| |
Teddy
I CAN’T TALK TO ANYONE. Not my dad, not my doctors. There’s no one. Not even Taryn. She texted again today, several times, and maybe it was stupid but when I saw her name on the screen, I thought it meant she and I would still be connected.
But then I remembered how last night she’d mentioned this other guy. My replacement. And she’s moving on. Quickly.
And I’m not.
I’m stuck.
Stuck here, as they need to monitor me some more before I go home. Then it’ll be a case of waiting for appointments for the MRI and diagnostic catheterization as soon as they become available. But I can’t even think about that. Can’t answer the doctors. Not verbally. I just nod.
I don’t speak.
“Come on, son!” Dad says as I stare at the hospital food.
It’s late, and dinner’s been on the tray in front of me for what seems like hours, waiting for me to eat it. Twice, nurses have prompted me, but I’m pleased they’re not being insistent. Not yet, anyway.
“You’ve got to eat,” Dad says. “You always used to have an appetite.”
Appetite. Like when I used to eat jam doughnuts and cake. When I didn’t realize that a blueberry muffin for breakfast had so much oil and fat in it. How I’d eat a chocolate bar at break when I was twelve. I’m just glad I know how to eat healthily now. It was difficult at first—but once I told people I didn’t like chocolate and I wasn’t a fan of cake, it got easier. People stopped offering me the bad foods and I was able to focus on eating only the right things.
But the memory of being extravagant with food makes my shoulders curl now. And that’s how Dad remembers me? Pigging out, like that?
But what does Dad know? He was never around. He doesn’t know whether I used to eat or not. Only Mum knew. And Roseheart, of course. But not Taryn, because even though I wanted to tell her, I just couldn’t. Felt ashamed. As numerous people have already pointed out, I do a girl’s sport. Why would I want a ‘female illness’ as well?
I hate gender stereotypes. Hate it all as I stare at the wilted broccoli next to my battered fish and greasy chips. I don’t think the broccoli is organic. The fish and chips, I both want to shove into my mouth and never touch. I both want to tell Dad everything about how food makes me feel—so then he’ll stop pressuring me to eat—and stay quiet. The conflict is ripping at my seams, and it means I have to move my hands else I feel I’ll explode. So, I lift my fork and push a clump of sad, pathetic broccoli round the plate, counting the circular motions.
One, two, three, four.
Counting is a distraction.
Five, six, seven, eight.
Joe, the nutritionist at Roseheart Academy, knows and helps me. I have sessions with him. It’s all contained, secret, because I asked it to be. Not like how everyone knows Ivelisse sees Joe way more often than all the others and that she has dieticians and therapists and doctors involved too.
But I’m not going back to the academy. It hits me like a ton of bricks, and I flinch. I feel like I’m being crushed by the realization, crumbling into a fine powder. I’m not going back there. I won’t get any more help with...with this all. I stare at the food. And I just feel it like it’s a certainty. Ballet was what helped me. I had to keep my strength up to keep dancing—Joe kind of made me see that. And not just dancing, but dancing with Taryn.
I can’t do that now. I haven’t got that motivation to keep me eating when my career is over.
Without a word, I push my plate a few inches away. It makes a scraping noise. I can’t eat any of it. Not when I’m stuck here—because if I have to eat the fish and chips, I know I’ll have to dance. Have to do something healthy to counteract the unhealthy food. And I can’t dance with all these people monitoring me, watching me, in here.
“That’s all right, boy,” Dad says. His voice is forlorn. “You tried. Maybe you’ll be hungry later.”
I adjust the beanie hat I’m wearing, pulling it down a little. It’s comforting, having it on. Even if it is brand new. Dad asked earlier if I wanted anything. I said a beanie and he went out and bought one. “Maybe. It’d be easier if it’s something softer.” I point to my nose. There are splints around it, and nasal packs in my nostrils too that the doctor explained are required for stability of the septum. Eating is going to hurt.
But, still, even if the food was soft, I know I won’t eat. I can’t. Not now. I’m too stressed. So, instead, I pick up the information booklet that the doctor left for me this afternoon. The one on HCM. Just looking at the booklet make me feel sick. I flick to a random page. Living with Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy: it is vital that a patient diagnosed with HCM takes their medications as required and makes an effort to stay well hydrated.
Well hydrated. The words blur.
It’s not just food I struggle with. All the other dancers at the academy drink a lot of water, but I’ve always found it difficult. I’ve never really been able to say why.
A healthy diet is also vital for anyone diagnosed with HCM.
A healthy diet. Well, I do eat healthily, I know that. I’m always super concerned about the quality of food. That’s why I couldn’t eat the fish and chips, even though part of me wanted to. And the broccoli, though my brain told me it was healthy, just didn’t look...right.
But I do eat healthily. Even if Joe says I need to eat more, eat a healthy amount, and not cut out certain food groups.
Oh, God. I stare at my arm, try to see it objectively, see if it’s thin or not.
What if my lack of water and struggle with food has caused this? Joe was always saying how eating disorders can cause severe problems. Severe...like a heart problem.
I plough through the HCM booklet, trying to find a page on causes. Trying to find if I’ve caused this. But all it says is it’s genetic.
Genetic.
I look at Dad. He’s peering intently at his phone now. He played football until about ten years ago when he got a knee injury. And Mum was a professional ballet dancer, just like what I want to be. While Mum did die—from falling when rock-climbing on a girls’ holiday—neither of them were struck down in their late teens or twenties. Because they don’t have this condition.
And that means I can’t have it either.
It’ll be the lack of water and food that is making me dizzy, and it must explain the arrhythmias and heart thickening, too. That’ll be it. I haven’t got this condition. I just know it.