How to Love Claire Mason

Blood and Hope at 5:30 A.M.

The morning after my chat with Dr. Evans I was awoken by a pair of phlebotomists hovering over me. One of them wordlessly indicated my arm while the other set about preparing a needle. I glanced over at the digital clock on the bedside table. Its glowing red digits burned my bleary, sleepy eyes. Five thirty a.m.

The one who seemed to be in charge, a tall, thin, graying Asian man, took my left arm in his gloved hand and examined it. " Good veins," he said in a thick accent that I couldn't quite place. "Very good."

I knew just what he meant. My veins were quite prominent on my thin, frail arms, looking as if they were about to burst through my skin. I braced myself for pain as the assistant began cleaning the crook of my arm with an antiseptic wipe. The needle went in swiftly and easily, sliding into the vein like it belonged there. The pain was sharp but left as soon as the needle was inserted. I only felt stinging, throbbing feeling as my blood drained into the bag.

I could not bear to look. The sight, even the mere notion, of blood had always nauseated me. Perhaps that is the real reason I could never bring myself to cut. I would have passed out at the sight of my blood welling up in fat droplets in the little slits before I could faint from blood loss.

Finally, the men had enough of my blood to do what they needed with it. The needle was removed, my arm was bandaged, and the bag was placed in a biohazard container. The men thanked me with a nod and a smile, as if I had done them some kind deed. They left my room with a bit too much of a spring in their step. I could almost hear an upbeat, jaunty, cartoonish jingle in my head as I sleepily watched them go. Who knew anyone could be that enthusiastic about blood.

A nurse I had never seen before came in just after the two men left. She was a large, middle aged looking Indian woman with long, shiny, black hair pulled back in an ornate little clip. She shuffled over to me, a protein drink in hand. "They're testing for mineral and vitamin deficiencies, " she explained, jerking her head towards the door.

She extended the drink to me. "Here, drink this." When I was slow to reach for it, she added, "Everyone needs some fuel after they have blood taken," as if she suspected I was afraid to have more calories.

I took it quickly, struggling to keep him eyes open in the darkness. The phlebotomists had only used the light from the hallway to do their work. The nurse watched me as I drank. "You know," she said finally, "they don't usually give you the okay to eat with the others until they get the blood test results...but I've looked at your file and I think you're ready." She flashed a small smile.

"I think so too, " I replied with a yawn. "I mean, I'm not as dizzy when I get up anymore and I've eaten all my meals. And.. I'm not afraid to meet them."

She nodded, smiling. "Tomorrow morning- or rather, in about two hours- I'll be back here with a wheelchair to pick you up. Just in case you're a little woozy. Be dressed by 8:30."

"Will do." I began sliding back under the blankets.

She smiled at me one last time before picking up the empty drink bottle and sauntering off down the dim hallway. She seemed to be truly proud of me, as if she was personally rooting for my recovery. And I didn't even know her name. The thought of a total stranger caring for me that much, and not just in the forced part-of-the-job way most doctors and nurses seemed to show compassion, was comforting to me. It gave me even more faith in myself that beating the illness the second time around would happen so much faster than the first.

I fell asleep feeling content despite my aching arm that forced me to stay on my back. A cluster of butterflies began to flutter in my stomach as I drifted off and realized that in about two hours, I would be meeting the others. Deja vu all over again.

Would they all be grim-faced and depressed? Would they be angry? Would they be optimistic? Would they be silent? Would they be reluctant towards recovery? Last time, half the group was the silent types, and the other half were the overly open types who made me, who still assumed eating disorders were taboo, quite uncomfortable. I didn't know what to expect. You can't put a face, a gender, a sexuality, or even a personality on an eating disorder. The illness, like cancer, could consume almost anyone- fat or thin, young or old, boy or girl, gay or straight. Maybe that is why I was so eager to meet the others this second time. Because I knew that I did not have to fear fitting in. Everyone would be a misfit with a different story, yet we would all understand one another in some way. Everyone would fit in just fine. And, this time around, I could be open. I'd be a veteran of sorts, an alumnus. I could maybe even, just maybe, bring the others some sort of hope.