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Thank You Clare Landis
It was nighttime, but there were so many fluorescent lights on in
the hospital room that it felt like it was noon. Amidst all the chaos, I stared blankly ahead at a whiteboard.
“Clare,” she said for the second time. My eyes traced the letters in
faded blue marker spelling out “fall risk.” I hugged my knees to my chest.
“Honey,” she pleaded, “you have to drink this.” I closed my eyes and
shook my head.
“I don’t let my patient’s blood sugar get this low. Your organs are
going to fail.”
I shook my head again as tears started to form.
“Come on, you can do this. You have to do this, you don’t have a
choice here.” She tried handing me the juice again. I took it this time, drank it all in one big sip and started to cry.
“You did good. You’re okay.” I turned away and buried my head in the
thin hospital pillow.
The next day, they put a tube in my nose that followed down to my
stomach. It felt as if they had prodded a giant knife into my sinuses and throat. Because it kept sliding out of my nostril, I had to jab this dagger deeper and deeper into my body. The nurse who gave me the juice the night before saw how much it hurt me and carefully taped the tube to my face so that it wouldn’t move. “When you’ve been a nurse as long as I have, you learn how to do these things.” She winked at me. “You call me if there’s anything else you need. I’m here all night.”
I was excited to see her the following night when I was more stable—
we were able to talk a little bit about life. She showed me pictures of her granddaughter, and we laughed. I gave her a long hug when I left a week later. She told me that she was so proud of me and that I had to keep fighting because I could win.
Although that nurse only knew me for one week, she had cared about
me so deeply. I had been battling anorexia for almost half of my life, and she
