February 1998
BY THE TIME girls arrived at Better Horizons, their entire lives revolved around their eating disorders. Their days were spent counting calories, obsessively focusing on their weight, measuring every inch of their bodies to see if they had lost or gained weight (at first, they always thought they had gained).
Doing chores allowed them to get back in touch with daily tasks that didn’t revolve around ED. The staff was mindful of assigning ones that weren’t physically strenuous, like folding laundry, dusting, or throwing out the trash.
Given my recent exercise compulsion, I was assigned the least strenuous task—folding brochures for the treatment center and inserting them into envelopes to be mailed to hospitals and doctors’ offices.
Emily was assigned the same chore because she had a feeding tube and needed to exert herself as little as possible. It was bad enough that I had to room with her after she had lied about ratting me out when I tried to run away, not to mention all of her constant digs that I had to suffer through about how she was more committed to ED than me. Now I was forced to sit next to her at the dining room table doing our chores.
While waiting for Dr. Larsen to bring the brochures, Emily was busy doing her daily compulsive body-checking ritual, seeking information or rather confirmation about her slight weight and size. Sometimes she’d feel her collarbones. Other times she’d measure her thighs with the palms of her hands. On this particular day, she placed her fingers around each of her wrists, meticulously checking their circumference to see if her fingers still fit around them with ample room to give.
Dr. Larsen stepped into the dining room with a stack of brochures. “Emily, please take your fingers off your wrists,” she told her. Emily dropped her hands to her side.
Dr. Larsen placed the brochures in front of us, took the top sheet off the pile, and laid it flat on the table to show us how she wanted it folded.
“The letterhead is at the top,” she said. “Visualize each sheet in thirds, one-third on top, one-third in the middle, and one-third on the bottom. First, you take the bottom third and fold it toward the top—”
“We know how to fold a piece of paper,” I cut her off. “My God, it’s not that hard.” I shook my head angrily. But what I was really enraged about was that she had put a stop to my exercising.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you two are doing.”
I rolled my eyes at her as she walked out of the room.
I wanted this over with as quickly as possible to get away from Emily, so I began attacking the pile of papers, folding one sheet after another without stopping while Emily was going at a snail’s pace.
“If you don’t start helping me, I’m telling Dr. Larsen,” I said.
Emily continued moving like a turtle.
“Did you know that folding paper burns calories?” I asked her.
She didn’t respond.
“Never mind, don’t help me,” I told her. “I’ll just burn more calories than you.”
She looked down, ashamed, realizing I was right, but she was still moving very slowly.
I folded sheet after sheet and was halfway done when I looked over at her. She was still on her first one. Even though I was burning more calories than her, my pent-up resentment boiled over.
“That’s it,” I said. “I’m getting Dr. Larsen and telling her you’re not doing your chore.”
“I am …” Emily said when her head suddenly thumped down on the table, loudly.
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “Now you’re pretending to be too tired to fold?”
She didn’t respond.
“Emily?”
She still didn’t respond.
I tapped her shoulder, but she was unresponsive. I shook her, but still no response. Her eyes were half-closed, and her pupils looked like they had rolled to the back of her head.
“Emily!” I screamed, before running to the nurses’ station where Dr. Larsen was.
“Emily passed out,” I told her and the nurse.
They both jumped up and ran out as I followed them. The nurse took Emily’s vitals.
“Her heart rate is too low. Call an ambulance,” she told Dr. Larsen.
When the ambulance arrived, I watched the paramedics lift Emily’s body onto a stretcher before whisking her away. The sirens roared down the street until they turned into a faint whisper.
Afterward, I sat back at the dining room table to finish our chore.
Dr. Larsen reappeared. “Are you okay?” she asked me.
“I’m not the one who passed out,” I snapped back.
“It must’ve been scary to see Emily like that.”
“Not really,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
“How can you be sure of that?” Dr. Larsen asked.
“Because she’s made it this long,” I responded.
“It’s not a given. I’m not speaking out of turn because Emily already knows this, but she’s suffering from heart failure. Her heart no longer pumps blood properly because its walls have thinned and weakened due to long-term anorexia.”
“So, what do you want me to do about it?” I asked.
“There’s nothing you can do for Emily. But you might want to consider if her path is what you want for your future.”
She left the room, and I continued silently folding the brochures. It almost felt like she had disparaged Emily by asking me if I wanted to follow in her footsteps, insinuating her path wasn’t one to emulate.
Later that night, I was lying alone in our bedroom. Emily was still at the hospital. A thin sheet covered my body since my comforter had been taken away. Kyle was stationed by the door to ensure I didn’t exercise through the night.
I thought again about what Dr. Larsen had asked me, whether I wanted to follow in Emily’s footsteps. I hadn’t thought about my future since before Mom died, when we’d talked about where I might want to go to college and what I might want to do with my life.
I wondered whether I’d spend the next five years as Emily had. In and out of hospitals and treatment centers. Not allowed to wear shoes or to use a blanket. Not allowed to see my dog or friends. Sleeping and bathing while a guard watched over me.
Before Mom died, I had experienced enough of life to remember being happy and enjoying time with people who loved me. The problem was that life felt so out of reach for someone as broken as me, even though I knew there was another way to exist.
Maybe what Dr. Larsen had said about Emily wasn’t disparaging. Maybe she was trying to help me.
Maybe she thought I was still worth saving.