After breakfast, Dr. Prakash pulled me into the hall, away from the lounge door. “Jennifer,” she said. “I want to let you know that you have reached your maintenance weight.”
I felt a chill—how fat was I, exactly?—but mostly I was happy happy elation happy.
“I did?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “You have reached stage three. You should start asking for walks.”
Stage Three! Walks! And soon—bathroom privileges!
“Do I have to wait for treatment planning to ask?”
“No,” she said. “We like to get patients moving as soon as we can. Walks only. Not jog-walks or jogging.”
“Got it.” I nodded.
“You can request other privileges at treatment planning.”
“Okey dokey.”
“Now Jennifer,” she said, “I need to tell you something. We have lowered your calories to 2500 per day.”
“Great,” I said. No more 3000s!
“Because the treatment team estimated the target adult weight range for your height.”
I nodded.
She spoke slowly. “We made a mistake. We should have estimated your adolescent weight range.”
“Oh. Did I go over my adolescent weight? Am I fatter than I have to be?”
“No, no. We caught it in time,” she said. “And please, Jennifer, do not say ‘fat.’ You are just the right weight for your age and height.”
Her forehead was crinkled, her eyebrows knit. She was looking at me with concern and trepidation.
Aha. She expected me to freak out about the mistake.
That’s why she had told me herself, and why she pulled me into the hall.
But I didn’t care!
I didn’t have to gain any more weight! Ever again in my whole life!
And I could start getting really good privileges, like unsupervised bathrooms and meals downstairs.
Yay! Yay! A thousand times yay!
I went back into the lounge, beaming, and announced my news for all to hear. Amanda gave me a high five. Sophia and I did a little touchdown dance.
I couldn’t wait to tell Monica and Bronwyn, but they were downstairs in the main hospital dining room. They had both earned their breakfast dining room privileges.
“How do I look?” I asked Amanda. “Be honest.”
She looked me up and down. “Healthy.”
The dreaded answer.
“How did I look when I came in here? Is there a difference?” Immediately I wanted to take my question back. What if Amanda said no, I didn’t look any different? What if she thought I had already looked healthy, not skinny?
“Your legs were sticks when you got here,” she said.
This, coming from an anorexic. I’d looked that thin to her. It felt like an angel choir of praise. Which was, I knew, insanely messed up.
— Stage Three —
Saturday, December 24, 1988
Bratwurst with sauerkraut and noodles for Christmas Eve dinner. And boiled spinach.
Thanks a lot, Samuel Tuke Center.
At least I was back on 2500s, so I had slightly smaller portions of bratwurst, sauerkraut, and spinach. But I wouldn’t have minded my 3000s slice of cake—to celebrate Stage Three, not to mention Christmas.
Christmas Eve staff was the best combination possible: Chuck, Baldy, and Bosom. And luckily, our dinner conversation was a lot better than the food.
You’d think we would have been mopey because we were stuck here, and because people were still upset about the plane crash. But it was the opposite. Dinner was downright jovial. We ended up having an EDU talent show while seated at the table.
Amanda wiggled her ears. It was impressive. I didn’t know human ears could move so much.
Charlotte balanced a plastic spoon on her nose.
Bronwyn put her forefinger and thumb in her mouth and whistled louder than I thought possible.
Monica held one eye steady and moved the other.
Sophia bent her thumb down to her forearm.
I flipped my tongue.
“Wow. I have never seen anything that cool before,”
Sophia deadpanned.
“Ah, but you have not witnessed the entirety of my skills. Behold!”
I flipped my tongue the other way.
“Uh huh, that’s right.” I nodded. “Now that you have beheld it, dare you to mock my talent?”
“That’s nothing,” Baldy said. “I can make my bald spot turn red. Want to see?”
“Of course!” we chorused.
He drew in a big breath and put his head down, like in prayer, so we could see the bald top. He stayed that way, perfectly still, holding his breath. We waited, in thrall, for his pink skin to darken.
Then he slapped his bald spot, over and over.
“See?” he said. “It turned red, didn’t it?”
Bronwyn laughed so hard that milk came out her nose.
After dinner, we all moved to the couches. I read aloud a short page from The Upper Room, which I had picked up at an off-campus OA meeting, about being grateful for blessings—warm houses, food on the table, hope.
Bronwyn read ’Twas the Night Before Christmas from an old picture book.
At 6:30, some families started trickling in, including Mom. We were planning to meet Dad at church.
“Let me see you, Maintenance Girl!”
I turned in a circle for her. I was such a mix of feelings: accomplished and happy, but shy and nervous that I looked different. And uncomfortable with my pants fitting so tight.
“You look wonderful! I am so proud of you!” She gave me the biggest, most proud mama hug ever.
Before anyone left, Mom told my favorite Christmas story, The Polar Express. When she had finished, she gave every EDU patient a gold sleigh bell on a red ribbon so they could each have a little piece of Santa Claus magic. Almost everyone was teary eyed. It was a sweet, poignant moment, full of faith and hope and trust and the spirit of Christmas.
“You’ll have to keep the bells in your baskets, ladies,” Bosom said. “Sorry. But see here?” She pointed to the star-shaped openings. “That’s sharp metal.”
Poignant moment, over. Kaboom.
University Methodist was big and beautiful. The service was nice, except that I didn’t know anyone other than my parents. At home, we knew everyone at the Christmas Eve service. At home, even the minister was my friend.
When it was over, we bundled up and crossed the street to their room at the Genesee Inn. Mom and Dad had brought a small potted pine, decorated with tiny gold and red bulbs, so I’d have a Christmas tree to look at. It sat on a table in the hotel room, surrounded by presents.
I looked around the room, realizing that I’d been secretly hoping they would bring Spike.
But no Spike. Dogs were against the hotel rules.
We called the place in Colorado where Rich was staying with Pete and his family, but there was no answer. So we sat and talked for a little while. I caught them up on stuff that every-other-day phone calls didn’t allow enough time for. I told them more about Sophia, and joining the “maintenance club.” Now Thriller was the only one on the unit still gaining.
They shared some Norwich gossip.
I got to open one present: a flannel Christmas nightgown (one size fits all). Then it was time to go back to the hospital.
Sophia was in the lounge with Chuck. Staff was allowing her to have visitors tomorrow, but she was on her own tonight. I had made Chuck promise me he would keep her company. They were watching Santa Claus: The Movie. Sophia seemed okay, maybe even better than I was. The evening had been as nice as my parents could have made it, but somehow I was feeling sad, and moony, and wistful, and tired.
Chuck nudged my chin with his fist, like a slow-motion, gentle punch. “Chin up, kiddo. Merry Chr
istmas.” He dropped a handmade card in my lap.
It was a picture of a disco Santa. It said:
We hope your Christmas be as groovy as you is.
Love, your secondary and your roommate
Sunday, December 25, 1988
“Merry Christmas, Jen.” Sophia rubbed her eyes and reached for her glasses.
“Merry Christmas, Sophe,” I said as I stretched. I’d slept funny and my neck was sore.
I had never been with anyone other than my family first thing on Christmas morning.
It was actually kind of nice to be with Sophia. And nice not to wake up to the snap of the reading light, and the cold fingers of a nurse taking pulse and blood pressure. One of the many benefits of both of us being at maintenance: vitals only twice a week.
Breakfast was French toast—the usual for Sundays. It wasn’t a special Christmas meal, but French toast was still the best breakfast of the week by far. Lucky timing.
Mom came and got me after breakfast, around the same time Sophia’s family showed up. I gave Sophia a look, trying to tell her, Good luck, I hope your family doesn’t drive you nuts.
Dad was waiting for us at the hotel, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.
We opened presents.
They gave me baggy shirts and socks and two large sweaters, Benetton and Esprit. No pants—I bet Mom didn’t want to risk buying anything with a waistband. She was treading carefully since the T.J. Maxx debacle.
I also got the black-and-white checkered bedsheets I wanted, a cute book called All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, and another book of cool, inspirational quotes. Plus, a hugely oversized stuffed Snoopy and Woodstock. In my stocking was a Swatch watch and a rubber string ball thing called a Koosh.
I gave Mom and Dad the gifts I’d bought during mall trips on passes: I gave Dad a necktie and the new Tom Clancy book, The Cardinal of the Kremlin. He looked happy.
Mom seemed to like her turquoise clip-on earrings and a Love Coupon for ear piercing (if she ever dared), and the new Richard Bach book, One.
I confessed that I’d read some of the book before I wrapped it. It was about using quantum physics to travel to your past or future self—exactly like the promise I’d made to myself those first awful days in the hospital, for grown-up me to come back and help fifteen-year-old me. What kind of crazy coincidence was that? Richard Bach must have been my soul-friend, riding the same idea wavelength.
As I opened presents, I kept thanking my parents, over and over, like a tape on repeat. And even though I meant it, I knew I sounded hollow and robotic.
It wasn’t that I didn’t feel grateful. It was that I felt overwhelmingly guilty.
Every time I unwrapped a present, I felt more and more like I was ruining everything. Because we shouldn’t have had to be in a hotel on Christmas, with Rich halfway across the country. I was causing everyone pain and trouble.
At 11:30, Mom drove me back down to the hospital for lunch (mushroom burgers on buns—so I got to scrape off the mushrooms).
After lunch, Mom and Dad took me to see Rainman. When we got to the theater, Dad and I went to the concession stand while Mom used the restroom. He ordered a large popcorn, a pack of Twizzlers, a box of Junior Mints, a Coke for Mom, and a Diet Coke for himself. Yikes.
I didn’t mind the drinks, but the snacks seemed inconsiderate. Hello? If your daughter was in an eating disorder hospital, wouldn’t you maybe not binge in front of her? I didn’t say anything, though. Perhaps this was his way—his unhealthy way—of dealing with a difficult Christmas.
“Anything else?” the teenager at the counter asked Dad.
“And a small Sprite, please,” I said.
The guy reached for a cup.
“No. Cancel that Sprite,” Dad said to the counter guy. Dad turned to me. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I looked over the counter at the vast spread he’d just ordered. “I’m allowed a small soda on passes,” I said quietly.
The guy glanced from Dad to me.
“I don’t know if that’s true or not.” Dad didn’t bother to lower his voice.
“Mom knows it’s true,” I said through gritted teeth. “Ask her. I can have a small soda as long as it isn’t diet and doesn’t have caffeine.”
“How does your mother know?”
“Because I’ve had Sprite when I’ve been out on pass with her.”
“But did she hear it directly from your doctors at the hospital?”
Dad might as well have announced it on the loudspeaker. Everyone was staring at me. Who was this girl? Why did she have doctors at a hospital? Which hospital? Why was she at the movies? What was wrong with her?
“No.” I looked at the carpet, trying to hold in my tears. Angry tears. Sad tears. Embarrassed tears.
“Well, I’m not going along with anything unless I hear it straight from Dr. Wexler.”
“You don’t trust me,” I whispered.
“You’re really asking me that?”
“I wouldn’t lie, not about this.”
“Right. Sure,” he said. “Because you’ve never lied or tried to manipulate us before.”
“This is different.”
“Ring this up, please.” Dad got out his wallet and paid the guy. He had trouble carrying all his stuff. Mom came scurrying over. She saw the food, looked at Dad, looked at me. She shifted uncomfortably.
“Hon,” she said to Dad. “Can’t you see Jenny’s upset—”
“This is between her and me,” Dad snapped. “Don’t get in the middle of it, Juanita.”
Mom looked startled. She closed her eyes as if she was thinking about what she should do. Then she looked at me and made an apologetic grimace, like she couldn’t do anything when Dad got this way.
Merry Christmas, Johnsons.
I was relieved when they brought me back to the hospital. I was still upset with Dad. I was upset with Mom, too, for not figuring out why I was upset, and for not sticking up for me.
But I also hated coming back to the hospital, because it meant…coming back to the hospital.
Christmas dinner was a special meal of roast beef, mashed potatoes, and peas. Each tray had an envelope taped to the lid. Inside was a card from the head honcho of the Samuel Tuke Center wishing us A happy, healthy holiday, with best wishes for good things in the New Year to come.
It was a nice touch.
But still, the whole thing, all of Christmas, was a major downer.
Everyone, except maybe Sophia, had been so, so upset about being in the EDU for Christmas.
But Christmas turned out to be just another crappy day.
Monday, December 26, 1988
“Well. How was Christmas?” Dr. Wexler asked in group.
Monica was upset about her meal out with her family. “I ate way too much, I know I did,” she said. “And everyone was hovering over me. It was awful. I wanted to restrict so bad.”
“Did you restrict?” Dr. Wexler asked. He leaned forward into his favorite position, elbows on knees, index fingers propping up the middle of his nose. It made him look like he had a pig snout, with one cavernous nostril.
“No.” Monica frowned.
“Are you sure?” Dr. Wexler asked.
“Yes!” Monica snapped. “God! I’m so sick of all your accusations. Why can’t you ever just leave me alone!”
Youch. I’d never seen Monica lash out like that. She’d had a rough Christmas, sure, but this was a whole different Monica.
Bronwyn said quietly, “I have to say something.”
Monica cut her eyes to Bronwyn, like she was simultaneously terrified of and furious about what she thought Bronwyn would say.
“I weighed myself when I was home,” Bronwyn said.
Monica looked relieved. But I was stunned. Bronwyn had weighed herself? Unbelievabl
e. You weren’t supposed to know your weight until your final week. It was one of the last privileges you earned. If you weren’t ready for the information, the numbers could totally mess with your mind while you were trying to get your body healthy again.
Was everyone falling apart or what?
“Is that all that you did, Bronwyn?” Dr. Wexler asked. “Did you also purge? Or drink?”
Bronwyn shook her head. “No. But I wanted to get smashed after I stepped on that scale, let me tell you.”
“Your treatment team will need to discuss this.”
“I know,” she said.
What would her consequence be? It was a whopper of a rule to break.
In individual, I told Dr. Wexler about my cruddy Christmas, even if it felt tame in comparison to Monica and Bronwyn’s experiences. I talked about feeling guilty while unwrapping presents, about Dad being mean at the concession stand, about the chasm between me and Mom after that.
“Hm. You felt there was a wide space between you and your mother?”
“Yeah. A hugely wide space.”
“Sounds like the normal distance between a fifteen-year-old and her mother to me.”
“Right, like the ‘normal distance’ of only calling every other day?” I made a face. “How is it normal to have a mom who can’t stand up to my dad?”
“It’s normal to sometimes feel distant from your mother. It’s important to be able to tolerate that distance.”
“Why? Why is it important?”
“It is necessary for you to individuate.”
“That’s what you keep telling me. But you know, there are cultures where children are close to their families their whole lives.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“My mom’s family had an exchange student from Denmark, Inge, back when Mom was a teenager? Well, Inge and her husband and kids came over from Denmark a few years ago. To see us and travel around. And their whole family was close. The teenagers were sweet to their parents. Inge and her daughter wore matching outfits.”
“You sound like you’ve been thinking about this.”
“At school, a guest speaker came in who had visited Papua New Guinea. And she said that there, whole families were close, even siblings. They were tight-knit, and they were nice to each other. They acted like best friends. Their culture was closeness and love, not fighting and chasms and distance.”
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