EXCERPT FROM,
"Henrietta James BOOK TWO: Well Some People Poop Sometimes.
I leaned back against the wall, sprawled out on on that chair like I'd just taken a beating while the Doc asked me the same question.
"Do you have an eating disorder?"
"No."
"Are you sure you don't have an eating disorder?"
"Yes."
"It's okay to be honest. I'm here to help you."
I just stared straight ahead. My body hurt. My head, foggy with no horn to lead the way.
"No response? Listen I'm not here for my health."
That's ironic coming from a doctor.
"They said you don't eat much. And when you do, you throw it up."
I sighed and looked at him.
"I don't have an eating disorder. I do hate food. But that's because it hates me."
"Now," he looks at the file, "Henrietta is--"
"I am not finished my good doctor friend! I am food's nemesis. It doesn't hurt to eat because I think I'm fat. I don't think I'm fat. In fact, I need to gain a few pounds because my hips are jutting out so far that I can't sleep on my side anymore. It pinches! I have never been a back sleeper. Sleeping on my stomach is like littering in Singapore. Asking for trouble! And a good caning."
"Okay, so you are not sleeping well?"
"Still talking Doc! I am here specifically because my work made me come in because they caught me yakking my guts up in the bathroom. Actually they found me leaning against the toilet so exhausted that I couldn't even move my head. Do you know how disgusting those toilets are?! Do you?!"
"So you are throwing up?" he asks.
"I told you that when I first got here. I told you that when I eat it just sits in my belly and ROTS! I feel like a rotting log; weak, hollow and falling apart."
"Why haven't you gone to the doctor before?"
"I did. For years. They don't know what's wrong with me. It could be I.B.S. it could be...anything that they don't know enough about to test for. Besides, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters."
"Don't say that. Hop up on the bed and lie back. Lets check your gut."
I laid back on the hospital bed, an aching groan escaped my throat. Doc checked my stomach. Each gentle push he made into my bloated to December stomach, I grimaced and breathed deep trying not to yelp "Mommy!"
Finally he stopped. I sighed and pushed myself up slowly. Doc grabbed his rolling chair and rolled himself over to me.
"Missy you have a months worth of food stuck in that belly of yours. I have to be honest, I am very surprised. I don't know what to tell you except I believe you don't have an eating disorder."
"I TOLD YOU! Ha! A small victory. Everyone thinks it's an eating disorder. Everyone stares at me like I'm a leper. And maybe I am one. But...thank you!"
I would've jumped up and hopped around like a vibrant froggy before the firecracker exploded in the mouth but instead I fist pumped the air while steadying myself against the hospital bed.
"Now Missy, what do you want to do about this?"
"Go home, watch television, make a collage and relax. Go to work tomorrow and hope I don't throw up."
"There has to be something we can do. I can't right now because we are in ER and there is no dire need for the testing at this moment. But if you make an appointment we can run a series of tests--"
"I don't have health insurance. Four years ago I was dumped because of my condition. Two years ago I was offered health care through my work. They fought me on every medical bill that was related to my stomach or intestines claiming it to be a pre-existing condition without even a diagnosis. I paid for insurance just to be denied. Awesome!"
It's like he was my therapist and I was spilling my angry, wretched medical history guts. It felt good to get it out. If felt good to finally be listened to. To have someone to talk to who didn't believe me crazy or a hypochondriac.
"Insurance is awful. You may do better at this junction without it. I have plenty of free trial pills. Do you have any problems with acid reflux or anxiety? I'd be happy to send you home with whatever you need."
"I have problems with Acid Reflux after I've been heaving. I'd love some free pills. Thank you."
"I'll go grab them. You're welcome though I don't know what help I have been. Good luck Missy."
I smiled weakly as he walked out the door.
Doc was old, probably outdated and over his head where my medical issues were concerned, but I appreciated his openness to possibilities of problems and circumstances outside the realm of current medical knowledge.
He didn't pretend to know everything. Which was a change. Especially since I know nothing except what I feel, see, and am forced to experience almost daily. And what I know clashes, like Hitler and Stalin, with what the doctors tell me.
I'm not doing this for attention. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. Not even Taro Gomi or Freddie's Father.
"Henrietta James BOOK TWO: Well Some People Poop Sometimes.
I leaned back against the wall, sprawled out on on that chair like I'd just taken a beating while the Doc asked me the same question.
"Do you have an eating disorder?"
"No."
"Are you sure you don't have an eating disorder?"
"Yes."
"It's okay to be honest. I'm here to help you."
I just stared straight ahead. My body hurt. My head, foggy with no horn to lead the way.
"No response? Listen I'm not here for my health."
That's ironic coming from a doctor.
"They said you don't eat much. And when you do, you throw it up."
I sighed and looked at him.
"I don't have an eating disorder. I do hate food. But that's because it hates me."
"Now," he looks at the file, "Henrietta is--"
"I am not finished my good doctor friend! I am food's nemesis. It doesn't hurt to eat because I think I'm fat. I don't think I'm fat. In fact, I need to gain a few pounds because my hips are jutting out so far that I can't sleep on my side anymore. It pinches! I have never been a back sleeper. Sleeping on my stomach is like littering in Singapore. Asking for trouble! And a good caning."
"Okay, so you are not sleeping well?"
"Still talking Doc! I am here specifically because my work made me come in because they caught me yakking my guts up in the bathroom. Actually they found me leaning against the toilet so exhausted that I couldn't even move my head. Do you know how disgusting those toilets are?! Do you?!"
"So you are throwing up?" he asks.
"I told you that when I first got here. I told you that when I eat it just sits in my belly and ROTS! I feel like a rotting log; weak, hollow and falling apart."
"Why haven't you gone to the doctor before?"
"I did. For years. They don't know what's wrong with me. It could be I.B.S. it could be...anything that they don't know enough about to test for. Besides, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters."
"Don't say that. Hop up on the bed and lie back. Lets check your gut."
I laid back on the hospital bed, an aching groan escaped my throat. Doc checked my stomach. Each gentle push he made into my bloated to December stomach, I grimaced and breathed deep trying not to yelp "Mommy!"
Finally he stopped. I sighed and pushed myself up slowly. Doc grabbed his rolling chair and rolled himself over to me.
"Missy you have a months worth of food stuck in that belly of yours. I have to be honest, I am very surprised. I don't know what to tell you except I believe you don't have an eating disorder."
"I TOLD YOU! Ha! A small victory. Everyone thinks it's an eating disorder. Everyone stares at me like I'm a leper. And maybe I am one. But...thank you!"
I would've jumped up and hopped around like a vibrant froggy before the firecracker exploded in the mouth but instead I fist pumped the air while steadying myself against the hospital bed.
"Now Missy, what do you want to do about this?"
"Go home, watch television, make a collage and relax. Go to work tomorrow and hope I don't throw up."
"There has to be something we can do. I can't right now because we are in ER and there is no dire need for the testing at this moment. But if you make an appointment we can run a series of tests--"
"I don't have health insurance. Four years ago I was dumped because of my condition. Two years ago I was offered health care through my work. They fought me on every medical bill that was related to my stomach or intestines claiming it to be a pre-existing condition without even a diagnosis. I paid for insurance just to be denied. Awesome!"
It's like he was my therapist and I was spilling my angry, wretched medical history guts. It felt good to get it out. If felt good to finally be listened to. To have someone to talk to who didn't believe me crazy or a hypochondriac.
"Insurance is awful. You may do better at this junction without it. I have plenty of free trial pills. Do you have any problems with acid reflux or anxiety? I'd be happy to send you home with whatever you need."
"I have problems with Acid Reflux after I've been heaving. I'd love some free pills. Thank you."
"I'll go grab them. You're welcome though I don't know what help I have been. Good luck Missy."
I smiled weakly as he walked out the door.
Doc was old, probably outdated and over his head where my medical issues were concerned, but I appreciated his openness to possibilities of problems and circumstances outside the realm of current medical knowledge.
He didn't pretend to know everything. Which was a change. Especially since I know nothing except what I feel, see, and am forced to experience almost daily. And what I know clashes, like Hitler and Stalin, with what the doctors tell me.
I'm not doing this for attention. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. Not even Taro Gomi or Freddie's Father.
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