The Hunger

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  They walked up to the nurses’ station opposite the sun room and Mr. Romaniuk said to a nurse who was writing a note in one of her charts, “Excuse me, could you tell me which room my daughter should go to?”

  The nurse looked up from her work and regarded the family in front of her. When her gaze lighted on Paula, she said, “You’re Doctor Tavish’s patient, Paula Romaniuk, right?”

  She nodded.

  “And I’m Jean Bowley,” replied the nurse. We’ve saved you a private room.” And with that, she stood up and motioned them to follow her down the hallway. As Paula followed, she felt like she was walking to her death, but she obediently did as she was told.

  The room was stark and white. The only homey touch was a row of plants that looked like they hadn’t been watered in decades. The room did, however, have a large picture window. Brilliant midday light streamed through. Paula walked to the window and looked out. A perfect view of the parking lot and not much else.

  Nurse Bowley turned to Paula’s parents, then stated, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Our new patient needs solitude.”

  Mrs. Romaniuk looked up with alarm. “But can’t at least one of us stay here to keep her company?”

  “No,” replied the nurse. “Paula will have to gain some weight before she earns visitor privileges.”

  She gave a small wave as the nurse shooed her parents down the hallway.

  Erik lagged behind, standing at the side of her bed with one eye to the door, waiting for the nurse to come back and shoo him away. “I brought you something,” he said, retrieving a bag from beneath his shirt. “Hide this under your pillow,” he shoved the package into her hands. With that, Erik dashed to the door just as the nurse was opening it in search of him. He turned and winked at his sister as his head disappeared through the doorway. “Get better, Paula,” he called in parting, “I want my old sister back.”

  Paula just had enough time to stash the package underneath her pillow before the nurse was back in her room. “Now Paula,” she began. “I’ll explain the rules here. You get weighed first thing every morning—before breakfast, but after you’ve been to the bathroom. You’ll be weighed in a hospital gown so you can’t fool us. And until you’ve gained ...” Nurse Bowley drew out a chart from the holder on the door, opened it, and frowned. “Okay, it says here that you’ve got to remain in bed until you’ve gained two pounds.” She looked up from the chart and regarded her new patient.

  “I can’t do that,” stated Paula. “I need my exercise.”

  The nurse chuckled. “Don’t even think about exercising right now.” Then she took Paula’s overnight bag from her hands and said, “You can have this back once you’ve gained those two pounds.”

  Paula looked alarmed. “But what am I supposed to wear? And what am I supposed to do?”

  “You’ll find a fresh hospital gown in the closet. And all you’re supposed to do right now is conserve your energy, sleep, and eat.” Then the nurse frowned and shook her head slightly. “I don’t think you realize how serious your condition is.”

  With that, the nurse headed towards the door. When she was almost out, she turned and said, “Slip into that gown now. I’ll be back in a few minutes to hook up your IV.”

  “IV?”

  The nurse looked surprised at Paula’s reaction. “Of course. We’ve got to get some nourishment into you quickly. This is no joking matter.”

  Paula watched as the large pink rear end of Nurse Bowley disappeared through the doorway. “That’s what I’ll end up looking like,” she whispered to herself. “There’s no way they’re going to make me fat.” And then she silently pounded her fists on the bed. “Has the whole world gone crazy?”

  A few minutes later, Paula watched as Nurse Bowley tried to insert an IV needle into her forearm for the third time. “Your veins have all but collapsed,” said the nurse as she gently tapped Paula’s skin to try and find a good vein. “Success!” She noted with approval a drop of blood formed in a bead at the top of the plastic tubing that was attached to the needle. Deftly, the nurse slipped the narrow plastic sleeve over the needle and compressed the end between her finger and thumb, sliding the tubing into the opening made by the needle and slipping the needle out through the other end of the tubing. Securing the tubing in place with a strip of surgical tape, she attached the open end to an IV drip.

  Paula could hear the cheerful voice of Nurse Bowley going over the rules of the ward and mentioning something about a menu, but she wasn’t really listening. Instead, Paula held her arms up to her face and stared at them. The knuckle scabs had all but healed, leaving a trail of angry red scar tissue in their wake. She lightly drew her right index finger over the bruised spots on her arm where Nurse Bowley had tried to find a vein. This ordeal of being admitted to the hospital was like a war, she realized. And only she knew what—or who—was the real enemy.

  When Paula was certain that Nurse Bowley was finished tormenting her for the moment, she reached underneath her pillow and drew out the package her brother had given her. Inside the bag was Erik’s beloved Game Gear and it was loaded with the game Columns—one that she knew he hated, but one she had always loved for its calming effect. Her eyes welled up with tears. She knew what a sacrifice it was for him to lend her this unit. Without it, he would not be able to play games during the stolen moments of solitude throughout the day. She had ignored him so much during the past year, and when she did pay attention to him, it was to snark at him, yet he was so forgiving. She vowed to be a better sister when she got out of this place. She turned the volume down low, and played a few games in tribute to her brother.

  Long after Nurse Bowley’s shift had ended, Paula lay curled in the middle of her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, her long skinny arms wrapped around them. She felt orphaned and alone.

  She had not bothered to turn on the lights when it began to get dark. It was the wee hours before dawn, and yet she still lay, curled into almost nothing, in the dark. Headlights from an occasional car would momentarily illuminate the room, and when this happened, Paula would stare at the drip dripping of the IV. She felt so powerless, so out of control. It was humiliating to have others determine what shape her body would take. As the drips of clear fluid coursed down the tubing and into her veins, Paula began to form a mental picture of the effects it would have on her body. She imagined her rear end growing to the size of Nurse Bowley’s and shuddered. It would be better to die than to live looking like that.

  She ran her index finger along the bump in her forearm where the dreaded nourishment was entering. “I should just pull this out,” she whispered to herself, tugging gently at the adhesive tape holding the tubing in place. She felt the length of the tubing until her fingers lighted upon a plastic contraption half way up. She held it up to her eyes and waited for a car to pass so she could see what it was. “A clamp!” She turned the clamp shut tight and then noticed with satisfaction that the fluid was no longer finding its way into her veins.

  Then she lay down on her pillow and fell asleep.

  She was startled awake a few moments later by a knock on her door. The night nurse burst through and turned on the light. Paula rubbed her eyes in the glare of brightness. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Something’s happened to your IV,” the nurse said, striding over to the bedside and held up the tubing attached to Paula’s arm, examining it carefully. Close to where it entered Paula’s arm was a faint stain of blood. She traced it from that point to the clamp that had been shut off. She flicked it back on, then rested her eyes on Paula. “This isn’t a good way to start out, Paula.”

  Paula’s face flushed with embarrassment.

  “Your IV is monitored at the nurses’ station. Please don’t try to trick us again.” With that, the nurse was gone.

  Paula lay back down on her bed and tried to fall asleep, but the feeling of powerlessness made her want to scream. She sat back up and drew out her brother’s game unit from under her pillow. Sorting through the
coloured balls and arranging them in a pattern as they floated down the video screen gave her comfort. Soon she felt settled enough to fall asleep.

  She dreamed she was an orphan, marching in the desert. Her feet were covered with rags, and her shirt and pants were tattered and dirty. She looked up and saw hundreds … no … thousands … of people in the same circumstances. Old people left on the side of the road to die; soldiers with bayonets riding horses and terrorizing the column of deportees. She looked into the face of one of the soldiers. There was hatred in his eyes.

  Early the next morning, she was startled awake by a knock on her door. “Time to get up!” trilled an unfamiliar voice. “I’ll be back to weigh you in five minutes.”

  Paula sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. A slim twenty-something woman whose blonde hair was swept up into a French twist walked into the room. “Hi Paula,” she said. And without further words, she led Paula to the end of the hallway, her IV drip still attached, to weigh her. She wrote down without comment the fact that the patient had gained no weight during her first night in hospital.

  Paula walked back into her room, pushing the IV holder before her. When she opened her door, she was surprised to see Gramma Pauline perched on the end of her bed, wearing a volunteer smock. Beside her sat a tray of food.

  “What are you doing here, Gramma?” asked Paula, filled with confusion and delight. “I thought visitors weren’t allowed.”

  “Do I look like a visitor?” Pauline asked, pointing to her polyester mauve smock with her name embroidered on the pocket. Her white hair was braided loosely down her back and her hands were surprisingly jewel-free. “I hold a painting workshop for the children up here once a week. This happens to be my regular day.”

  Paula nodded in understanding. Her grandmother had several pet projects around town, all somehow involving her passion for painting. Paula pointed at the tray of food sitting on the bedside table. “Did you bring that with you?”

  Gramma glanced over at the tray of food. “No. I followed it in,” she said with a grin. “Now come over here and give me a hug.”

  Paula gingerly wrapped her arms around her grandmother, taking care not to tangle her IV in the embrace. She breathed in deeply the comforting “Gramma” scent of turpentine and Dove soap, then settled in on the bed beside her grandmother. “I am so glad to see you,” Paula said, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “I could have picked a better place for the visit, my dear,” said Pauline, with sadness tingeing her voice. “I wish you could understand how much you’re loved.”

  With that, Pauline stood up from the bed and brushed her hand gently across her granddaughter’s cheek. “Now you owe me a visit.”

  Paula watched as the mauve smock exited the door.

  Her eyes drifted over to the tray of food sitting at her bedside. On it was a glass of orange juice, a carton of whole milk, a muffin, a container of yogurt, and a bowl of bran cereal. The sight of so much food overwhelmed her with a sense of powerlessness. They couldn’t possibly expect her to eat all of this. She sat, staring at the tray for several moments, then the door opened again. It was a nurse.

  “The more you eat, the quicker you get out of here,” said the nurse. “You don’t have to eat it all, but do the best you can.” Without waiting for a reply, the nurse opened the door. She turned to Paula and said, “Remember. No funny stuff.”

  Paula poured the milk onto her bran cereal and methodically stirred it until it became mush. She took a single spoonful of it and put it in her mouth, feeling nauseated as she did it. They couldn’t force her to eat, that was for sure. It would make her sick.

  As trays came back, day after day, barely touched, the nurses became worried. Doctor Tavish was worried too. But there was nothing they could do. And while treatment for anorexia included the denial of privileges until weight was gained, Doctor Tavish was vehement in his views on force-feeding. “It’s counterproductive,” he told the nurses. “The more you push an anorexic, the more stubborn they become.”

  Monday, November 9, 111 pounds

  Paula’s condition alarmed both Doctor Tavish and the nurses.

  The nurses had become so concerned with Paula’s condition that they had taken to offering her chilled tins of Ensure, and were gratified when they noticed the empty cans in Paula’s garbage. What the nurses didn’t notice was how healthy Paula’s plants had become.

  A social worker who counselled a local eating disorder support group was called in to see if she could help.

  She tapped on Paula’s door just after lunch had been served. Paula had enough time to stash her brother’s Game Gear under her pillow and call out, “Come in, please.”

  Paula appraised the woman as she stepped through the door. Betty Doherty didn’t look like someone who dealt with eating disorders. The fact was, she was definitely on the hefty side herself. “Can I sit down here?” she asked, pulling up a chair beside Paula’s bed without waiting for a reply. She settled a briefcase on her lap, then opened it, pulling out a questionnaire. “Mind if I ask you some questions, Paula?”

  Paula had the feeling that her answer didn’t matter much, but she nodded anyway.

  “Okay, let’s get down to business,” said Mrs. Doherty. “How would you describe the relationship you have with your mother?”

  “We have a good relationship.”

  “And how about with your father?”

  “Good too.”

  “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about your relationship with your father?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t mean anything. I’m asking a simple question.”

  Paula rolled her eyes with impatience. “If you’re wondering if my father has ever touched me sexually, the answer is no. If you’re wondering whether my parents beat me, the answer is no.”

  “I didn’t ask that Paula. And there’s no need to be defensive,” the social worker answered. “I’m just trying to help you.”

  “Look,” replied Paula. “You’re on the wrong track. Why are you even asking me these questions?”

  Mrs. Doherty was silent for a moment, considering her answer. “Do you want me to be frank, dear?”

  Yes.

  “The vast majority of anorexic teens that I see come from dysfunctional families. Many have been physically or sexually abused. I’m trying to find out whether your family falls into the typical mould.”

  Paula could feel anger boiling up inside of her. While sometimes she felt that her parents had very high expectations of her, and that sometimes they were a bit too controlling, that was it. Sexual abuse? Beating? This was outrageous.

  “Is this what your clients tell you?” asked Paula.

  “Not always,” replied the woman.

  November 23, 111 pounds

  While still precariously low, Paula’s weight had remained the same for two full weeks. Paula put up with the almost daily sessions with Mrs. Doherty, in the belief that she might get out more quickly if she seemed co-operative.

  Today when Mrs. Doherty arrived, she brought a roll of paper, scotch tape, scissors, and a magic marker.

  “What’s that for?” asked Paula.

  “We’re going to do a visualization technique,” explained the social worker. “I will tape a sheet of this up to the wall and you will lean up against it and I will trace your silhouette.”

  Paula looked at the roll of paper and saw that it was just two feet wide. “There is no way that you’ll be able to trace me on a single roll,” she said. “You’ll have to tape two sheets together to fit all of me in.”

  Mrs. Doherty nodded in understanding. “We could fit two of you on this one sheet, Paula. One reason that we do this is because anorexics are not able to see how thin they have become. By tracing you on this paper, I will be able to show you with something concrete just how thin you are.”

  Paula was skeptical, but she got out of bed and helped the social worker tape a length of paper to the wall and then she stood against it. M
rs. Doherty traced her shape and then Paula stood back to look.

  “There’s no way that’s me!” cried Paula, looking at the emaciated form traced on the paper. “You made it smaller on purpose.”

  “You don’t have to take my word for it,” replied Mrs. Doherty, handing Paula the scissors. “Cut the form out.”

  Paula did as she was told.

  “Follow me,” said Mrs. Doherty. She had carefully rolled up the paper Paula form, and was carrying it in her hands. Together, they walked down the hospital corridor and into the children’s playroom. It was empty. In the corner was a full sized mirror. The social worker unrolled the image of Paula and taped it to the mirror.

  “Step in front of the mirror, Paula,” requested Mrs. Doherty in a quiet voice.

  Paula did as she was told, stepping barely a foot in front of the mirror. The paper image of Paula suddenly filled with her, with an inch to spare all round.

  “Step so close that you’re touching the mirror.”

  Paula did, and realized that the image fit her perfectly. She had become that skinny.

  Thursday, December 24, 111 pounds

  “I demand to see my daughter!” Emily Romaniuk was used to ordering people around. It alarmed her that the head nurse had refused her permission to see her own daughter. She was the pharmacy manager at this very same hospital, after all. With whom did they think they were dealing?

  Nurse Bowley stood her ground. “If you want your daughter to get better, it’s important to leave her alone right now.”

  Emily’s eyes widened with anger. “It’s Christmas Eve, and my only daughter is in the hospital. Are you implying that my presence would somehow cause my daughter a setback in treatment?”