by Cate Lawley
Smacking the light switch on gave me an odd sense of satisfaction. Maybe if I slammed a door, I’d feel even better. I steeled myself, then let the towel drop. Turning to the full-length mirror, I tried to examine the woman standing there dispassionately. The eyes were mine. So much larger in my now too-thin face, but the shape, color, and the thick lashes were all me. A glimmer of hope pushed past the panic. I was still in there. The shape of my face had changed significantly, but the flare of my eyebrows was the same, as was the shape of my nose. As I tilted my head to the side, I realized it was really my jaw line that had changed the most.
My gaze slipped lower to prominent collarbones and—
“No way.” I could see my ribs, barely, but I could see them. And my D cups had diminished to a less voluptuous A or B. I wasn’t sure which, because I couldn’t remember having ever been an A or B. I had starved, literally, in four days. No one lost that much body mass that fast.
That’s why I was so tired. And also why my brain had ceased to function properly. If I hadn’t eaten in four days, of course I was tired. And my blood sugar was low. I threw on some yoga pants and a T-shirt—nothing else would fit—and hopped on the scales in my bathroom. I’d lost twenty-five pounds. How was that possible?
I stepped away from the scales and tried to decide if I was actually hungry—and I wasn’t. What was happening to me? I didn’t even know what I would tell my doctor. He was a stuffy old guy who barely spoke ten words to me during any visit. He’d think I’d starved myself, but I would never. I liked food. And while I’d been a little overweight, I didn’t have a serious problem with the way I looked before. Sure, I envied more glamorous women—who didn’t? I squeezed my eyes shut. Looking so different, feeling so alien in my own body, I missed being a little overweight, because that was me.
Food—that was my next step. I needed to eat something.
En route to the kitchen, I contemplated my two biggest dilemmas: what story could I tell my coworkers to explain my rapid weight loss? And how could I convince my doctor I hadn’t developed an eating disorder? Otherwise, he wouldn’t bother to figure out what was going on with me. Or I just needed a new doctor who would believe me when I said I wasn’t starving myself.
A knock on the front startled me. Those questions would have to wait for now. I detoured from the kitchen and went to open the front door.
Looking at the shocked face of my neighbor, it occurred to me that interacting with people who knew me as twenty-five pounds heavier might not be advisable.
“Hi, Mrs. A. How have you been?”
“My, but you certainly look different, don’t you, Mallory? Have you been ill? Not that you look, uh… You look just fine.” She pursed her lips together.
I scrambled to think of an excuse, any excuse, for my appearance. “Diet pills from Mexico…” I shrugged, leaving the rest to her imagination.
“I see.” She frowned, clearly disapproving of such newfangled methods. She’d told me not long after I moved in that she enjoyed a brisk walk twice daily and ate salad for dinner every night. From the context of the conversation, it had been a not-so-subtle hint that I should consider doing the same. Mrs. A’s face cleared and she leaned forward. “Well, it’s just that I’ve been knocking and knocking. I didn’t want to use my key, just in case…in case you might have company.” She whispered the last word like it was a secret she was hiding from nosy neighbors. Except she was the only nosy neighbor on this side of the fourth floor.
I stood up straighter and bit my lip in an effort not to laugh. Mrs. A was embarrassed that her thirty-nine-year-old neighbor might have had male company overnight. I couldn’t help but want to laugh at the absurdity. I’d been dying—literally wasting away in my apartment—and the only neighbor with a key was too embarrassed by my (wholly imagined) sexual marathon to use her key. Even my mom didn’t have a key to my place.
Biting back a laugh that was sure to be wildly misinterpreted, I said, “No, I haven’t had any company. Just a little flu bug. Thank you for checking on me.”
She gave me a sweet, grandmotherly smile, but she had a wicked glint in her eye—like she knew the real story. “I see. Well, if I’d known you were sick, I’d have brought over some homemade chicken soup for you.”
Mrs. A had a vivid imagination, and she did love to spy on the neighbors—but envisioning an orgy in my apartment was a level beyond anything I would have previously expected of her. She needed to get out more. I smiled and tried to look thankful—even though I’d tried her chicken soup. “That’s so kind of you, but I’m on the mend now.”
I took a step back deeper into my apartment, hoping she’d get the hint.
Mrs. A was no one’s fool. “You let me know if you change your mind about that soup. Bye for now.” She gave me a jaunty wave and headed back to her apartment just across the hall.
As I closed the door, I gauged my level of hunger. I should be starving—but I wasn’t. Time to try a little food and see if that sparked my appetite. Sometimes all it took was that first bite, and then, poof, my stomach was jumpstarted. Not that I’d gone quite this long without a meal, but in my school days, I’d definitely skipped a few.
As I wandered into the kitchen, I considered my current mental state after four days with no food. How I wasn’t lightheaded and seeing stars, I had no clue. Nothing in the pantry looked particularly appealing. The refrigerator had been practically empty before I’d fallen ill, so I wasn’t holding out much hope there. Orange juice looked good—probably because my mouth still had a cottony, dry feeling. I drank straight from the carton as I perused the rest of the contents. Sandwich meat that had been opened longer than seven days, bread for toast, a questionable tomato, and more condiments than any three people needed. Eventually I settled on peanut butter toast. Easy, filling, and about all my bare cupboards were going to yield.
It wasn’t until I loaded my toaster oven that the oddness of drinking straight from the carton hit me. Normally, I found that disgusting: backwash in the carton, the juice sitting in the fridge, and the bacteria from my mouth growing and overpopulating the previously pristine orange juice… I blinked. My scalp wasn’t crawling. I had no urge to immediately chuck the OJ into the trash or brush my teeth. Bizarre.
Not that I was OCD—not technically. I was just particular. And I didn’t like bacteria and germs. Or bugs. Or sick people. My hand was moving toward the carton of OJ for another sip when the timer on the toaster oven dinged.
Apparently I was thirsty enough not to care about bacteria, because that OJ sounded really good. I shrugged and chugged the rest of the juice.
The peanut butter melted as I spread it on the warm toast, and the nutty aroma filled the room. My mouth watered. I took a bite, and as the gooey peanut butter hit my tongue, I experienced my first pangs of hunger.
I savored the warmth of the peanut butter and the crunch of the crust. It was heavenly.
A strange sensation was the first indication that all was not well. Nothing I could pinpoint, just a notion that something wasn’t quite right. If only that feeling had persisted for more than a few seconds, I might have realized what it meant. The contents of my stomach were spread on the floor before I could even think about making it to the bathroom.
Tiptoeing around the mess, I made a dash for the sink. I rinsed my mouth as best I could, but when the acrid taste in my mouth was finally gone, I didn’t know what to do. Was it the orange juice? The bread? The peanut butter?
I had managed to keep down the water I’d drunk so far, but that was all I knew for sure.
As I rinsed my mouth a second time, I realized I still had no good story for my doctor and a nasty mess to clean up. Trawling the internet for a new doctor just moved up my to-do list. I had to sort myself out, and preferably before Monday.
And how much longer could I go without food?
I threw a mountain of towels on the floor so that there was no way I’d be contaminated by orange juice/peanut butter puke, and then chucked them all in the
wash. Germs and bacteria may not be as freaky today, but puke was still disgusting. As soon as all traces of mess had been erased, I realized my short bout of activity had drained whatever energy reserves I had. I filled a pitcher with water and grabbed a cup to set on my bedside table, and then I followed the very inviting call of my bed.
4
NEW DOCTOR, NOT WITCHDOCTOR
My eyelids popped open. I did a quick check for eyelid gunk, but my eyes were surprisingly clear of superglue funk. A buzzing energy filled me, not unlike a massive caffeine high. Not traditionally a morning person, that was more than a little surprising. All of that energy was accompanied by a massive thirst that reminded me of the pitcher I’d filled earlier. I turned to my bedside table, planning to drain the pitcher—but it was already empty. Odd. I didn’t remember waking up, and certainly didn’t remember drinking an entire pitcher of water.
I made my way to the kitchen in search of liquids. I even considered braving some milk. But sanity returned when I remembered my earlier puke-fest. Water for now. After drinking three tall glasses, I filled a fourth glass and sat down at my computer. I needed to go to the doctor, preferably right now, while I still had the energy to get dressed and leave the house. Who knew how long that would last? And I needed a new doctor. My guy wasn’t going to cut it. He didn’t have weekend hours—and he just wasn’t going to work.
Three rejections later, I’d exhausted the only options that fit my needs. Finding anyone with weekend hours, who was accepting new patients, and took my insurance, was apparently an impossible task. I tried to take a drink, but found I’d drained yet another glass of water. I stared at the empty glass. That was not normal.
I tried not to get frustrated, but I was on the clock. Who knew when my little energy boost would fade away, and I’d end up passed out in bed again for several hours?
With renewed determination, I scratched insurance off my list of requirements and kept searching. Five minutes later, I’d found a doctor who shared a clinic with several alternative medicine practitioners. Not sure how I felt about that, but she had weekend hours and the website declared, “New patients welcome.” I wouldn’t hold my breath, because two other traditional doctors had said the same—but that didn’t include new patients to be seen this weekend. Also, I wasn’t entirely sure what alternative medicine meant in the context of this practice. The two doctors on staff were both MDs, but it looked like the practice offered some other therapies. Maybe that meant they’d be open-minded about my weird symptoms? Or at least not assume I was starving myself intentionally. The thought was enough for me to dial the number.
“Doctor’s office. How may I help you?” The chirpy voice on the line sounded helpful enough.
“I’m in urgent need of an appointment this weekend. Do you have any available?”
“Are you already a patient with us?”
I wanted to groan in frustration, but managed to filter out my annoyance—I hoped. “No, but I really do need to see someone quickly.”
“Well…” The young woman on the phone at least pretended that she wanted to help. So far, that was much better than the other calls.
I tried for a little pity. “My symptoms have been rather alarming, and I don’t think an ER visit is going to be any help.”
A loud sigh puffed across the line. “Tell me what your symptoms are, and—no promises—maybe we can fit you in on Monday or Tuesday.”
That was the best offer I’d had so far.
“Rapid weight loss, persistent and unquenchable thirst, aching muscles—though that’s gone now—and long periods of sleep. Oh—and I can’t seem to keep food down.” I reviewed my mental symptom checklist. “I think that’s it.”
“All right. I’ll check in with the doctor, but she’s quite busy today. We may not be back in touch until Monday. And if at any time you feel like there’s an emergency, you should seek help from an urgent care facility or the emergency room.”
“Yes, I understand that.” I mentally shrugged as I gave her my contact details. Losing twenty-five pounds in days was likely a really big emergency—but I was mobile and staying hydrated. And I really, really didn’t want to go to the ER. What would the ER do for me besides send me a massive bill? I was walking and talking and had no pain.
I was scrolling through alternative choices online, holding on to the ridiculous hope someone would see me before Monday, when my phone rang.
As I tapped accept, I realized it was the number for the alternative medicine clinic. “Hello?”
“This is Dr. Dobrescu. Is this Mallory Andrews?”
It hadn’t even been five minutes, so the doctor obviously wasn’t that busy.
“Yes, that’s me. Do you think you might get me in?”
“When did your symptoms start?” Brisk and businesslike, Dr. Dobrescu wasn’t messing about.
“Maybe Tuesday? As I told your receptionist, I’ve been sleeping quite a bit, so I can’t say exactly.”
“Are you missing any time?”
“I’m not sure what—” I suddenly realized I had no idea how I got home from the bar. Two white wine spritzers wouldn’t have that effect. “Ah, maybe.”
Silence followed.
I checked to see that I hadn’t accidentally ended the call, but it was still live on my end. “Dr. Dobrescu?”
“As soon as you can, come in.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We’ll fit you in. When can we expect you?”
The clinic had gone from “maybe Monday or Tuesday” to “come in now” in the space of minutes, and I hadn’t even mentioned exactly how much weight I’d lost. I didn’t think my symptoms were that specific—at least not according to Google. But given my situation, especially the part where I needed to show up at work on Monday to keep my job, I could hardly be choosy. “I can be there in forty-five minutes.”
“We’ll be ready for you.”
I ended the call and then found myself staring at the phone. We’ll be ready for you. The call had been just a little bit off. Or my imagination had run wild. Probably the latter given my less-than-stellar reasoning skills on an empty stomach.
Rooting around in my closet finally produced an old tennis skirt that almost fit and an only slightly oversized T-shirt. I skipped my usual shower, because I was on a tight timeline. I felt like a narcoleptic time bomb.
As I zipped along in my flashy red Audi TT, two things bothered me. I’d never thought my car was flashy before today, and I was less comfortable driving a new sports car than I was with the sad state of my attire. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in public looking quite so rumpled. But the normal anxiety—that “what would people think” feeling that I normally suffered—simply wasn’t there. It was liberating.
The office wasn’t at all what I expected; it looked like any other doctor’s office. The only thing different from my regular, cranky-old-man doctor’s office was the speed with which the staff ushered me into an exam room. I typically waited fifteen to thirty minutes at a minimum. And it wasn’t as if the practice wasn’t busy. The receptionist hadn’t exaggerated. I’d parked across the street because the office’s lot had been full.
I sat down on the edge of the examining table and watched in surprise as the nurse or assistant—I wasn’t sure which, because she hadn’t bothered to introduce herself—disappeared out the door. She’d gone without taking a history, or commenting on when the doctor would be able to see me, or even a goodbye. Looking back, the only direct interaction I’d had with the staff was to confirm my name.
“Curiouser and curiouser.” I flipped through the contacts in my phone, trying to find someone—anyone—that I could send a quick text with my location and a heads-up to check on me in an hour or so.
I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud until a woman’s voice startled me with a reply. “Do you frequently feel like Alice?”
My eyes met the intent gaze of a dark-haired woman who carried a clipboard. Her delicate features and even skin tones mad
e her age hard to determine, but I guessed anywhere between thirty and fifty. “Ah. No, actually. Just the last few days.” I squinted to read her nametag: Dr. Dobrescu. “Do you usually see new patients first? Shouldn’t a nurse take my history?”
“There’s some concern that you’re contagious. If you don’t mind, I’d like to eliminate that as a possibility before we proceed.”
She still had that intent look, so I couldn’t help wonder if there was a serious problem lurking. I’d stopped worrying quite so much, because—twenty-five pounds of rapid weight loss aside—I was feeling pretty good. My energy buzz hadn’t faded yet. “How do you do that?”
“It’s an in-house test. I just need to draw a little blood.”
When I shrugged, she set her clipboard down and gloved up—twice.
“Don’t you have a phlebotomist or a nurse or something for this stuff?”
“We’re a small office.” She approached with a metal tray.
Blatantly untrue, but I didn’t think commenting would get me any answers. I watched her wrap a band around my upper arm and then swab a spot with alcohol, but after that I couldn’t do it. Something about blood and needles always freaked me out—especially if it was a needle in my arm and my blood. I stared at a point on the wall, careful that I couldn’t even catch what she was doing in my peripheral vision.
“You’ll feel a small pinch now.”
I choked on a laugh. Where did doctors learn that stuff? “Ow.”
“Did that hurt?” She sounded genuinely surprised.
Really? She just shoved a needle in my arm, and she was surprised? What kind of doctor was this lady? Glancing in her direction and then quickly away when I caught sight of the tube filling with blood, I replied, “Well, it was more than a pinch.”
“You said your symptoms began Tuesday?”
“I think so. That’s the last time I remember being conscious.”
“You can look now; I’m done.”
“Also, I should mention that I’ve lost a lot of weight. I think maybe twenty-five pounds in the last few days. I can’t be exactly sure because I hadn’t weighed myself in a while, but close to that.”
