by Tina McGuff
It was time. The look in my sister’s eyes had told me everything I needed to know: I was an ugly monster and I needed help. Silently, and with a heavy heart, I got dressed and went to find my mum.
‘I want to go to the hospital,’ I told her, my voice cracking with sadness. What a pathetic thing I had become. Shame engulfed me. ‘I want to get help.’
Mum rewarded me with a huge smile and told me how pleased she was to finally hear that. She had the number for Sister Cummings by the phone and called it straight away. I heard the tiny voice down the line from where I stood, just a foot away. ‘Bring her in as soon as you can,’ Sister Cummings instructed. ‘We’ve been waiting for your call – the bed has been ready the whole time.’
Later, as I packed my toothbrush, nightie, fluffy peach dressing gown and slippers into a hold-all in my bedroom, I asked Mum: ‘Why did they keep the bed for me?’
‘They knew, honey. They knew it would be only a matter of weeks,’ she replied sorrowfully. A matter of weeks until what? I wondered. And then it dawned on me: until I either asked for help or died. I was struck with misery then. I hadn’t realised what everyone else had known for a while – Mum, Dad, my sisters, the professionals … I’d no idea it was that serious. The ambulance arrived and, in a matter of hours, I was back at the hospital again. The one I had left so hurriedly, three weeks earlier.
And instantly, I regretted it.
Chapter 9
Humiliation
My one crumb of comfort about finally admitting I needed to go to hospital was the thought that at least there, I would be warm. It was December, almost Christmas, in fact, and I was so tired of shivering and piling on layers of clothes just to stave off the feeling that I was going to die of cold. On top of that, I knew I would be in hospital over the holidays, which was a relief. Since my parents had split up, our Christmases were now sad, tense affairs. Usually, Dad came over for lunch but the effort of trying to be civil to each other was always too much for my parents and it would inevitably end in conflict and tears. At least here, in hospital, I would be protected from the ugliness of it all.
I needed a break – I knew that. Still, I couldn’t quite get my head around being in a hospital. Hospitals were for sick people and I didn’t feel sick, just tired. Exhausted actually, mentally and physically.
As soon as we arrived, my parents were asked to leave. I was now in the care of the ward, they explained, but I’d be able to see them again when I was a little better. Then I was shown to the bed that was to be my home for the next few months – bed one in bay one, right in front of the nurses’ station – and asked to change into my pyjamas. They pulled the curtain round the bed but a nurse in a starched white uniform and white nurse’s hat stayed on my side of it.
As I tried to peel off my clothes, layer upon painful layer, the short, dark Filipino nurse with the thick glasses and shiny black hair introduced herself as Fiona.
‘Can’t you leave while I get undressed?’ I asked, a little testily.
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said, shaking her head, and I noted her accent was an exotic mix of Scottish and Asian. ‘You’re just going to have to get used to having me around, I’m afraid. This is what it’s going to be like from now on – one of us will always be here.’
I was stunned – what? No privacy at all? It felt so degrading but I really didn’t have any choice. Gently, I lifted my arms and started to pull off my shirt. As I got down to the final T-shirt and leggings, I saw my skin falling away in big flakes to expose red, sore patches underneath. Too weak to stand any more, I collapsed on the ground. I didn’t care if she saw me now – I was beyond caring. Fiona helped me onto the bed and, slowly and gently, helped me put my pyjamas on. Then she went out, before returning, a minute later, with a wheelchair.
‘We’ve got to get you to the bathroom, love, to the weigh chair.’
I let her ease me into the chair and wheel me to the large white bathroom at the end of the corridor, where there was a chair attached to an old-fashioned set of metal scales with the sliders along the side. Once I was safely on, Fiona measured – I was 6 stone exactly. The number filled me with excitement and pride. Then she wheeled me back to bed.
After a little while, Sister Cummings came in to see me, sitting down at the end of my bed. They had already worked out my specific goals and she handed me a sheet of paper outlining my programme for recovery. I read the list of goals and accompanying privileges with horror.
At 6 stone 2 lb, I could get an hour of radio; 6 stone 4 lb, an hour of newspapers; 6 stone 6 lb, an hour of writing materials; 6 stone 8 lb, a cigarette; 6 stone 10 lb, a phone call; 6 stone 12 lb, TV for an hour; and so on. I wouldn’t even be allowed to go to the bathroom on my own until I reached 7 stone 7 lb, and I couldn’t see any of my friends or family until 7 stone 8 lb.
The goal was to reach my ‘ideal’ weight, which was set at 8 stone 7 pounds. I nearly laughed when I read that. It was impossible for me to imagine gaining weight now – in my mind, this list was as unachievable as asking me to fly to the moon. Sister gave me some medication, which she said would help me sleep and perhaps give me a bit of an appetite, which again gave me a little kick: I knew nothing would make me feel hungry – only I could control that – but I took the tablets anyway and slept that night like a baby.
At 6.30 a.m. sharp the next morning, I was rudely awakened by the bustle and noise of the nurses rushing around. The blinds were pulled up sharply to allow the light to stream in and, for the first time, I got a good look at the people around me. It was a surprise to see the other beds weren’t full of thin young girls like myself – instead, I was met by the sight of people of all different shapes and sizes. When Fiona came to check on me, I asked her what kind of ward I was on.
‘Acute psychiatric, dear,’ she replied. ‘There are people here with all different types of mental illness, not just anorexia.’
At that moment, the lady in the bed next to me started to cry and Fiona walked over to deal with her. Mental illness? I had a mental illness? The thought had never even crossed my mind. In the far corner in a side room, I heard the sound of a baby crying, then I noticed a woman shuffling towards us in her slippers – she looked like she was still half asleep. Her eyelids drooped lazily over unseeing eyes and, suddenly, I felt very frightened. Fiona must have sensed my unease because after she’d dealt with the crying lady, she came back to me and started chatting about herself in a calm, friendly way. She told me she’d come over from the Philippines some years before and that she had two children of her own.
‘Now come on, Tina,’ she urged, ‘it’s time to get you to the weigh chair.’
‘What, again?’ I was confused.
‘Yes, every morning – this is what we do.’
I was thrilled to find I was one pound lighter that morning – 5 stone 13 lb, my lowest weight to date! After the weigh in, I needed the toilet, so Fiona led me to one of the cubicles in the bathroom. She handed me a small pan to pee into since they had to monitor what was coming in and going out. I took the pan and walked into the loo, expecting her to stand outside the door, but she followed me right in and stood there.
‘Please, can you please leave me now?’ I begged, horrified.
‘No, I can’t, Tina,’ she explained, in a kind but firm voice. ‘This is the policy until you start to put the weight on. Don’t worry, I’ve seen it all before. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.’
Still, I was mortified and so tense I knew there was no way I could do anything if she was standing there, looking straight at me.
‘Well, can’t you at least turn your back?’ I pleaded. So that’s what she did. Even so, I was so shy and embarrassed, I couldn’t do anything.
I was accompanied back to bed and, about twenty minutes later, the food arrived. Oh, God, it was my worst nightmare come true! There were two slices of thick, white toast, scored to soak up what looked like a tonne of butter, a bowl of Rice Krispies and a vanilla milkshake.
‘What’s all this?’ I
was reeling. ‘Why have you given me so much food? There’s enough for four people here!’
‘That’s the “Build Up”,’ said Fiona. ‘And you better get used to it because there will be at least seven of these every day.’
Gobsmacked, I just sat there, looking at the tray in horror. Another nurse arrived and gave me my medication. When I asked her what it was, she told it was just something to help me relax. I took the medicine without question but, after the nurse left, I turned to look at Fiona with despair, my eyes filled with hot, angry tears.
‘Why the hell are you giving me so much food, Fiona?’ It was so upsetting to see all this in front of me – I couldn’t believe they imagined I could even begin to eat any of it. Butter was atrocious, just pure calories – I hadn’t touched it in years. I’d always hated the greasy taste.
But Fiona fixed me with a serious look.
‘Tina, you know you are very ill. You need to get better and the foods we give you will get the weight on so you can start to heal and get well.’
‘But, Fiona, this is all fatty food and I don’t eat fat! There are no vitamins or fibre in white toast and butter and I don’t drink milk so I can’t have all this stuff.’
‘Tina, please don’t worry about what you are eating and just try a tiny piece. We’re going to take this one step at a time. The shakes are full of goodness so don’t you worry.’
But I couldn’t even countenance eating a single morsel of the food. Instead, I took a tiny sip of the drink – it tasted like vanilla ice cream and my head swam with the awful realisation that it must contain a million calories! Nope, I wasn’t going to have any of it.
So I folded my arms resolutely, turned out my bottom lip and told her straight: ‘I can’t eat this, it’s just pure fat.’
After an hour, Fiona finally gave up and, as she took the tray away, she told me, a little annoyed: ‘Tina, you will never put weight on refusing food.’
But I felt victorious – I couldn’t give away my control that easily.
Little did I know, this was just the first battle in a very long war. At 10 a.m., another Build Up arrived and more toast, which I also refused. Two hours later, lunch came.
‘What the heck is that?’ I asked, disgusted. It looked like two massive scoops of mashed potato under the thickest layer of yellow cheese I had ever seen. Since I could not remember the last time I’d eaten cheese, I refused that, too. As the food kept coming and I refused each meal, my excuses got more and more elaborate. They were providing me with a vegetarian diet but now I insisted I was a vegan, too.
‘I don’t eat cheese, eggs, gelatine, butter, chocolate, milk, pastry …’ I reeled off a long list of items that to all intents and purposes excluded me from eating anything they put in front of me. Day after day it went on: the food arrived, I refused, and they took it away again, just to replace it with something equally hideous and unappealing, two hours later. The nurses did their best, trying to coax me to have a bite of each meal, but I was resolute. Funnily enough, as the days went on, the medication kicked in and, though I was still refusing food, my anxiety had now dropped significantly.
‘Can’t you just start me on something like an apple or Ryvita?’ I suggested to Fiona. I thought I was being helpful. The whole idea that I would eat this fatty food just seemed so ridiculous; it felt like they were being stupid. They must realise this isn’t going to work, I thought. I can’t go from no food whatsoever to wolfing down huge fatty meals seven times a day!
The whole time, I wasn’t allowed to leave my bed except to go to the weigh chair or the toilet. Every calorie counted, they explained, so I wasn’t allowed to move until I started gaining weight. In frustration, I spent my time trying to clench any tiny bit of imaginary muscle I had left in my body in an attempt to burn calories. Whenever the nurse moved away from me, I flapped my arms up and down and bicycle-wheeled my legs under the covers. I would also make my whole body rigid for as long as possible. As soon as someone appeared at my side, I’d stop – I couldn’t trust anybody in there, I knew that much.
After four days of refusing food, the dietician came to see me. She was a lovely lady in her early twenties – short with strawberry-blonde hair – but she didn’t stand a chance.
‘You’re so malnourished, Tina, you have to eat foods that replenish the vitamins, protein and iron you are lacking,’ she tried to explain. ‘You might even have to consider eating meat or fish again to get the proteins back in you.’
At this, I actually laughed in her face. AS IF! The more she talked, the less I listened. Frankly, I was more of an expert on food, nutrients and diet than anybody, I was sure of that.
Finally, exasperated, she said: ‘Look, you tell us what you would like to eat and we’ll make it for you especially.’
‘I’m a vegetarian,’ I explained as if to a child, ‘so I only eat vegetables.’
‘Oh-kay,’ she responded. ‘Well, why don’t we make you steamed vegetables in a cheese sauce?’
‘NO!’ I erupted. ‘I’m not going to eat cheese, I told you that already!’
And so she left, rather cross at me, and my weight continued to drop. The only thing I allowed to pass my lips was water and medication. They thought they could break me down and that, eventually, I’d snap, but I had such an iron will, I knew they could never force me to give up control. In fact, in the end, it wasn’t force that they used.
After a week, a new nurse arrived at my bedside with the morning Build Up. She was short – only about 5 feet tall – comfortably round and had grey hair and a nervous manner. I reckoned her to be about sixty years old. As usual, I took one look at the tray and told her I wasn’t going to touch it.
The little old lady, who reminded me of my granny, seemed mortified. Her eyes widened as she leaned in to me and whispered: ‘I’m going to get into trouble, dearie, if you don’t eat any of it.’
For a moment, I wavered – I didn’t want to get this sweet old lady into trouble with her superiors. But what if it was a trick? Could I trust her?
‘Really? Are you really going to get into trouble?’ I whispered back, looking about me furtively, in case any of the other nurses were nearby. They were so mean, it didn’t surprise me that they took out their frustrations on the lower-ranking nurses.
She nodded solemnly. ‘Big trouble.’
I believed her – she was so sweet and kind-looking, I couldn’t bear the thought she might suffer on my behalf, so I looked down and gritted my teeth.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll eat something, I’ll do it.’
It nearly killed me, tasting the buttery saltiness of the toast and the thickness of the shake, but I managed to eat half a slice and drink half a glassful of the vanilla stuff. That was it – I couldn’t manage any more.
As I sat back, explaining that I’d done my best for her, granny nurse cracked a wide, smug smile. SHE’D LIED! I realised then she had tricked me into eating and, all of a sudden, I felt so angry and stupid for falling for it. She whipped the tray away while I lay there, seething, and now I had no choice: I had to lie in bed with nothing to do but think how foolish and weak I’d been for letting myself eat.
The constant presence of the nurses now began to grate on me. Even in the bath, they stayed with me. For the most part, they were considerate and didn’t stare, though I was still horribly embarrassed. The only nurse I really bonded with was a lady called Andrea. The first time she took me for a bath, she offered me a cigarette. I was blown away as I was nowhere near the weight required – but I took it anyway.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked (my defences were always up in this place).
‘I’d like a smoke myself,’ she replied nonchalantly, helping herself to one, too. ‘And no one needs to know.’
Andrea would chat to me about her life while I enjoyed the relief of feeling the warm, bubbly water. I’d cover myself in bubble-bath foam so she couldn’t see anything, and the water seemed to give my aching body some respite. Andrea was in her late twenties,
single and had long, fair hair. She was really open with me and talked about everything from parents to boyfriends. I always looked forward to our bath-time chats.
But it wasn’t always Andrea or Fiona with me – a lot of the time the nurses were strangers, student nurses, since Ninewells, where I was being treated, was a teaching hospital. They’d come and go, and I had no idea who would be on duty with me from one hour to the next. Eventually, after two weeks of being constantly shadowed, I was so pissed off, I decided there was nothing else for it: I had to eat, just to get them away from me. So each mealtime, I’d nibble at whatever they put in front of me. I hated it, of course, it was like torture, and seeing the weight start to go back on was agonising, but the pay-offs did help. An hour of radio, some magazines, the chance to write – it all helped to relieve the boredom and allowed me to focus on something other than my illness.
The only problem now was my uncooperative bowels. It had been over 10 days since I’d had a movement and I put this down to the fact that I was too embarrassed to poo in front of any of the nurses, even Fiona. At first, the pain in my stomach came and went without me really noticing – after all, I was used to putting up with pain. But one night, I woke up in agony – my stomach was killing me – and screamed out to the nurses for help.
Sister came and examined my stomach, or at least she tried to, as I couldn’t move without a searing hot pain shooting up my whole body. I was sweating now and crying with distress.
They pulled the curtain around me and put on the dim overhead light as the ward was in darkness and everyone was asleep. I was trying to cry quietly so as not to disturb the others but it was very difficult.
‘We’ll have to go against all the rules and give you an enema,’ Sister told me. So that’s what they did – they laid me on one side, stuck a tube up my anus and tried to flush out the compacted faeces inside me with water. Oh, my God, it felt like I was being pumped up like a balloon! But still nothing came out.