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“If I’m completely honest, I don’t know that I believed I deserved to be a mother,” I say. “Restricting my food was how I coped. I had a miscarriage, and my marriage didn’t survive it. After my divorce, I recommitted to my recovery, but …” I take a breath. “I’ve been struggling to eat since Tuesday when I found out my mom might still be alive.”
He takes in the information, connecting the dots back to his original question. “So you’re not in the hospital because of the Cadells?” he says.
“I fainted because I haven’t eaten for the last couple of days. I don’t want to make excuses. I just want you to know that after coming here alone, I realized my relationship with Sarah and you is what matters most to me in the world. Relapsing isn’t an option because you two mean everything to me. You have my commitment that I’ll fight like hell to always be there for both of you. I love you so much, and I want the chance to be a mother to Sarah if you’ll still let me.”
He doesn’t say anything and glances at the hospital tray filled with food in front of me. The silence between us is heavy.
“I wish you had told me this before,” he finally says.
CHAPTER52
October 2012
FIRST CAME THEbeeping sounds. Then the antiseptic smell hit me. I opened my eyes and looked down. I was dressed in a pink gown, and one of my arms was connected to an IV catheter. I was at the hospital. And I had no memory of how I got there.
“What happened?” I asked a male nurse who was adjusting my IV.
“You had a miscarriage and lost consciousness. A D&C was performed. I’m sorry,” he said plainly.
I wasn’t pregnant anymore?
At first, I was too shocked to cry.
“Where’s my husband?” I asked.
“He stepped out to make a call,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”
I shook my head.
After he left the room, I thought about how the last time I had been admitted to a hospital was as a teenager when I had a feeding tube inserted. ED had stolen so much from my life back then, and now he had stolen my chance to become a mother.
I clutched my stomach. It felt smaller than before. That’s when I started to cry.
A woman entered the room and saw me. At first, I couldn’t place her because everything was fuzzy, except for the pain of the miscarriage, seeping into every cell of my body.
“Beatrice?” she said.
“Yes,” I managed.
“It’s me, Dr. Larsen.”
I hadn’t seen her in years, since I’d left Better Horizons. She looked different, older, with wrinkles and longer hair.
“What are you doing here?” I asked her.
“I was doing my daily rounds in the eating disorder unit and saw you on the chart, so I came to visit,” she said.
I hadn’t known I had been admitted to the ED unit. I looked down, too ashamed to meet her eyes.
“I’m a failure,” I quietly said.
She approached me and gently put one of her hands on my arm like old times. It had creases and sunspots that hadn’t been there fourteen years prior.
“You’re not a failure,” she told me. “Relapsing is sometimes part of recovery.”
I nodded, my heart too heavy to respond.
“You’ve done beautifully for so many years. You mustn’t let this moment define you,” she said. “How you pick yourself up again will.”
