I have mixed feelings about writing another post, but the effect of putting this out there has been more positive than negative thus far, so I might as well keep going -- if only for myself...
This morning, before I was fully awake, I was shot through with the knowledge that everybody knows now. At first I felt breathless under the heavy weight of dread and regret. Then I felt calm. Then I felt nothing. This isn't so bad, I told myself. And, after hearing the survival stories of others in the wake of sharing my own, I'm feeling very, very lucky to be in the company I'm in. Thanks for making this safe for me. We're all made very powerful by what we pass through in life.
Knowing this, however, doesn't mean I've embraced this piece of who I am; this dark sliver of self I have come to hide so deftly. I'm coming to think, though, that I may be a little more free of the story's stranglehold if I simply release it.
Onwards...
I reached under my bed tonight, waaaaaay under there, and found the dusty rose-patterned box. Inside the box, I found the plastic bag, and inside the bag I found all the things I'd held on to when it was time to gather up my illness and stow it away: hospital wrist bands including a red one that says "Dairy Products" indicating an allergy I insisted I had in order to limit the foods the hospital staff could feed me; a book called "Hope, Help & Healing for Eating Disorders" in which I'd written, "I am not worthy of my dreams...I have not earned joy..."; a food pyramid chart; a book called "The Healthy Mind, Healthy Body Handbook" that told me to treat myself to a "pleasure diet," HA!; an email to my boss asking to be allowed back after my first medical leave; my laborious and much-hated food journal where I noted, "hungry but not dizzy or confused" at 11am on 12/9/02; a shopping list containing rice milk, vitamin B12, spinach, tempeh, and Go Lean drinks; a hospital intake bag listing a set of keys, a cell phone, and a day planner; my in-patient and out-patient treatment folders; and pages and pages of writing.
The first time I went to the hospital I was a complete novice, bringing only the novel I was reading (For the Time Being, by Annie Dillard). That first night, in a room with a complete stranger, I'd found a pen and written in the margins of the book. I would eventually fill all the margins up to page 138. On page 73 I wrote, "I can't watch their eyes get sad." And on page 116, "When will this be over? What do I have to do to make this be over?"
And then there are the pages and pages of tiny scribbles on plain white sheets of paper, documenting my time in the hospital. On one page I wrote, "I'm scared again...I just talked to my doctor and he's concerned about my weight loss, too. He wants me to eat 600 more calories/day but he wants another dietary consultation. I spoke with Angie, the dietician's assistant, briefly and she said it could just be because everything is out of whack and my metabolism could be going wild, and the anxiety...She said that my body is just getting rid of everything it is taking in. But, it's getting rid of more, too. I told her that I don't want to increase the calories if she thinks everything will even out soon. She said that they'll do what my doctor wants for now and she'll talk with Brian, the dietician I met with the other day. I can't help feeling like they really don't know what to do with me. I guess I should just trust them - I mean, I don't know what to do either. I'm scared. This can't be good for my heart."
There came a point in my treatment where my mind was fully on board and I wanted to get better, but my body would not cooperate. It frustrated me to be committed to recovery while my body continued to die.
And yet, I also remember chastising an attendant one morning during my 4am vitals check (this is when most anorexic patients die due to a drop in heart rate) for panicking at my low blood pressure. Why panic, I said, I'm in the hospital!
I'll never forget being woken up each and every night at midnight and 4am for vitals checks. In all honesty, I was glad someone was checking. It sure beat laying in my bed at home, one hand gripped around the opposite wrist, making sure my heart rate didn't drop below 37 beats per minute. If it did, I was at severe risk of cardiac arrest and was to call the hospital immediately.
There was something soothing about being led down the hall to the nurses' station, half asleep in my hospital socks, and made to step on the scale before having my heart rate and blood pressure checked. If something was wrong, they could help. I didn't worry about having a heart attack because I knew if I did, I was in the right place.
Often, after my 4am check, I couldn't fall back asleep if I'd even been asleep in the first place. So, I'd get my stack of cards and go sit at the end of the hallway, next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and play solitaire until the sun came up. Sometimes a nurse would come and sit with me. Most mornings I sat there until they called me to breakfast.
Because I was a "special" patient, I literally had to sit in front of the nurses' station and eat. And, I wasn't allowed to leave my corner for 20 minutes after I'd eaten. They'd call me over, deliver my tray, and I'd cry for several minutes. Then I'd eat what I could stomach, a nurse would inspect my tray, encourage me to eat more, I'd cry again, take a few more bites, and then sit for 20 minutes and stare at the clock. Sometimes my family would come during meal times and they'd sit with me in the corner. Sometimes other patients would pass by while I was eating and talk to me. This was a horrible experience for someone who'd spent years eating in total isolation. Being talked to while trying to bring a fork to my mouth was nearly unendurable.
Luckily the hospital staff was somewhat cooperative when it came to my dietary preferences. I ate certain foods prepared a certain way at certain times, and I wouldn't eat any mixed or baked foods. A bowl of black beans, a small cup of raisins, a box of soy milk, and a plate of broccoli. That was acceptable. When the doctor added calories I saw them immediately: a cup of yogurt with honey...something fancy like that. I'd weep when it was time to eat the "extras."
I'll never forget the dietician telling me that if I'd simply eaten more during my illness I'd be dead. My body would have had the metabolism it needed to fully cannibalize itself. I remember feeling the most grotesque sense of pride at this accomplishment. I can't even go there in my mind anymore.
Every once in a while, though, the clouds would part.
One day, just as my treatment was starting to take hold, I was riding in the back of my parents' car on the way to the train station to pick up my brother. I remember being folded neatly into a square in the back seat, like a little packet of bones leaning against the door, but I was laughing. My mom turned around at the sound of my laughter and said, "It feels like we have Katie back."
~ Katie
