11 May 2001 ~ The filth...

Four years ago today, I came very close to passing out in the hallway of Johnson City High School. I'd started feeling sick and excused myself to go to the bathroom, but instead I ran to the nurse's office. I was about halfway there, when this horrible wave of dizziness and nausea hit, and I had to lean over to regain my balance.

Upon seeing my pale, trembly body enter her office, the nurse, a wonderful woman who retired about three days later, leaped from her desk, grabbed me by the shoulders, and laid me down on a cot. I spent the next few hours lying on that cot waiting for a relative to pick me up and bring me home. Meantime, my then-boyfriend Erich had brought me his Astronomy book, which I studied earnestly, vainly trying to ward off feelings of illness.

My aunt drove me home. I went upstairs. I got into bed. I felt like shit. I woke up the next day, after an uneventful day off, still feeling like shit.

I didn't eat for a month.

On my birthday, I was feeling too nauseous to eat strawberry shortcake. I was feeling too nauseous to eat ANYTHING. Erich brought me breakfast in bed on my birthday: bacon and coffee. I couldn't stand to look at it. I sort of licked at it and stuffed it into my desk where he wouldn't notice I hadn't eaten it. I began lying to my family and to Erich, telling my family I'd eaten dinner with Erich and that I wasn't hungry. I told Erich I'd eaten dinner before he saw me, and wasn't hungry.

Why did I LIE? I don't know, exactly. After all, I just wasn't feeling good. It wasn't like I was on some diet everybody disapproved of. I legitimately felt sick; it wasn't that I was doing anything illegal, immoral, or disappointing...

By the beginning of June four years ago, I was bed-ridden. I could barely swallow water, I was so nauseous. Strangely, I had no other symptoms. Had I actually been EATING anything, I'm sure I would have been vomiting, but my body had nothing to get rid of. I was surviving on water, club crackers, popsicles, and VH-1. I swear to gahd, I must have seen the videos for "Sunny Came Home" and Savage Garden's "I Want You," five million times.

My mother checked my temperature, which was normal. She asked me what I'd had to eat. Eventually, knowing I hadn't eaten anything, she started asking how much I'd nibbled of my cracker. I was too weak to stand, much less go to the bathroom, which didn't matter much, because I didn't have any waste products IN me... It was difficult to see the television; it was sort of blurry and far-away, and looking at it hurt a little spot on my forehead. I was exhausted, but couldn't sleep. I was bored, but I couldn't muster the energy to read. Simple television shows were beyond me; I couldn't understand re-reruns of "Charles in Charge," and so I watched music videos all day, because they were easier to digest, so to speak.

My mom took me to the doctor's a few days after I declared that I couldn't get out of bed. They had me pee in a cup. They weighed me. They prodded and and had me say "ah," which I couldn't do without gagging. They asked if I was sexually active, and gave me a pregnancy test. They told me I'd lost weight. Well no shit, Sherlock. I'm guessing by that point, I'd lost about 10-15 pounds. They ruled out pregnancy and diabetes and suggested that I was probably anorexic, and should seek the services of a mental health professional. My mother proclaimed that this was absolute blasphemy, that Helena Thomas was the queen of bacon, cheeseburgers, and all other things will with lard and fat. I backed her up, tearfully saying, "I WANT to eat! But I CAN'T! I feel SICK!" The only thing they could determine from my tests, however, was that I had something called "key-tones" in my urine: something that happens when your body starts digesting proteins, so you're pissing out good stuff instead of waste. Something that happens after several weeks of starvation. My body was eating itself, and they thought I was fucking doing it ON PURPOSE?

I lay on the couch for a few more days. "Sunny Came Home." Savage Garden's "I want you." Erich visited. I did the word puzzles in the newspaper. I could do the crytogram in five minutes or less. But it was strenuous work; doing the cryptogram tired me out.

I told Erich I thought I was going to die. He said, "no, you're not going to die." I said, "I'm scared." He said, "you'll be fine." But I caught him crying when he thought I'd fallen asleep. I woke up and asked, "Erich, I'm scared I'm going to die... will you please say a prayer for me? I know you don't believe in a god or anything, and I don't always, either, but please just say a prayer..." He refused and tried to pick a fight with me. He discussed things in low tones with my father in the next room. they were all afraid for me. They ALL thought I was going to die. And none of us fucking ever knew WHY.

My mom took me to the hospital. They put me in a wheelchair, because I was too weak to walk. I slumped over to one side and cried. It had been a month since I'd eaten a whole meal.

They did an ultrasound. It tickled like hell. I asked the doctor, "is that the baby?" The doctor said, "You're not pregnant; that's your kidney." The doctor didn't seem very amused. Too bad; it was my last-ditch effort at humor. Kidneys, by the way, resemble human beings, at least on ultrasound. I named my kidneys after realizing they looked so animate: Java and Joe.

They weighed me. Ninety-three pounds. My normal weight was about 120, give or take.

They handed me a paper cup of something very, very heavy, and told me to drink it. It was barium, they told me. I think barium. I can't remember now. I do remember thinking, holy shit, this is fucking RADIOACTIVE, before they forced the cup to my lips and helped me to drink it. Funny; I couldn't even drink WATER, and they expected me to fucking consume RADIOACTIVE liquid!? I think not, sweeties.

They did a scan of my stomach. It didn't hurt; I couldn't feel anything except the nausea and the fear of dying. They said, "It looks like there's nothing wrong. Are you sure you're not pregnant?"

YOU'RE the one with the fucking ultrasound, lady... YOU tell me how pregnant I'm not.

I lay on the couch for two more days. I couldn't eat. I couldn't move. I was missing school. The best part of the day was early morning when my dad brought the paper in, and I could do the cryptogram.

My mom brought me back to the doctor's office. He poked me. He prodded me. He looked at me gently and asked, "Helena, are you starving yourself on purpose?" "NO!" I bellowed, with most of the strength I had left. "Okay," he said, convinced but seemingly unthreatened by my bitchiness.

"Have you vomited? Is there stomach pain? Diarrhea?"

"No."

"You just feel nauseous?"

"You have gastritis."

"What?"

"It was probably caused by a little stomach bug. You got the flu, you probably didn't even notice it, and then your stomach got inflamed, and the little inflamations didn't go away. Those got irritated by the acid in your stomach, and couldn't heal."

May the Higher Powers bless Dr. John Perry with all things warm and delicious.

He prescribed something called Axid, which reduces the acid in your stomach so that your stomach can heal itself. Three-hundred ml a day.

Within a day, I was feeling better. Within two days, I was eating. Within three days, I was eating spaghetti and meatballs. By the end of the week, I was at Sharkey's having chicken wings with extra hot sauce. Anorexic? FUCK anorexia; I have chicken wings to attend to.

The reason I bring all of this up now is that it's happening again. For about two weeks now, I haven't been eating much, just feeling sort of yucky, sort of nauseous off and on... I'd been lying to people again, telling them I'd already eaten. I weighed myself in the bathroom department of the local department store the other day, which placed my weight around 109 pounds... I've lost ELEVEN pounds already? I woke up Wednesday morning, however, with "Sunny Came Home," running through my head, and I knew something was just too wrong...

For two days, I've cut all caffeine, alcohol, and acidic foods (ORANGE JUICE! Ohhhh, my beloved orange juice!) out of my diet. I bought some Axid and have been taking them at twice the over-the-counter recommended dosage: three-hundred milligrams a day. I've been forcing myself to eat: little pudding cups, bagels, dinner rolls, a Subway sandwich... And last night, feeling bold, I went to the Red Oak Diner and ordered strawberry shortcake. I will NOT fucking succumb to this shit. I will NOT let this reduce me to watching VH-1 again. I will NOT die of starvation. I will NOT die of nausea.

I'm starting to feel better.

~Helena*

"Things are bad! Things are very bad: I have it, the filth, the Nausea." --Sartre