Webster persuaded one of the hospital porters to get him a wheelchair, a rather retrograde affair under which three small wheels swiveled frantically in their brackets, and into this Bloch was installed, feeling extremely dizzy and ill. Webster wheeled him around to Accident and Emergency. They zig-zagged along, the chair apparently reluctant to cede control of its own destiny. But at last Webster guided Bloch into a harshly lit waiting area full of hordes of anxious people. As Webster explained the situation to the woman manning the reception, a stretcher was wheeled in and he caught glimpses of a face capped by an oxygen mask. Then doctors, stethoscopes and exhaustion hanging from them, rushed in and the stretcher was wheeled away. When things had calmed down Webster was told Bloch would have to wait for approximately two-and-a-half hours.
During the wait Bloch kept saying he wanted to leave, and that he felt fine. But at last his name was called and Webster wheeled him into a consulting cubicle. He was deposited onto a level surface, a curtain was drawn and he was left there on his own. After a while the triage nurse arrived, took one look at him, and realized he was critically ill.
‘I’m terribly sorry you’ve had to wait so long, but we’re understaffed.’
‘It’s okay...there’s no time where I am.’
She stared at him, slightly puzzled by his remark, took his pulse, asked about his medical history, examined his mouth and gums, shone a light into his eyes and ears, and tested his reflexes which were virtually non-existent. She sent him next door for a blood test. A hypodermic syringe was forced into three separate veins, none of which offered up any blood. Finally, a small jarful of blood was drained from the fourth vein. He was weighed and given an electrocardiogram because when asked he admitted to having chest pains. Then a registrar, a packet of Gitanes cigarettes stuffed inside his coat’s top pocket, appeared and asked Bloch some questions about his diet. Bloch told him he just didn’t feel hungry and wasn’t interested in food anymore.
How long was it since he’d eaten a square meal?
‘Can’t remember...maybe three weeks. But I had some rice...the other day. After those first couple of weeks you really...I really...lost interest. Didn’t want food.’
Had he been taking fluids?
‘Yes...lime juice, chamomile tea...lashings of black coffee, but...I’m not really...I’m just...I’ve no time for trivia...if you get my drift. All the peacocks have ruffled feathers.’
The registrar thought Bloch was in an advanced stage of anorexia. He went up to the desk and asked the nurse to see if she could find a free bed. He knew that if Bloch wasn’t put on a drip immediately, his condition would deteriorate very rapidly and he feared kidney failure or worse. As it turned out a patient had just been moved from the Ely Wing on the 3rd Floor to intensive care and his bed was now free. The registrar explained that Bloch was in a very privileged position: not only was there a bed free, but a private room as well. He started getting argumentative and bolshy. Webster begged and pleaded with the doctor to admit Bloch. The doctor explained that under the Mental Health Act in severe cases such as his, compulsory treatment could be enforced. He didn’t want to have to force him to be admitted, however, and would rather Bloch agreed of his own volition.
Bloch asked Webster where he was living. Webster told him: inside his van.
‘I suppose if I...if I...you could...would it be good for you if...’
‘Don’t worry about me Bloch; you come first. Don’t worry about me. Just get into that bed so you can get better.’
‘You can have the flat; here, reach inside for my...’
‘It’s all right; I’ve got the keys here. You’re sure? That’s – ’
‘Okay, doc, take me to the sick...But I’m only going so Webster can have my gaff...and I won’t eat...I won’t...I have to be...pure mind.’
Webster said he would be in to see him tomorrow but had to go now. He left Bloch’s tape recorder with the nurse. As he trotted back to his van, he clutched Bloch’s keys tightly in his pocket, feeling badly shaken.
On the third floor the lift’s doors snapped open and Bloch was wheeled through another set of doors and then another. He had to wait for a porter to come and lift him onto a bed. The porter helped him into a gown. He rested on the bed for a while until a young nurse appeared – she looked at Bloch earnestly, and gave him a glucose solution to drink which he took without resistance. She said, ‘Now then, what’s the matter with you?’
‘Oh well...you know...this and that. I’m up for auction.’
‘I’m going to take your temperature, pulse and blood pressure.’
‘They did all that downstairs.’
‘I know, but I have to check again.’ She stuck a thermometer under his tongue and rolled a black band around his arm and inflated it.
Afterwards her manner changed slightly; she frowned, then mumbled, ‘I don’t really understand this...I can’t seem to find your pulse. This is absolutely unbelievable. Your systolic is 60 and the diastolic is 25. That’s the lowest blood pressure I’ve ever seen.’
‘I don’t need to eat. I really don’t. It’s fine. I’m feeling better now. I’ll have some water if it’s going. I’ve been drinking loads and loads of coffee.’
‘But you’re just skin and bone; listen to your voice, it’s all squeaky. Now that’s not right, is it? And your skin, it’s dry and flaky; there’s no color in your eyes. You know we’d all feel a lot better about you if you let us put a drip up.’
‘Well...why?’
‘If we don’t...there’s no real why about it...we just have to...’
‘Let me speak to the...’
Just then the sister arrived and conferred with the nurse; they went aside for a moment.
Then the house doctor appeared, the nurse and sister retreated, and the doctor said in a very sympathetic tone of voice, ‘Now, if we don’t put the drip up, there’s a very good chance that – ’
‘All right, all right, do it, do it. Just stop being so nice to me!’
He instructed the nurses to prepare a solution of protein, carbohydrates, fat, vitamins and minerals.
They fitted the drip and left him to rest.
Later on that evening the results of the tests came through and they established he had no malignant or organic disease suppressing his appetite; that he was deficient in zinc, thiamin, calcium, and magnesium; was anaemic, severely dehydrated, and that his liver wasn’t functioning properly. His stomach had shrunken to half its size. Unless such time as he could resume eating properly, he would have to stay in the hospital.
The next day Bloch’s condition had stabilized somewhat and the danger of kidney failure had receded, though he still refused food. He was given a blanket bath. At lunch-time he was visited by a dietician whose reasonable, sedate voice explained that he had to eat something, anything, as it was very important to get his digestive system and bowels working again. His brain was not functioning as it should have been. Bloch told him fasting was an ancient and honorable pursuit, practiced by saints, mystics and martyrs. After much cajoling he agreed to have a mixed salad and when it eventually came he ate a few lettuce leaves and half a carrot, but because his system had been starved of food for so long he vomited again.
The dietician gave him a glass of milk and Bloch drank it slowly through a straw. This made him feel sick. Bloch asked if he was allowed to walk around the ward but the nurse told him he was far too weak. Once he began eating properly again he could walk as much as he liked.
In the afternoon the nurse arrived with a boiled egg and two slices of toast and left it for Bloch to eat in his own time. As he stared at the egg’s small brown dome he thought about how, when he was small, he would love to cut the toast up into thin strips and dip them, carefully, lovingly, into the rich texture of the egg yolk. Then, as he stared at the egg, lying there in the bed, in the unfamiliar ward, attached to the drip, drifting through the vacuum of time, his memory receded into the past not of this life but of some other, perpetually hazy one which he had l
ong ago inhabited. He whacked a spoon down onto the head of the egg, scooped up some albumen and rammed it into his mouth. This left him exhausted. And the egg felt extremely salty and invasive, as if it was a piece of paper or plastic. With an effort he swallowed the offending fragment and he felt it move, a pellet of intrusion, down his gullet, laboriously forging a path through his shriveled, waterless throat, down into the empty steel barrel which was his stomach.
Later on he had a visit from Dr. Kendall, the liaison psychiatrist. Dr. Kendall looked rather lost and one or two of the nurses asked him if he needed any help. Eventually he found his way to Bloch’s bay. On the bald dome of his head there were a few sun spots. His eyes were knitted and creased in sympathy; they had bags under them which seemed to be the direct result of a lifetime spent listening to other people’s problems. Dr. Kendall knocked on the door, stepped in, dragged a chair over to the bed, sat down and stared at Bloch intently.
‘Hello, Daniel, how are you feeling today? They tell me that when you were brought in you were terribly ill.’ His voice was friendly and surprisingly reassuring.
‘I am not Daniel. That name no longer has any meaning for me. I have no name; I require no names. The region I currently inhabit is free of such tired trifles.’
Dr. Kendall thought: negative symptoms, psychotic ideation.
‘What would you like me to call you then?’
‘No names.’
‘Well, I have a name and it is Dr. Kendall, and I’d like to find out a little bit about why you seem to have lost your appetite. The house doctor is terribly worried about you, you know.’
‘Pipe down, I’m not deaf. Everything is very loud and clear; terrible clarity, as if I’m in 70 mill.’
Dr. Kendall had a pencil and pad with him and he jotted down some notes. Bloch stared at him with peculiar hostility when his face was turned toward his notepad. When Kendall looked up again Bloch was all smiles.
‘I see. How old are you, by the way?’
‘As old as I feel.’
‘And how do you feel?’
‘Timeless.’
Dr. Kendall let out an exhausted sigh.
‘Are you trying to scare us with this hunger strike, Daniel?’
‘No, no, let me explain, I have no further use for the external world of objects, of petty comings and goings. I am rejecting all that is not eternal. I am developing my moksha. Surely as a doctor you must see the value of trying to join the great river?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean...would you mind terribly – ’
‘The river, the pulse, the cosmic, the electric. I leave the living to him.’
‘The living to whom? Would you mind explaining a little more what you...?’
‘Wormy.’
‘And who is Wormy?’
‘That’s top secret, but I will say this. Wormy is the great disaster of my life, but he means nothing more to me now and there is nothing more he could hope to beg from me. The thing is, I have achieved a transcendence men like you only dream of. Why do you think mystics don’t eat? Because they have mental freedom as a result. It’s simpler that way.’
Dr. Kendall stared at Bloch in some agitation, feeling that his remarks had an edge of insight mixed up with more obscure references. It was disconcerting.
‘Daniel, what do you feel can be gained by refusing to eat?’
‘A soul, perhaps. Let me explain. I used to write books, formulaic books. They said nothing; they were tricks, manipulations. I decided to try and think a little, to meditate a little, to calm down...And I find that...I find that...’
Kendall continued to scribble. In irritation Bloch said, ‘Do you have to make notes? Are we not just having a friendly chat?’
‘Yes, of course, if you prefer. But I have to say that your state of mind is not...can I be frank...? Would you mind telling me if...have you been experiencing any hallucinations, aural or olfactory; that’s to say – ’
‘I began to see that the only way out was to become transcendent, to achieve luminosity, to cut through all the junk we are fed, literally and metaphorically, you see. I am not mad, despite all appearances to the contrary. Do I have to stay here? Can’t I go back to my flat?’
‘I’m afraid you can’t leave as we don’t feel you’re able to look after yourself at the moment...you pose a definite threat to yourself – ’
‘I can leave if I want to.’
‘If you decide to leave, we might have to take other measures: We may have to have you sectioned.’
‘Sectioned? What section? Section 22B, paragraph 13?’
‘No, put into a mental institution. But before we could do that of course you would need to be seen by two social workers and two doctors officially recognized by – ’
‘Social workers! Social workers! Get me anti-social workers! Or get me hermits and anchorites; they’ll understand! Get me outcasts. Why do you come here to talk rubbish to me? Look, I tell you what, Dr. Kennel, if you’re a nut doctor, why don’t you go and see all the nuts?’
Disregarding this, Dr. Kendall continued, ‘The thing is, if you continue to abstain from food we may be forced to initiate force-feeding. It’s a last resort, of course.’
‘Oh? That sounds jolly.’
‘It’s...I can assure you it’s not.’
‘What happens there then, Dr. Kennel?’
‘It’s Kendall; my name is Kendall. Force-feeding involves...well...a gastric tube is inserted through the nose or mouth...a nutritional solution is fed in, consisting of minerals and amino acids, and other substances. It wouldn’t be very nice.’ In part Dr. Kendall was trying to scare Bloch into eating when he said this – he knew that rapid re-feeding carried with it the risk of cardiac failure and was at the best of times considered highly controversial.
‘Do you imagine this drip is very pleasant? I can’t sleep because of it.’
‘Force feeding is substantially more – ’
‘Look. I have no appetite. Yes, about a few weeks back I did crave food, but then, after a couple of weeks of zilch, I craved no more and I felt empowered as a result. Can’t I get it through to you that I’m not eating because I am penetrating a supreme reality? I am achieving a transparency of vision.’
Kendall wrote: Patient is showing signs of autoscopic hallucination, he talks of a heightened sensibility. Whether this is due simply to starvation or something else is debatable.
‘Daniel, I think under the circumstances I am going to have to say something you might not be very pleased to hear: I think your state of mind at the moment is delusional. Normally I would prescribe drugs to treat this, but this would be hazardous, given the delicacy of your condition. But we have to get you eating again. The drips will provide nourishment but you must try and take a little food. The drip on its own isn’t a substitute for the consumption of three square meals a day. If you – ’
‘Eeeeeh! I couldn’t possibly,’ he whimpered pitifully. ‘My stomach’s tiny, I’d explode.’
‘But if you don’t eat regular meals, if you just rely on the drip, all sorts of things will continue to go wrong with you. You’re already anaemic; your red blood count is very low. The drip is deceptive; it provides nourishment and rehydrates the body, but it can’t stop weight loss. You really have to eat proper, healthy meals. Just ask the nurse for anything you feel like. Now I think you should rest for a little. I’ll come and see you tomorrow.’
‘I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to eat! You can’t make me. You’re wasting your breath on me! I don’t want you to come and see me. I’m attaining a higher plane.’
‘Let’s say you are, Daniel. But the world’s on a lower plane, isn’t it? Or at least it’s full of rough and tumble and imperfections and messiness.’
‘Don’t even think about it. I won’t be drawn into a philosophical debate.’
‘You must learn to live in the world; you must engage with it as I’m sure you have done, very well, in the past. You must come down to earth, so to speak.’
/>
‘This all sounds familiar and I used to spout such stuff myself. Oh yes, I did it very well in the past. You’ll be bringing up mortgages and golf next. That’s right, try and make the world seem hospitable, ordered, friendly; try and make us all think we have our place in it, that everything is as it should be. Oh, what’s the use; he’s doing the living for me. Have you no vision, man; do you think all can be explained rationally? There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of...forget it. I’m surrounded with pen-pushers and bureaucrats.’
Dr. Kendall very quietly withdrew his chair and said, ‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow. In the meantime try and eat something. The food here isn’t bad.’
‘“The food here isn’t bad,”’ Bloch mimicked. ‘Is that all you have to say?’
Dr. Kendall put his hand out and tried to shake Bloch’s. But he withdrew into the bed like a frightened spider.
‘No thanks; risk of infection, you see,’ he mumbled from under the covers.
‘Very well. Until tomorrow.’
Dr. Kendall walked off, perturbed, considering once again the strange quality of Bloch’s remarks and the fact that they had a grain of truth in them which, try as he might, he could not now erase from his mind. But Bloch’s “asceticism” was so pronounced as to be pointing toward death. And Dr. Kendall feared that was the only thing which would satisfy him now.
He pulled out his digital voice recorder and mumbled into it as he trotted along the corridors, oppressive with the smell of disinfectant.
‘The patient is clearly suffering from anorexia nervosa. It is difficult to tell whether his condition is primarily psychotic. Although the patient is able to talk reasonably fluently, his body shows all the signs of inanition. He is clearly anaemic. It is also difficult to tell to what extent his negative features are innate. There is evidence of schizoid ideation as well and some indications of mania; namely, irritability and flight of ideas. I am undecided about what would be the best course of treatment for him. Clearly he needs to eat something. If he insists on refusing to take food orally the question of forcefeeding may arise but it is likely that he would have to be sectioned first. His ego appears to be in a state of flux, and I detect some evidence of an identity crisis; this does not, however, appear to extend to his sexuality. On trying to shake the patient’s hand, he recoiled. Obviously the thought of physical contact alarms him. He must start eating again, but I fear we will have great difficulty in persuading him to take anything by mouth.’
The Fabrications Page 32