To Have My Cake And (Not) Eat It Too

What a great array of sweets are made available to those of First World status!  And yet our wealth of bakeshop delicacies means nearly nothing to an anorexic --whether observance owes to a holiday, birth, matrimony, or other, more garden variety occurrence.

For entertainers in the television arena, there's no sweeter dessert than an Emmy --its sharply-stepped lightning bolt wings protruding triumphantly skyward-- to validate your efforts.  Although I remain begrudgingly removed from that industry in my own work, I was pleased to learn that this year's ceremony will be broadcast live from Los Angeles on the evening of the 25th, which just so happens to be my birthday.  It should offer a pleasant escape into red carpet pageantry and "insider" tattle, which I admittedly subscribe to now and then via the scrolling headlines of online gossipmongers.  My father's health has been touch-and-go, his system (and attitude) showing stubborn resistance and mild collapse under more aggressive approaches to chemotherapy.  Fortunately, today he's demonstrating improved resolve on most if not all fronts and, with it, my own outlook has rebounded somewhat.  If the recent, frustrating days in --which I watched him dismiss offers of nourishment, succumbing to anguish both physical and cerebral-- have left me with any leading lesson, it is that most acquaintances, be they family or other ilk, expect that I would not be so petty as to distract from his battle competing issues of my own.  But in truth, my "demon" is also a disease, malignant and very real.  I understand many will regard me as loathsome to air grievance, especially as a white American living under the umbrella of my parents' charity (with government assistance an inestimable boon unto itself, and recognized as such).  However, I simply must repeat that living with an eating disorder is not a walk in the park.  (Okay, some days it IS less of a struggle to get by and DOES in fact involve charging through a public green or plaza no and then.)  But a paralyzingly fear of change, and with it any increases in calorie measure or content, keeps me leash-bound to a very limited spectrum of foods and possible endeavors.  I try to address this dilemma with a sort of Groundhog Day approach --wherein I exploit the redundancy of a restricted routine to improve my art and attitude in baby steps. But hours free from household chores/nurse-care/wedding prep/compulsive exercising/paralyzing sleep are fleeting.  I am jealous of my father in that even when ill he still manages to consume much more than I might on any given day.  And he knows not of the tremendous guilt I feel when I do "indulge," even if I reassure myself that food is the power force necessary for life (and that I am all-too-haggard anyway).  I am fortunate to permit myself great quantities of iced tea to take the edge off an empty stomach; thus I realize I don't have it "all so bad."  I just wish I could grasp the nettle --or, more accurately, the provisions and possibilities made available to me-- without someone having to hold my hand for reassurance.  I yearn to strike a balance between obeying the rules of my disorder and the allowances of a "normal" eater ---to have my cake and (not) eat it too.  Most clinics dealing with anorexia strive to eradicate it outright, but I believe this is unrealistic once you've *literally* embodied it, as I have, for a lifetime --that compromise is (for those patients of somewhat advanced age) a more feasible solution.  Even with a major fashion event like an awards show I spend most of the telecast away from a TV because, unless watching from a gym, I cannot incorporate exercise into rapt scrutiny of the screen.  Instead, you'll more likely find me zipping down the backstreets of town, catching newly-released photos of the dresses being paraded via iPhone.  Then, with energy sufficiently spent, I'll make my way home.  There I'll prepare a late dinner, changing into more comfortable attire and cleaning myself of the day's goo 'n grime in the process.  I eventually situate myself comfortably in order to tune-in, but by that tardy stage of the proceedings most newsworthy happenings have been seen and commented on by the world and I am again late to the table.  By my own volition, once again I come up short.

A part of me envies those who show resourcefulness in helping themselves (especially to a treat).

POSTSCRIPT -- At last weekend's Creative Arts Emmys, Discovery Channel's crab fishing reality series Deadliest Catch netted a trophy for Outstanding Cinematography in its field.  And the title of the episode submitted?  "Careful What You Wish For."  Not yet sure of the implication, but I'll consider that a sign.

Cold Comfort

(Vintage appliance logo for Sears' Coldspot® refrigerator line)

Awaiting apprisal on my father's condition --he having been released only moments ago from hospital care for ulcer management-- I find distraction in the sunny images of a June 1956 McCall's ("The Magazine of Togetherness").  Feast on these ice cream and/or beverage-themed minutiae from its pages -- and read my related, if not outlandish proposal to a local outreach program seeking to make "gains" (literal and metaphorical) in eating disorder treatment and awareness.  Sent by e-mail to the executive director of this not-for-profit (as well as to my sister and a friend), the following is the conversation we exchanged electronically over three sweltering days in late July.

McCall's June 1956, p. 150 (detail)

From:  Lorena S.

Message:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

Mulling over a sponsorship program for recovery, Project AnorexiCone, perhaps, in which I eat at Dorman's daily for a month.  Donors to the program would receive my original artwork; I'd post photos of me with my ice cream on an Instagram feed.  Silly  but also serious.  Anyway, I want to kill two birds with one stone-- help others, myself, and maybe bring some attention to the issue.  I could certainly use the motivator of being held accountable.  Maybe not the healthiest way to go, but it could be an interesting approach to this crazy situation and help me raise funding for a future elsewhere.  Is this just totally ridiculous?

From:  Jennifer S.

Reply:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

I'll donate.  Not sure you can use Kickstarter though.  They have very particular rules about what constitutes a project and anything similar to funding moves etc. doesn't count.  You may get money to pay for the ice cream though.  Look into it.

From:  Mary O.

Reply:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

Gee, Lorena, I don't know.  It's a creative idea and gets me thinking about using such an approach to fund our new Eating Disorders Association of Maine -- however, I don't know you and would have to defer to those who do…  Would this be good for you?

As an aside, if you look at EDAM's website, you'll see some photography.  Their board has spoken about wanting to include original art by people who have struggled with one or more of these illnesses.  If you ever would like to donate a piece to be included for consideration, please let me know.

All the very best,

Mary

McCall's June 1956, p. 120 (detail)

From:  Lorena S.

2nd Message:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

Mary,

You are right to hesitate, as I have been flirting with something like this for at least a year now.  Initially, I wanted to use Kickstarter for a campaign called Milk Money, in which concerned parties would chip-in so that I might buy (and, naturally, consume) a milkshake per day.  I once told Dr. B. that me drinking such a thing would be the equivalent of seeing me leap from a tall building (as far as risk and fear are concerned).  But I have had several people suggest locally-made shakes (as opposed to fast food versions) because such things include relatively wholesome ingredients (such as milk, obviously).  At any rate, I was all gung-ho about the Dorman's idea last night but now again am thinking it's a weird, tacky vanity project.  I think that hearing about the fellow who raised thousands for making potato salad has shot my head into the clouds.  I suppose I figured that people would forgive the charity angle as long as they were indeed receiving art in exchange for funding -- and I know nothing gets me feeling accountable quite like the double spotlight of sponsorship AND publication via social media.  I wonder if anyone would realize how much of an unprecedented move this would be for me -- or if, instead, I would inspire viewers to scoff in disdain.  To be quite honest, I might rather put-together something titled Part of A Complete Breakfast in order to ensure that I truly eat a healthful meal during the day, as I still reserve most of my food for the late evening hour.  However, the logistics of such a campaign are less easily outlined, and certainly not as headline-grabbing as the ice cream route.  But, again, I was writing on a lark and likely won't do it (unless I hear resoundingly positive feedback, of course, which is doubtful).  But I know I am in a position to help bring awareness to a taboo subject that many refer to as their deepest shame and undoing.

Striving for change,

Lorena

McCall's June 1956, p. 122

From:  Mary O.

2nd Reply:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

Hi Lorena,

I get it -- and I'm so pleased that you are still striving! 

I do like the idea of having, rather than ice cream, a complete breakfast. 

Maybe first eat breakfast, then after awhile add - dare I suggest it - lunch. 

And then - when possible - dinner.  Three actual meals a day.  Ah! Success!

All the best,

Mary

McCall's June 1956, p. 119

From:  Greta V.C.

Reply:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

If I ate Dorman's every day for even just a few days, I'd feel really sick.  It would probably be worse for you than what you're doing now.

I don't think you need Kickstarter for this, although a chunk of money is always nice.  You just need to know that we are all relying on you to take care of yourself, and we are.  I like the Instagram idea though!  Why not add to your daily intake and Instagram your meals?  But no cheating.  You have to eat whatever you post.

McCall's June 1956, p. 14 (detail)

From:  Lorena S.

3rd Message:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

Yeah, you're likely right.  Ice cream is not the best band-aid.  Oddly enough, Mom just won a twenty-five dollar gift certificate to The Camden Cone.  Talk about serendipity!  It expires in October 2016, so that gives me some time to get my act together (ha).

"Missed Opportunities" or "Too Late", acrylic on 16" x 12" canvas, 2011 
(with spoon added August 2014, shortly after writing this entry)

Totems of Transylvania, Prefigurements of Malady and Disruption

What new terrors await unmasking? Blinded (and blind-sighted) by present complications.

Strange, perturbing happenings have descended upon my little world -- a fast-moving fog shrouding my life with uncertainties and new concerns.  Just as an infusion of milk might hang and twirl in a tumbler of cold summer tea, an opaque murkiness muddies my comprehension of where things lie.  Friday evening, news broke that a lifelong pal, our high school class valedictorian and virtuoso researcher, had been admitted to the Coronary Care Unit of a Brooklyn-area hospital.  According to his anxious and understandably distressed mother, a colleague had escorted my friend to Park Slope Presbyterian earlier that day after the chambers of his heart became blocked and slow to function.  Apparently, appraisal by emergency room attendants swiftly led him to the management of cardiac specialists and, as of mid-day Saturday, rumors of surgery for a temporary pacemaker had been substantiated -- by a woman calling from Europe, no less.  (Needless to say, this fellow has a far-reaching path of influence.)  That an otherwise robust thirty-three year-old holds in his chest such an instrument is both bewildering and wholly unexpected.  To relieve the serious mood amongst those effected I've started observing that, like Darth Vader, he's "more machine now than man."  Perhaps he will emerge as some sort of modern variant on The Six Million Dollar Man?  Certainly, knowing the cost of healthcare, his bill may approach such a tally.

To paraphrase Jessica Rabbit:  "I'm not bad.  I'm just dyed that way."

The parents of the afflicted felt an understandable desire to drive through the night to reach his bedside, and, in their absence, I adopted my usual duties of caring for their cat.  Now it begs inclusion that this perfectly genial and good-natured animal had the misfortune of being born a black breed, which, although elegant in appearance, carries with it the stigma of superstition.  As most of us are told as young and impressionable Trick or Treaters, popular thought connotes such animals with the Devil's brand of bad luck.  Jack truly is a friendly and appreciative creature and in no way deserving of a prejudice built by centuries of myth and dubious allegory.  However, it is well worth mentioning, as only later that night a bat no larger than a moldy lime scrambled down our chimney as I sat adjacent, eating my second, larger meal for the day.  Exhausted and apathetic, I failed to devise his release or (God forbid) extermination.  As with other species of fauna maligned by negative reputation, I harbor special interest and sympathy for these ostensibly liminal beings.  Dismissing tenets of demonology and Gothic literature, I instead revere their delicate beauty, fascinating taxonomy, and remarkable physical capabilities.  Furthermore, being that they are a sort of hybrid of rodents and birds --two of my favorite animal orders-- they are to my tastes just as charming.  (I am confident Beatrix Potter herself would have made delightful characters out of them, and perhaps she held specimen in her menagerie at one time, despite their jarring absence from her more familiarized cannon.)  The bat took several turns of flight, tracing the rectangular perimeter of our large back room, then melted into shadows.  Over twenty-four hours passed without indication of his presence, with reemergence timed for midnight Saturday.  Now making circles in our front corridor, he quite literally whooshed past the faces of my parents as they gingerly felt their way down the bannister from the second floor bedrooms.  Despite it being late (beyond midnight) and with my father in a state of undress (his nightgown), they were determined to get him to the ER, a good twenty-minute drive north along coastal Route One.  Having changed into trousers and summoned my mother, he hurriedly explained that urgent medical care was necessary -- available pain killers had already proven ineffective.  Apparently, a ripe canker in his abdomen had become unbearable; under its impact he was now succumbing to fainting and fever.  Every year with the first signs of fair weather my father tackles scraping and repainting of our mid-nineteenth-century townhouse.  For as long as we had seen summer he had been displaying symptoms commonly attributed to lead poisoning:  constipation, difficulty sleeping, irritability, low appetite, even lower energy.  Naturally, it was not unreasonable to assume this as a probable diagnosis given his frequent exposure to old layers of veneer in his work with clapboards, porches, and, most recently, a rickety, neglected trellis.  Bloodwork had not found evidence to substantiate our suspicions, but something was amiss with his gastrointestinal functions, and he refused meal suggestions with increasing regularity, opting for only the simplest foods and half-portions.  This of course has been distressing to witness; I have done my best to supplement his diet with liquid alternatives such as chocolate Ensure® vitamin drinks and strawberry-banana smoothies bottled by Odwalla®, a Coke® subsidiary.  All of this had come to a head  --quite literally, in fact, as that winged pest was now diving towards ours.  Upon safely reaching the local clinic and being examined it was determined that he should be given care there only until he could be transferred (by ambulance and on stretcher) to a more capable facility.  Apparently, all the doctors trained to administer the necessary endoscopy were away on vacation --sailing, likely-- and he would find better treatment awaiting him in Portland.  For the next day and a half my father was permitted no food as he prepared to cleanse his upper GI tract for the EGD.  Only by noon on Monday did we receive interruption from suspended worry and uncertainty, finally receiving an answer and, with it, mild relief.  According to a call placed post-surgery by the patient himself, two small stomach ulcers were detected during the procedure, which required immediate cordoning.  Also, we later learned, a tumor in his throat may be responsible for the random and violent hiccup attacks that regularly leave him croaking, muck like a dog straining under collar.  This is the most I can divulge as of the current hour; although cursory, the above report helps me feel like a responsible friend and daughter to those afflicted.  It calms my mind with its unburdening and confronts nagging concerns related to the two-pronged arrival of those iconic Halloween "fiends," those so-called harbingers of doom.

Marlon Brando was often seen as a friend of the misunderstood and the disenfranchised.  Here the actor is shown in his early days with a clearly beholden underdog --er, "undercat."  
He would have likely been a proponent of Black Cat Appreciation Day, arriving on Sunday the 17th.

I find comfort in addressing superstition directly, quelling its rumbles with written disclosure.  Illness is a natural and unavoidable part of life -- shades of death color all things.  For every ailment that brings our knees to buckle, another opportunity awaits for us to reclaim posture, composure.  As one popular Japanese proverb says, "fall seven times, stand up eight."  The bat that entered our home this weekend did not find freedom on his first few laps within its walls nor manage escape until his second day of residence.  But he chose to fly again, compelled by instinct and the invisible lasso of a rising August moon.