Amy Graham “Recovery”

RECOVERY ____________________________________________________________ by Amy Graham, Grade 11

I woke up to the nurse hovering over me, needle in hand. She didn’t say anything as she took my arm and started taking blood. I was terrified of needles before this experience, but I don’t mind them anymore. Like flying in a plane: it can be terrifying at first, but the more you do it, the easier it gets.

I slowly pried open my eyes and immediately felt the beginnings of a day-long headache as the fluorescent, white lights flickered above. I heard the muffled beeping of the huge machine next to me and a little girl crying in the room across the hall. I looked around my prison and studied the grey-blue curtain—the one they often used to isolate me even further—tucked in beside my bed.

There was an old, grainy TV across from me, but it didn’t have a remote. Whatever came on was what I watched, and it was almost always on because I was unable to get up and turn it off. Sometimes those pointless shows like Family Feud would come on—that’s when I would get annoyed and finally call a nurse in to turn it off.

To the left of the TV, there was a small window overlooking the corral. If you looked far enough, you could see cars on the street, like tiny ants rushing to get home. In the distance, there was an ancient church that I would look at each day. The old stone was covered with bright-red Virginia Creeper vines that climbed all the way to the steeple. The stained glass was faded and cracked, but still colourful. I remember wondering why it was the biggest building in the area; what had given it the right to be the most beautiful and significant building there?

I felt a sharp pinch in my arm, ripping me away from my thoughts. The nurse was finished.

“Thank you,” I said to her.

There was no reply.

I wondered what was going on in her life to make her so miserable. She looked to be in her late 50s, her short, silver hair tied back in a tight, low bun. Her face, once youthful and full of life, was covered in stress lines and wrinkles. Her eyes looked tired, like she had been awake all week without any time to focus on herself.

After she left, I was alone with my thoughts again. I knew she would be back soon. She came every three hours to shove food down my throat. She would stay 30 minutes after just to make sure I didn’t throw it all up (it was protocol—we both knew I wasn’t capable of doing that to myself). I closed my eyes and slowly drifted off to sleep.

Today, a year later, I walk out of the elevator on the fourth floor of the hospital. The receptionist isn’t here yet, so I walk over to the waiting room. I see the church, still standing confidently. There are even more vines sprawled over the old stone, and the cracks in the windows are worse, making me wonder how long it’ll last before crumbling to the ground.

That’s how life is, I think to myself. Nothing lasts forever. Eventually I’ll leave the sorrow of this place and never look back.

The nurse walks down the hall and calls my name, snapping me back to reality. Her silver hair is now so short it won’t even fit in the low bun she used to wear. Her sunken eyes look tired and pale. She looks ten years older. I’ve been doing my best to recover from my eating disorder so I can be healthy. So I can be done with this place forever.

I think this will be my last visit.