The Invisible Patient

The Invisible Patient

By Natalie Meyer

I wake up at six-thirty in the morning, shivering despite the immense pile of blankets covering me. I was wearing sweats and a hoodie before I went to bed, but now awake, I discover I shed them in my sleep.

I roll out of bed in my underwear, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders like a cape. My head is foggy with fatigue, and there is a slight pounding when I tilt my head to the left side–any small movement, really. I open the door to my dresser without turning the light on and squint at the clothes. I pull out my favorite tank top. One of my friends, Bianca, said it made me look snatched. Grasping the blanket with one hand, I pull the shirt over my head, but struggle to get it past my chin. Only when the blanket falls from my grasp am I able to pull the shirt the rest of the way. I ignore the biting cold, but the hair on my arms stands pin-straight. My teeth clatter together as I decide on leggings with a flair at the bottom.

As I am grabbing socks from the closet, my mother hollers at me from the banister, saying I better be up. I flip on the light and yell the confirmation through the walls.

I grab my curler from a bin on the other side of the room and catch a glance of myself in the mirror. It’s full length, and the glass is pristine without a single smudge. Most days, I look slim, but I can’t help but notice how much bigger I look. My stomach is bloated and humps through my skin-tight top. I shouldn’t have had two pancakes yesterday. I saw this reel on Instagram a few weeks ago. This widely admired influencer, who specializes in beauty and fashion, made a video about how she’s so successful. Her secret was two words: Beauty and Discipline. Whenever I need motivation, I mutter those two words to myself like a prayer.

I curl my hair and coat my lashes with rich mascara. Halfway through doing my hair, I had to stop to put on a sweater–my hands were shaking so bad I could barely hold the wand steady.

At seven o’clock sharp, I get another holler. This time from my sister.

“Jeanine! We have to leaveeee.”

“COMING,” I shout back.

I grab my bag, quickly inspecting my outfit again before I head out the door. My shoulders are shaking slightly now, but that’s only because I am clenching my abdomen. I put my sweater back in the dresser, and I’m contemplating whether to bring it with me. It looks kinda ugly.

“Jeanine. We are leaving without you!”

Without another glance, I leave my room and race down the stairs.

Mother is in the kitchen reading something on her phone while drinking her coffee. She looks up when she hears me come in. “Honey, what took so long? Katherine and your dad are in the car.”

“Sorry…It took me a while to curl my hair.”

She puts her phone down and looks at me, eyes lingering on my shirt and sharp collarbone. I shift the weight of my backpack to the other shoulder, and after a second, I move it back.

“You’re doing okay, right, sweetie?” Her voice is unsure, hedged. “There are no problems at school with friends…or boys…?”

I roll my eyes. “No, of course not! I’m fine.” Walking to the counter, I grab my water bottle. “I need to go. I’ll see you later, Mom.”

“Grab your lunch bag on the way out!” I do it, just to please her, but I hate that look she was giving me. Like, I am some sick dog she should feel sorry for. Well, I’m not.

I’ve made it through five of my six classes before my head starts aching. Ten minutes into it, my forehead is slick with sweat, my hands clammy, and my eyes are drooping. The heat sucks all the energy from my body like a vacuum.

Bianca looks over at me and whispers, “Are you feeling okay? Is it another headache?”

“I…I’m okay. The humidity is making it worse, I think.” I take a few notes without really knowing what I’m writing. Fifty more minutes of class. I stare at the clock, watching the little hand tick all the way around. After a moment, I blink out of my daze and focus on Mr. Lanski’s face, then his hand as he writes words on the board with an ugly, faded neon green marker. Id, ego, superego are the three words on the board. I thought this was a psychology class, so why is he teaching us Latin? My head is too fuzzy to hear anything he’s saying. It may as well be a foreign language.

I lay my head on my desk, trying to relax. The wood is smooth and cold against my skin. Still, the pounding won’t stop. Not in my head this time, but my stomach. I really want a donut right now. Or a brownie. Oh, ice cream!

“Jeanine? Jeanine? Jeanine, wake up.” Pressure on my shoulder. A voice that hums somewhere far off. “Mr. Lanski, she’s not waking up.”

***

I’m in bed, but not my bed. The walls are a yellowish white, reflecting the fluorescent light–a hospital room. My head doesn’t hurt anymore, but it’s fuzzy like I am hungover. I am dressed in a lightweight gown that ties in the back with a small string. Hopefully, I will not be asked to get up. There are flowers by my bedside with a ribbon nestled in between that reads, Get Well Soon! I shift my arm to fix my hair, and a cord pulls me back gently. They gave me an IV.

The door opens, and a young lady appears with small hips and a broad smile. “Hello, dear,” she says, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

She pulls up a chair and sits next to me. Her expression grows less smiley. “No, Jeanine, you’re not fine.” My stomach dips, and I grasp my fingers anxiously. “You've lost a lot of weight over the last few months. It’s been hard on your body, and if it’s not fixed, you will progressively get worse.”

I can’t bring myself to look at her. There is a lump in my throat I can’t seem to swallow.

Her voice is gentle. “You have an eating disorder. You’ve been starving yourself. Did you know?” She stares at me, but it’s not a cold, hard stare, but reassuring, calm, and even.

“I…I didn’t really think about it. I just started and now…I can’t stop.” What I don’t say is, I don’t know how to.

“Eating is not a privilege. You need food to survive,” she says. “I’ve talked to your parents, and they’ve signed off on some treatment so you can get better. But I am giving you that choice. Do you want our help?”

For some reason, all I can think about at the moment is Mom’s chili. I used to get so excited when I smelled sausage and tomatoes because I knew that’s what she was making. The taste of ripe, slightly sweet tomatoes, rich, greasy meat, and juicy beans with the slightest hint of spice—I can almost taste it.

Don’t throw your life away. Beauty and Discipline, remember?

Why beauty and discipline? Why not happiness?

I wrap two fingers around my wrist easily, the bone protruding. You’re wasting away–that’s not beauty, that’s destruction.

I give the nurse a timid smile. “Can you answer a few questions?”