Copies of the daily word jumbles are to be distributed then too. Responsibility for that falls upon the group leader, who will disclose the answers no sooner than evening snack later that day.
Note writing and passing is encouraged. No note must fall in Direct Care’s hands.
Books, music, letter paper, postage stamps, and flowers received are to be shared.
The availability of cottage cheese in the house is to be celebrated every Tuesday, as are animal crackers, the morning walks, and any excursions on Saturday.
No girl will ever judge, tell on, or cause any suffering to the rest.
I end, rather lamely:
I really hope this helps.
By the way, my name is Anna. I hope we become good friends.
Letter folded, slippers on, I tiptoe to Bedroom 3 and slip it under the closed door.
A few hours later, I see the new girl sitting at the breakfast table. She has survived her first night, and has a cup of steaming hot coffee in front of her. I introduce myself and do not mention the letter. She smiles and does the same.
The coffee is good and strong this morning. Everyone has two cups.
81
Treatment Plan Update—June 17, 2016
Weight: 93 lbs.
BMI: 16
Summary:
Patient has been cooperating with the treatment team and been fully compliant with her meal plan since removal of nasogastric feeding tube on June 13. She continues to struggle with food types and quantities, but has been working on containing eating-disorder urges and negative thoughts regarding body image. Her weight continues to restore slowly, but the team is pleased with her progress and absence of associated complications.
The team will continue to work on weight restoration and increased exposure to food. Because patient’s weight remains below 85% of team target, residential treatment remains indicated. Further caloric increases are also recommended.
Treatment Objectives: Resume normal nutrition, restore weight. Increase exposure to different foods and work to decrease anxiety.
Monitor vitals. Monitor labs. Follow hormone levels. Monitor mood.
Target caloric value: 3,500 calories daily
82
Sunday again, but this is no ordinary Sunday on Swann Street. At the breakfast table, everyone is fidgety. Even, especially, Direct Care.
It is Family Day, an event the center organizes every few months. As Emm explained, loved ones are invited to come and spend the day, take part in meals, sessions, and activities with the patients and learn about eating disorders. Staff is available to provide information and answer questions about different therapies and treatment plans, as well as general guidance on how to deal with, well, us.
I thought it a very good idea, this Introduction to Eating Disorders course. Not that there is anyone I could have invited today; my family is an ocean away, and Matthias has already spent way too many visiting hours here.
Enthusiastic nonetheless about this out-of-the-ordinary day, I look around the table and wonder whose family members might be attending. Direct Care asks the question for me:
So, ladies, who’s coming?
One of the girls, Chloe, says her daughters are. Julia is excited too: after three months here, she announces, her parents are finally going to visit!
Another patient’s husband will also attend, and
What about you, Sarah?
No, darling.
Her red locks shake loosely.
I tried to get that no-good husband of mine to bring my son, but he won’t.
I am sorry,
I tell her. She shrugs proudly and smiles.
It’s all right. Probably best if little Charlie doesn’t see me in a place like this anyway.
Direct Care turns to Emm and asks:
Did you invite her this time?
I do not know who she is but Emm says:
No,
with her plastic cruise director smile.
The minute hand on the clock passes the eight-thirty mark. The breakfast dishes are cleared. We are sent off to community space and informed that we are to behave. There will be no morning walk or church pass on this exceptional day. I frown, beginning to have reservations about Family Day.
At nine o’clock the doorbell rings and Julia rushes past us to the door. In the doorway stands a tall, lanky man in a suit.
Paul!
calls the new patient. Husband and wife hug each other awkwardly under our curious gazes. She then walks him to a corner in community space and we all turn back to the front door.
The doorbell rings again. This time behind it stand a bespectacled man, flustered, and three girls. The eldest, I guess, is around thirteen. The youngest cannot be older than three. I recognize their faces from the photographs Chloe passed around this morning.
Chloe! Your family is here!
The girls hug their mother and are bashful … for a minute. Then they launch, with Chloe, into a rowdy game of hide-and-seek.
There are children in the house. There are children in the house! Screams and squeals and laughter too! Never have I been more grateful for chaos at 17 Swann Street.
The door again. Julia’s parents, perhaps? I volunteer to find out.
At first I see nothing, then I look down: a giant bouquet of flowers! Bright violets streaked with lemon yellows, fiery orange shoots that look like flames, rare orchids and lilies in shades of deep mauve, blue, and red … all held by two little hands. Those belong to a little boy well concealed behind flowers and leaves. I know who he is instantly; he has Sarah’s eyes. Her nose and freckles and heart-shaped face too, but his hair is a deep chocolate brown.
The toddler is far too intimidated and little for me to remain towering over him, so I step out onto the porch and bend down to his level, peeking at him through the leaves.
Hello, my friend, what is your name?
Charlie,
comes the reply.
What beautiful flowers you have, Charlie! Which lucky lady are they for?
Charlie has no time to answer; he has been swept off his feet, flowers and all, by a tsunami of fiery red hair and lipstick in a flowery print dress. It had taken Sarah a minute to register her son’s presence at the front door, then every motherly instinct she had been holding back since she arrived here had erupted.
She is larger than life. An artist in every sense, I think as I watch her hug her son. She cries and smiles and kisses him on the eyes, the forehead, the cheeks. She kisses every freckle on his nose. When he is finally released long enough to breathe the little boy says:
I got you flowers, Mommy.
What gorgeous flowers!
she exclaims as she takes them from his tired hands. The bouquet is nearly as tall and, I suspect, as heavy as he is.
All my favorite colors are here! Did you choose them yourself?
He nods timidly and replies:
I told Daddy you liked rainbow.
Where is Daddy? I wonder as I look beyond the porch. Magical as they are, surely the two-year-old and his rainbow bouquet did not arrive here on their own. Still, there is no Daddy in sight. When questioned, little Charlie replies:
He says he has to work and that he will come back to pick me up.
Sarah does not seem too distraught.
Our Family Day begins, and what a splendid, sunny day it is. For one day, 17 Swann Street is just a regular house. We still attend therapy groups, but in them we play games and draw pictures of our families and homes. We have our meals in the house next door, on the same clear plates wrapped in plastic, but I cannot possibly fear my cake with one of Chloe’s daughters going Mmm mmm, making a frosting mess, licking her fingers and smacking her lips.
After lunch, we have music therapy outdoors, on pillows and rugs spread on the grass. Sarah brings crayons and paper from the sunroom so that she and Charlie can color. I watch her sketch two, three, four versions of a violet, orange, blue, and red bouquet. Charlie contributes, scribbling here and there with the crayons he holds clumsily in a fist.
It is a beautiful Sunday. Like all beautiful days, it goes by too fast. Five o’clock comes and we take the pillows and rugs back inside.
The grown-up goodbyes are civilized. Those to the children are teary. All too quickly the house at 17 Swann Street turns quiet again.
The girls are back in community space, but many of them are missing. Julia, and Sarah.