by Betty Balaba
I was busy looking at my phone when I heard the curtain being drawn.
After dinner I was about to go home, but wanted to go to the bathroom to get my mother some tissues. I pulled the door open and was confronted with Lesley. My breath caught, I was in shock. She was sitting on the closed toilet eating a Mars Bar. A Snickers, a Twix and Dairy Milk wrappers littered the floor. My look was mirrored in her face.
“I won’t be long,” she managed to say between mouthfuls of chocolate, looking only mildly embarrassed. I shut the door slowly and went back to my mother’s bedside. I told myself that I must never get to the point where I am eating guiltily in the toilet!
That day, I left at 11:00p.m.; far too exhausted by the aftermath of the operation to cook. It was too late for deliveries, so I just ate a Kit Kat from the back of the fridge – some ‘break’ that was – showered and slept. I had been ravenous at 9:00 p.m. but the moment had passed. The Kit Kat was to avoid going to bed on an empty stomach and staying awake. Or so I told myself.
The routine that had developed was to go to work an hour early, take half an hour for lunch, then leave a full hour and a half early to go to the hospital. Exhausting as it had been to start with, my body was finding a way to cope. In a way work was helping, camouflaging the stress and worry so they didn’t bring me a staggering halt. The first frantic days became weeks, then soon the weeks became months.
One day in mid-May, three months later, I arrived at work late – by my new schedule – at 8:15 a.m. I was quietly going through emails when I heard the lift doors open in the empty office. It was Emma. She looked over, almost as if to check on me.
“Good morning!” I said brightly as she approached.
“Good morning,” she said guardedly. “How’s your mother?”
“She’s doing well this week, thanks.”
“That’s good,” she said, sliding off her jacket. “She’s been in there a while hasn’t she?” I just looked at her, saying nothing. “How long is it, about two and a half months?”
“Yes, about that,” I said. Where was she going with this?
“You poor thing. Is there no one else who can sit with her?”
“Not really,” I said. Was this sympathy? I doubted it… it was the beginnings of impatience. She took out her phone. “Oh, it’s 8:18!” I knew what she was doing. She wanted to make sure I had started work early, like I said I was going to. “Quiet, isn’t it?”
“Yup,” I said. “I’m normally alone at this time.”
“You’re early then.”
That was all she said, before disappearing into her office. That was the problem with Emma. I was never completely sure if she was being genuine. But I had to be grateful: at least she had let me set my hours to a degree. I made sure all the work I had scheduled to do that day was finished, and then tried to get some more in the bank. Thankfully, she was very pleased with both the quality and quantity of my output. Greg had told me that she described me at a Directors Meeting as a ‘good little worker’. I laughed when I heard it but wasn’t sure if it was Emma’s way of keeping me in my place. Either way, I knew there were no complaints about my work. Apparently, even the head of the whole caboodle said I was ‘a safe pair of hands’. Sophie, of course, also came loyally to inform me of anything she eavesdropped about me since my change of schedule. Of course she turned it into a tease, chanting that ‘safe was better than lazy’ while we struggled with the photocopier.
Well, that’s how we kept going. To be honest, I was grateful for the distraction. Being at work gave me the stability I needed: when I was there, I felt I could gain strength and cope. Never underestimate the benefits of routine.
That day, I started working on yet another new marketing strategy. I worked thought lunch, printing the new document at 3 p.m. It was then that my mobile rang. I rushed back to the desk for it.
“Hi, is this Becca Johnson?”
“Yes…”
“It’s the hospital.”
I stopped breathing.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes, nothing to worry about, but your mother is going to have a blood transfusion later and you wanted us to let you know.”
“Thank you, that’s great, I’ll be there.”
The nurse previously had said that everything should be okay whilst doing a transfusion – but also that some patients had a reaction. It was then that I’d asked her to contact me if they went ahead. If there was a problem, I wanted to be there. I stapled the strategy document and took it straight to Emma’s office. She was behind her computer screen and didn’t acknowledge me at first. I stood feeling stupid for at least five or ten seconds. She heard me open her door and she knew someone had come in. Why didn’t she look up? I would give it one more second and then I’d start talking. If it was a power game, I didn’t have time for it.
“Yes?” she said.
I stepped forward so I was beside her desk rather than in front of it.
“I’ve finished the marketing strategy,” I said handing it over.
“Oh, it’s not due until the end of next week.” I didn’t say anything. She flicked through it. “I’ll read it later.”
I had to plunge right in.
“I also wanted to let you know that I have to leave now because my mother’s having a blood transfusion.”
“Do you really need to be there for that?” I sensed an arched eyebrow that she just reigned in.
“Well,” I said patiently. “There’s a risk her body could refuse it, or have a negative reaction. So it is better that I’m there.” She studied her nails for a moment, and I continued. “I’ve finished my work and if you need me to do anything else I’ll be able to do it when I come in tomorrow.” I could hear the strain and desperation entering my voice.
She stepped around me and closed the door.
“Becca, take a seat,” she said coolly. I really didn’t have time for a protracted conversation but I sat down opposite her desk. She stayed by the door.
“Do you think you are coping?”
I twisted myself around so I could see her.
“With what?” I said.
“Your workload and your mother being ill?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “I do.” She narrowed her eyes minutely.
“Because I wouldn’t want things to get too much for you.”
I had done all my outstanding work. I always did what I said I was going to do. I didn’t know what else she wanted, so I just kept silent. She moved away from the door finally.
“Good. I’ll let you go,” she said. “I hope all goes well with the, er… transfusion.”
I stood up and walked to the door.
“Thank you,” I said, with an odd mixture of relief and defiance.
I arrived at the hospital just as the transfusion was about to start. My stomach started to rumble audibly. And with that blood in the room! My mother turned to me.
“You look tired. Have you eaten?”
“I’ll eat something later,” I said. I had been running on adrenalin for the last couple of weeks. Well, that and toast, chocolate, and baked goods of the sugared variety. I couldn’t remember when I’d last had anything healthy, never mind a salad. Things had changed pretty drastically. I no longer even bothered doing up the buttons on my trousers or skirts, as I couldn’t breathe now once they were done up. As a result I had started wearing my tops over my belts. I didn’t think anyone would notice – but of course Sophie did. (“A new fashion direction you’re taking?” I had just laughed and said, “It’s hot, you know. I’m more comfortable.” She’d raised her eyebrows but said nothing more.) My mother dropped the subject as the transfusion got underway. At least it went well and she didn’t have any bad reactions. I walked into the ward to see an excited Lesley sitting at the end of her bed. She looked like her lottery numbers had come up.
“Becca, I’m being let out!” she shouted to me. I smiled. It wasn’t prison. Lesley kept grinning and I laughed again.
“That�
��s good news,” I replied.
“I looked out for your mum. She had a good night last night.”
“Thank you.” I realised that ‘looking out for my mum’ meant that my mum slept well and that Lesley made sure she could reach her table and that she had enough water during the night.
“I’m just waiting for my medications, transport, and more importantly – lunch.” I laughed again. Lesley had her priorities.
“No sense in going home before I eat.”
“No sense indeed,” I agreed as we laughed together.
“Oh Becca, do you want to go for dinner later?”
“Thanks for the offer, but I have to be with my mum.”
“What about later?”
“I’ll be here for a while, maybe some other time.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” she said. I smiled. Lesley was still in her hospital gown. I hoped everything would be ready and she would be going home.
“Aren’t you getting changed?”
“The nurse told me to hang on as they are waiting for the pharmacy to get my medications ready.”
It was then that the nurse went over to her. “There is a slight delay with one of your medications.”
“What delay?” I knew Lesley was just about holding her temper in check.
“Hopefully everything will be ready,” the nurse said trying to sooth her.
“It has to be, because I have dinner arrangements this evening.” I’m sure the nurse sensed trouble because she started to leave, but said over her shoulder, “I’ll chase it up.”
Dinner was about to be served when transport came to collect Lesley to take her home. To my surprise, she came over and gave me a hug.
“It was wonderful meeting you.” She handed me a piece of paper. “My number, give me a call and we’ll do something.” Lesley waved at my mum. “Take care. I hope they let you out soon. Whatever you do, don’t let them do any experiments on you.” My mother looked alarmed. “Bye.”
I’d miss Lesley; she brightened up the place and was a whirlwind of fun.
Dinner at the hospital was served at 6:00p.m.: macaroni cheese with mixed vegetables, and sticky toffee pudding with custard. My mother didn’t touch it.
“Why don’t you have something?” I said. “Take a little.”
“I don’t want it,” she said determinedly.
“Have a bit,” I insisted. “You are taking strong medications. You need to eat.”
She pushed her tray away from her chest almost violently. I caught it before it had a chance to hit the floor. “I said I don’t want it.” My mother could be stubborn and once she had decided against something, that was it.
Nick, the nurses’ assistant, came around again. He was always a calming presence.
“My mother doesn’t want to eat anything and I can’t convince her to.”
He must have read the panic in my voice because he briefly touched my elbow.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get her an Ensure drink. It has everything you need in it, so she won’t starve.” He even squeezed my hand. “You look tired? Make sure you’re looking after yourself.”
“I will…”
Picking up the untouched tray, he handed me the sticky toffee pudding.
“For your mum,” he said, with a wink. “It’s the best thing they make here.” I took the pudding from him with a muffled “Thank you.”
The pudding smelled divine but my mother’s drain was distracting me. Yet, I felt really hungry and knew it was better to eat sooner, not later. Somehow the smell of the pudding got the better of the disinfectant smell and the sight of the drain. I reluctantly put a spoonful in my mouth. It tasted as good as one in a great restaurant. My mother looked at me in surprise. She knew just how I felt about eating in hospitals. She even managed to smile, and I grinned back as I took another mouthful.
Nick the assistant passed again and grinned at the sight of me with my mouth full. “Wasn’t I right?” he said. My mouth was full so I just grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. The pudding was gone in a few swift swoops of the spoon. I had to give it to them, it was indeed outstanding. For the connoisseurs out there: flavourful and juicy but not sickly sweet. I had a sweet tooth but not too sweet.
As the nurses were doing their medicine rounds, I slipped out for a walk. Outside, the most beautiful sunset was settling. They had always been my favourite of nature’s offerings. This one had the full spectrum from red to violet, with fingers of yellow. Of course, I took out my iPhone and started taking pictures. I loved capturing a moment with all its truth laid bare. I continued to take pictures as I walked; old trees with some roots showing and exposing their antique beauty; the natural beauty of a collage of leaves scattered on the pavement. I even managed to get the magpie just as it had spread its wings about to take flight. Nature always captivated me. It has always been the simple things that took my breath away.
After settling my mother in for the night, I returned home. I knew I couldn’t keep going to work with clothes that weren’t even done up. I checked the whole length of my wardrobe – which took up an entire wall. Nothing. Not a single thing that still fitted me properly. One sliding door after the other gave the same awful answer. I hadn’t exactly set about the task with confidence; but now it felt like I was seeing someone else’s clothes entirely. Everything was a size 8 or 10. I took out trousers, skirts and dresses. I even went so far as to try on a few. I opened a window to cool down, feeling angry and sad. How had I let things get this far? Being a small size hadn’t defined me – but it was part of my life. I could hardly throw out all these clothes and buy a new wardrobe! I felt like I was losing myself in a more serious way than just the weight gain. How could I feel big and small at the same time?
Then things got even worse. I pulled on a silk dress which was also a Size 10 but I knew was a slightly bigger fit. And then I got stuck in it. Disaster. My head and arm were caught fast in the sleeve. I could barely breathe and panic swept over me as I started taking deeper breaths. I was alone and there was no one who could rescue me. From my own dress! I took some breaths to compose myself and I tried to free myself again. But the dress wasn’t budging. The more I moved, the more my arm became trapped. There was only one way out: I yanked, and heard the dreaded ripping sound. I did it again with the same result. The more the noise went on, the more my hope of salvaging the dress disappeared. I was finally free but the dress was ruined. I fell in a heap on my cream carpeted floor with torn silk surrounding me.
I could feel tears starting. And, with a rumble in my chest, something else took over. Suddenly I was laughing helplessly. Laughing and crying, with my head thrown back and my hand holding my stomach. The tears were flowing freely. What on earth was happening to me? Imagine if I’d been discovered days later, imprisoned in my dress! The shame would kill me even if the suffocation hadn’t! Eventually I picked myself up from the beautiful rags of my once loved dress, and threw it in the bin. Time to move on.
Opening the drawers, I examined my tops and found the situation to be even worse. I put one on and saw the dreaded love handles. What on earth? My fitted tops weren’t so fitted any more! Where and when did that extra flesh come from? Love handles: please. There was nothing I loved about them. I pulled it over my head and breathed in. My stomach used to look flat in it but now had a slight but definite pouch. I sighed, hoping that with a cardigan no one would be any wiser; and I could still get away as my old size.
After two hours full of trying things on, my usable summer wardrobe was reduced to two A-line dresses and six maxi-dresses. That was it. I would have to buy a few things – just 2 or 3 outfits – until I got back to how I usually looked. That’s what I told myself. And yet the thought of shopping, which I had usually loved so much, didn’t give me an ounce of joy this time.
Chapter 6
From Mouth to Hips
By June, my mother had been in the hospital for three months. Things had emerged as a combination of infections, a series of operations to remove dead tis
sue from her leg, and the effects of diabetes. The hospital took a while, and the healing process was slow.
Going back and forth between work and the hospital had taken its toll. I had never been so tired. Sometimes at the end of the day, I felt I couldn’t even speak. It just took so much effort.
Of course, the weight had by now piled on with the responsibilities. I didn’t even weigh myself any more, and I’d hidden the two scales – the original one, which I thought was broken; and the fancy one which had proved it wasn’t – right at the back of the wardrobe. I couldn’t face their silent mocking every morning. Clothes, I couldn’t do without though: and there was no hiding from their mockery. You know about it when your blood is squeezing past them to get around your body.
Finally a Saturday came when I didn’t have to be in the hospital until lunchtime. I thought of having a lie-in but my body had got too used to the adrenalin getting me up early. And I needed to go and buy more – larger – clothes, of course. By then I was too scared even to sneeze in some of the things I was wearing. It was time for my pride to give in.
I thought I’d start at Zara. After all, we’ve all brought things from there which we like. I started with a belted black dress with buttons down the front – and a slight flare out from the waist – in both small and medium. I also picked out two V-neck tops and a pair of black long culottes – again in small and medium.
Of course there were two stick-thin blondes manning the fitting room. They seemed impossibly thin to me – and it was a shock to realise that only three months before that had been my own size! I had never even used to notice other women’s figures; now I did.
Reaching the front of the queue, one of the blondes counted my items. I sensed her notice how I had one of each size. Walking down to the cubicle, I caught her sotto-voce comment to her colleague: “No way that’s her size!” I didn’t hear the response but couldn’t help looking over my shoulder. All I saw was an illicit nudge being passed between them to keep quiet.
Well, I could hardly accuse them of being wrong. One small sized top would barely admit one of my arms. When I squeezed the other on, it was a girl from a rap video staring back at me. Not my style at all! The A-line dress fitted but only in the medium. And not just medium: I even had to undo the last button. It left a deeper slit down the front but would have to do: there was no way I was trying on a large. No way.