The Hunger (8 page)

“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. Mrs. 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?”

“Well … um. That’s not exactly what I meant ...” replied Nurse Bowley, her face flushing in embarrassment.

“Then I will see her right now.”

Without waiting for a response, Emily Romaniuk strode down the hospital corridor. She pushed open the door to her daughter’s room.

She was shocked at the sight that confronted her. When Paula was still at home, she had seemed thin, but now she was truly skeletal. “My God, Paula, what have they done to you?”

“Mom, I’ve got to get out of this place,” said Paula. “I don’t want to spend Christmas all by myself,” she began. “And besides, if I stay here, I’m going to lose my whole year of school.”

Emily looked into her daughter’s eyes. “If you came home, you would have to promise to eat properly, dear. You’re going to do permanent damage to yourself, the way you’re carrying on.”

Paula nodded in agreement. “I realize that Mom, and I would have eaten more, but the food is awful here.”

Paula knew it was the right thing to say. Emily had never been able to stomach the hospital food in the cafeteria. She could imagine the revulsion her daughter would have towards what they passed off as food in this place. “Let me talk to Doctor Tavish,” said Mrs. Romaniuk.

Doctor Tavish was adamant that Paula stay in the hospital. “I’m sure a bed will be opening up soon at Homewood,” he pleaded.

“Then she’d be even further away from us at Christmas,” replied Mrs. Romaniuk. “We’ll see how she does over Christmas at home. If she doesn’t gain some weight, we’ll reconsider.”

Doctor Tavish agreed, however reluctantly.

An hour later, Paula was packed and ready to go. As her mother led her down the hallway and out to the elevators, Paula smiled at the two women who were standing side by side in the nurses’ station, pained expressions on their faces.

Paula celebrated her arrival home by eating a generous serving of Christmas cake and a glass of eggnog—in front of her mother—who sipped a diet cola. When she was finished, Paula put down her fork and said, “I’m really tired, Mom. I think I’ll lie down.”

She grabbed her overnight bag and headed up the stairs. Before she got to her own bedroom, she tapped on Erik’s door. “Come in,” he called.

She found him at his usual place in front of the computer,
Civilization II
loaded and ready to play. “Do you want to play for a bit, Paula?” he asked, a look of eager expectation on his face.

Paula felt a twinge of guilt. She couldn’t play right now, because she had to take some laxatives
immediately, or the Christmas cake and eggnog would be there to stay. “Maybe later,” she said. “I just wanted to give you your Game Gear back.” She handed him the worn lunch bag which was wrapped around his prized possession. “And thanks for being such a great brother.”

As he reached up and grabbed the bag, Paula tried to ignore the look of hurt in his eyes. She turned around towards the door. “I tried to stop them, sis, but they wouldn’t listen.”

Paula frowned at his comment, not understanding what he was referring to. She walked down the hallway to her own bedroom and opened the door.

What a shock!

The beloved oil by Gramma Pauline was gone. And Paula’s collection of posters had been removed from the walls and the wallpaper that had brought her joy since childhood had been stripped away. In its place were pale pink walls bordered with English cabbage roses. Her bed and dresser, which had once been dark-stained oak, were now painted a high-gloss white. Paula ran to her dresser and opened the top drawer. The underwear that she had casually tossed in as it was laundered was now folded neatly and stacked in rows. In alarm, she groped with her hand to the back of the drawer. Her laxatives were gone.

“Do you like how we did your room?” Paula’s
mother was standing in the doorway regarding her daughter. “Merry Christmas!”