20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter 20
Leslie
I arrived at the hospital the next day, Dot frustratingly in tow, to begin my treatment. Tasha mobilized a care team, which now included a doctor and a psychiatrist. They ordered extensive blood and urine tests and took my vitals—standing me backward on the scale so I wouldn’t see my weight. The nurse quickly entered the figure on her tablet, hiding the screen from view.
I was relieved not to have a number to obsess over. But it irked me that I had an identified condition with predictable behaviors. The doctors understood me better than I did myself, and that pissed me off to no end.
I shifted on the exam table, the white paper crinkling under me. “I shouldn’t be here and neither should you. You're supposed to be home resting, not here playing nursemaid.”
“We’re both exactly where we need to be. Try to relax. The test results should be back soon.” Dot’s reassurance meant everything. Intellectually, I understood I was sick. Emotionally, the exam room felt like a cage, and I wanted out.
“It’s ridiculous that some numbers on a piece of paper can make them keep me here. I feel fine.” I swung my legs, my heels rattling the metal exam table drawers as if they were to blame for my health predicament.
I knew better.
But didn’t want to know.
Not knowing had kept me functioning for decades in an unpredictable world. My intake was the only thing I could control. But these experts were about to swoop in and tell me what to eat and when. The situation launched Little Diana into panic mode. She said I’d suffocate, gagging on food being force-fed down my throat. That I’d balloon so huge I’d burst. That people would point at me and laugh in the street. The chaos in my head triggered nausea, and I imagined myself hurling my light breakfast all over the floor.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I said, twisting the hem of my hospital gown into a cloth spike.
“You can and will get well. These are talented medical professionals, and they only want the best for you.” Dot reached over from her chair and squeezed my hand. “You’re not alone. I’m here for you. Gabby is here for you, and so is Risto. Give yourself some grace.”
The door opened and Dr. Alexandria Wheaton walked in. She was a slim white woman with long blond hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. I learned earlier today that she’d once been anorexic herself. After recovery, she went to medical school to help others in the same way she had been helped. Knowing that healing was possible gave me a glimmer of hope.
“Okay, some initial results are in. The good news is that you’re eligible for outpatient care. We don’t have to admit you.”
“That’s great! See, Bola.” Dot hopped up and planted a squeaky kiss on my cheek, making me smile.
“But—it was very close. Your tests are worrying, and we still have to assess potential organ damage. If you take this treatment plan seriously, you can hopefully avoid being admitted. It’s up to you, but we’re here to support you every step of the way.”
I blanked on everything she said after “organ damage” and asked for clarification.
“We look for arrhythmia and heart muscle wasting. We screen for thyroid function and kidney damage as well. Unfortunately, there is no body system immune from the damaging effects of this condition. While that sounds dire, with proper care, most complications are reversible,” Dr. Wheaton said.
Dot’s face fell. “Most?”
“Yes, well. Osteoporosis is not reversible, nor is cerebral atrophy. Some cognitive deficits and impacts to taste and smell can be permanent. But that’s not anything to worry about now. We’ll cover all that once we’ve completed the testing. The task ahead of us is to keep you stable and moving in the right direction so we can avoid hospitalization.”
Numbness took over. Brain and bone damage could be permanent? Kidneys? Heart? And I’d done all this to myself. I covered my face and wept, the shame too overwhelming.
I had no idea the harm I was doing to myself. And even knowing, I still dreaded the eating to come. How twisted was that?
Dr. Wheaton described my home meal plan, which focused on eating five times a day—three meals and two snacks.
The concept was unthinkable. I had proof that eating made me sick. After I ate big at Risto’s, I got ill later at home. But the doctor explained that was normal. The food shocked my system. But instead of resisting eating like I had been, my goal now was to eat small portions spread throughout the day to retrain my body to receive food. Over time, I could work up to more.
Thank goodness for Dot. She scribbled notes and collected everything in the folder Dr. Wheaton left behind. I then dressed, and the two of us slowly walked back to Dot’s car.
After I buckled in, the enormity of it all finally hit me. “I’m really sick, aren’t I?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
The next morning, my nostrils reflexively twitched as coffee aromas registered. My initial instinct was sadness, knowing I couldn’t have the sugar and cream I craved. As my sleep faded, the day before came flooding back. Not only could I eat, my treatment plan demanded it. Maybe it could be an adventure, as I discussed with Gabby back at the hospital. I could pretend I was going undercover in a new body. As someone who liked food more than she feared it.
I huffed a laugh at that impossible dream.
But guess I had to start somewhere.
Besides coffee, the spicy, smoky scent of what was undoubtedly top-shelf chorizo registered. I pictured it alongside eggs and fruit. I sat up, leaning back on my hands as I squinted to adjust to the morning light.
Dot was a quiet cook, especially when I slept. The clanking sounds from the kitchen sounded like a man.
I scrambled into clothes, detangled my curls using my fingers, and ran down the stairs.
Bowls, cutting boards, and knives cluttered the counter. An All-Clad stock pot with a colander insert sat in the sink filled with soapy water. Earbuds in, Risto worked the handle of his sauté pan, flipping his concoction of onions and peppers without losing a single piece on the burner surface below.
I brushed his back to get his attention.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” I asked.
He took both earpieces out. “I wanted to see you. Hear how it went yesterday. Figured I’d make you some breakfast.”
My heart swelled, knowing he cared. I hoped he would, even after I strolled into his office and broke the hell down.
“It smells great. Thanks for doing this.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m trying out a new brunch menu. You’ll have to let me know what you think.”
I made my way to the coffee maker and fixed myself a cup. Cream, sugar, a mug, and spoon awaited me. I ignored Little Diana.
Risto’s focus mesmerized me. His hand hovered a foot over the pan, sprinkling salt into his sauté. A few turns of the pepper mill followed before he lifted silver tongs to add bright green spinach from a bowl on the counter. No frozen greens for Risto. He’d cooked it ahead of time. Warming it all, he poured the eggs into the pan, nudging the mixture gently with a rubber spatula while the yellow liquid solidified. He folded the omelet into thirds and slid it onto a plate. It glistened like golden sunshine, without a hint of the brown scorching I associated with cooked eggs. At least mine. Over the top, he shredded a pale cheese from a golden rind.
That got my attention. “What’s that?”
“My new favorite cheese.” He set the plate on the counter between us and handed me a fork. Not waiting, he dug in and closed his eyes to dissect the flavors. He chewed, thinking, then rushed to a notepad to scribble thoughts down.
Meanwhile, I held my utensil, unsure what to do.
He walked back for another bite. “I love it. Needs some acid, but otherwise is close to balanced. What do you think?”
My tongue tied as panic sprang to life, turning my stomach. Why did this always happen? I felt like a fool.
I dipped my fork but paused before contacting the egg’s surface.
What’s wrong with me?
Risto nodded toward the plate. “Running through scenarios?”
“Kinda.”
“Talk me through it. I’d love to understand.” He took another bite, avoiding eye contact.
I hated being forced into sharing. After conversations with the doctor and therapist, and reading all the materials they sent home, I expected the rational part of my brain to kick in. The one that knew I had to eat and that every caution my care team shared was deadly serious.
Decades of restricting food would take time to change. I had to be patient with myself, but I wasn’t built for it. Hard-wired to be impatient, I plowed ahead into everything. If only my stupid psyche would comply.
I looked up to find Risto’s tender brown eyes waiting for me to answer. Giving me space to come to the words myself.
“You’ll think I’m weird.”
“Too late for that.”
I playfully shouldered his chest, then lowered my face closer to the plate. Spicy vapors pierced my outer defenses. “It looks delicious. I want to eat it, but alone in a dark room. It’s somehow safer that way.”
“Huh,” Risto said, like something occurred to him. “You crave darkness. Why is that?”
Good question.
“When it’s dark, I’m less on display and prone to commentary about whether and how much I’m eating. There’s less pressure.”
He kissed my forehead. “People don’t pay nearly as much attention to you as you think. And so what if they did?”
“There’s one person who cares.”
“Ahh. The mighty Diana.”
“Mom skewered me on the drive over here about what to eat, and I hadn’t even arrived yet. She’s the best appetite suppressant going. She makes it impossible to, God forbid, actually enjoy a meal. Easier for me to skip food entirely.”
That’s what got me into this mess. It seemed more trouble to eat than not. Now the doctors told me the exact opposite was true. They didn’t come out and say it, but if I didn’t eat, I’d die. And even with that most dire of threats hanging over my head, I couldn’t get myself to bite into this fucking egg.
“You realize your mom is over the top with the food stuff, right? It’s wrong and always has been. But that can’t be what’s stopping you. She’s clear across the country.”
God, I was fucked up.
Why was this egg different from the ones I had chowed down at the hospital cafeteria with Gabby?
Risto slid the plate toward me. “What’s going through your head? This instant. Say it out loud.”
“Is it worth the price?” burst out of my mouth. “Is it worth the price of eating until it’s gone? What if I can’t stop? What if I keep eating and eating and become…”
“Fat?” Risto patted his belly, smiling. “Would that be so bad?”
I choked on his words.
Would that be so bad? To be fat?
I’d never contemplated the rightness or wrongness of being fat. After a lifetime of successful conditioning to revile it, it never occurred to me to question an alternative perspective.
According to my mother, fat was bad. Fat was ugly and unhealthy and signaled an undisciplined and lazy work ethic. Being fat would hamper job prospects and lead to misery, loneliness, and death. Fat was the culmination of all things wrong in the world. Like a dutiful soldier, I believed it all, brainlessly following the mantra like a zombie. And yet… My father’s side of the family all had larger bodies. Dot, Gabby, and most of my adult cousins. Risto was a large man, and I craved him like air.
When I looked at them, I saw the impressive, smart, vibrant people I loved. Gabby had a soaring career, and so did Risto. Dot was the most active person I knew. Christ, she taught yoga.
If that was all possible, was being fat really so bad?
And if not, why was our society so singularly aligned against it?
To understand myself and get back on track with my article, I had to dig in and unearth how we’d gotten here. When did we start persecuting fat people? And why did we still do it? Solving that puzzle might be the medicine I needed to heal myself.
But that wouldn’t happen if I was a dizzy, starving mess.
I repositioned the fork in my hand and cut a bite-sized piece of the omelet. “Here’s to a new beginning.”
I forked the egg into my mouth and let the magic take hold.