirrored the brand’s minimalist DNA of clean lines and neutral palettes. Once in-house, and awarded a clothing allowance, I lived in (and for) the understated glamour and effortlessly cool double ply cashmere, funnel neck coats, patent leather skirts and jersey dresses —clothes that spoke volumes, connoted power and often functioned like armor. When I looked composed, I performed. With the right outfit, I could control the narrative. I felt unflappable. Just like the genius Womenswear Collection Creative Director who’d boldly replaced Mr. Klein in 2003, I had found my way.
Epilepsy dismantled that illusion. Loss of brain functioning is the ultimate lack of control. With medication, I couldn’t drive for a year. There’d be no more cocktails. What to wear became the least of my worries when I couldn’t even trust my own mind. The medication disrupted my memory—small gaps at first, then unsettling absences. At work, I lost my train of thought mid-sentence. Once was forgivable. Twice was unsettling. The third time, in front of my CEO once again, I went home and cried in my closet.
Doctors requested a hospital stay to monitor my EEG and adjust medication. My job—and my whole identity—felt unsteady. So did my relationship. I couldn’t imagine asking someone to stay, and love, this version of me. Irrational and defeatist, the thought looped in my head: Epileptics are not It girls.
Loss of control brought me back to the one place I believed could still help me find my authority: my clothes.
I started purging.
