Ned

I’d been in inpatient treatment in Arizona for about two weeks, and I didn’t want to get better. Actually, I didn’t think I was sick, even though by the time I was fifteen and hadn’t had a period in two years as a result of my body being in Starvation Mode. But the osteopenia and depression and heart condition and exercise addiction and malnutrition and “dangerously low weight” and screwed-up labs and my mountain of lies meant nothing to me because I didn’t feel thin enough. 

In Starvation Mode, all I thought or dreamt about was food, even though eating terrified me more than anything. I didn’t care about anyone or anything except losing weight. It was like the line between human and animal had become so thin it collapsed. I was gone. I was starving. I was addicted to starving myself. I went feral for a little while.

I remember Ginger, my nutritionist, sitting me down one day. “Madison, we need to talk,” she said.

“Ohhh-kay…” It wasn’t our scheduled appointment time. I thought, Did she find the gristle in my sneaker? Have I gained weight? Did the video-cam catch me doing crunches last night in bed?

Ginger pulled me into the small nurses’ station in the Basement. We sat down on the metal chairs.

“Your metabolism is on fire,” she said.

I hadn’t expected this. I said to Ginger, “I don’t understand.”

Ginger placed her palms on her thighs and took a deep breath. “As you’ve starved yourself for so long, your metabolism shrank to nothing but embers. Now that we’ve been re-feeding you, we’ve added more fuel, and the fire has heated up.” I scrunched my nose. “No, it’s a good thing,” said Ginger. “It means your metabolism is working again.”

Her office was cold, and I didn’t like the direction in which this conversation was heading.

Ginger cleared her throat. I must’ve had a blank look on my face, because she said, “I’ll put it simply: you’ve lost weight. And it’s not good, Madison. I can’t risk you losing any more. You’re supposed to gain. And your current weight is lower than when you were first admitted here two weeks ago. At this rate, you won’t be able to leave within sixty days…”

“Ohhh-kay,” I said again, pleased with my weight loss. But I think I knew what she was hinting at, and it horrified me.

Ginger said, “I’m recommending the feeding tube.”

I don’t remember what happened next because the anorexia was screeching and plotting in my head. Fucking Hell—you’re already fat—you can’t trust anyone—Ginger’s a fat cunt—

These thoughts were so loud that I couldn’t hear myself. I knew what the tube meant: two thousand extra calories each night, your stomach eating while you sleep, weight gain, the taste of peanut buttery fluid called Jevity in your mouth each morning, heartburn, night sweats, nausea, cramping, constipation, dragging your pole if you had to use the bathroom, weight gain…weight gain….weight gain in your stomach and face, fat in all the wrong places…

“Madison?” Ginger said. “Madison, are you hearing me?”

I shook my head. I said, “What if I refuse?”

Ginger crossed her arms, and I sensed war. “You can’t refuse,” she told me. “You’re a minor. All I need is your parents’ consent.”

###

There was lubricant on the thin, yellow nasogastric tube. The nurse held it in her hands. Both the tube and her gloves looked like little animals. 

“Which side?” asked the nurse. “I mean, which nostril do you want it in?”

I thought about how I sleep on the right side of my body and so I said, “The left.”

I sat on the exam table holding a cup of water in my right hand and Amanda’s fingers in my left. Amanda was my best friend in treatment so far. We had the same food rituals and fear foods. We were the same height, 5’9”, and even shared a Goal Weight.

Amanda had blonde hair past her breasts and jeans that threatened to fall from her hips at any time. She stood beside me and said, “It’s going to be okay,” which we both knew was cliché and a lie—no one could know whether I’d be okay—but somehow it still helped to hear. She had a light, nasally voice and spoke quietly as if she thought no one wanted to hear her. Amanda’s arms, neck, and cheeks were covered in fuzzy, blonde hairs. I had that too; it was called lanugo, and it was a fancy name for animal fur, the kind babies are born with. It grew to insulate us where we didn’t have fat, which was just about everywhere. 

Amanda technically needed a tube too, but since she hadn’t refused the staff even once, she was allowed to gain her weight back on Ensure Plus drinks. She was the perfect patient, unlike me, who could only eat one Lay’s potato chip at the Meal Experiential and who refused meals and hid food and exercised in secret obsessively. 

Before I could say no, the snake and two starfish were headed for my left nostril.

“Sip through the straw when I tell you to,” said the nurse, “and don’t stop till I say so.”

“Will it hurt?”

Amanda squeezed my hand tight. The nurse said nothing, and I knew that meant yes.

Inside the tube was a stiff, metal rod. It forced the flexible tube upward into my nasal cavities.

“Ah!” I leaned back. “Get it out!” My nose was on fire. 

“Squeeze my hand,” said Amanda, “You can do this.” But she couldn’t even watch. I could see Amanda looking away.

The nurse shoved the tube further and further up my left nostril. I kept moving my neck back, trying to make space between me and the snake that was causing (what felt like) a terrible brain scrape. I expected the tube to feel softer sliding up, not like this. Not like sharp pain. Shit, I thought, maybe she missed. Maybe it went up the wrong way. 

“Almost there,” the nurse said. “Now drink.” 

I took a sip of water. I watched the thin, yellow tube disappear into my nose. I was swallowing it into my stomach. When I swallowed, my throat pulled the tube down with it, and that hurt. I winced again when she pulled the metal rod out.

My throat scratched. Did the doctors mess up on my case? Could I be sick? I really considered it.

There was little space in my left nostril. It was harder to breathe. It was harder to eat. It was harder to swallow. It was harder to sleep (I had to sleep sitting up so that gravity would help me not puke during the feedings). Feedings would start that night at two thousand calories. They’d increase until three thousand then go down on my Sweet Sixteen. I’d be extended thirty extra days for ninety in total.

The nurse taped the tube to my left cheek and tucked the tail behind my ear like it was a stray piece of hair. 

a“That’s it? Am I done?” I said, eager to leave.

“Almost.” The nurse held up a syringe. She opened the pink tube cap and squeezed water into my tube. “Don’t worry,” she said. “This part won’t hurt. Some girls actually think it feels nice.” When she flushed the tube, it felt like I’d accidentally sniffed ice water. She was sending cold water through to make sure that I’d swallowed it down properly. I shivered. 

“You did it!” said Amanda, smiling. 

I smiled back, but I wasn’t happy.

“What will you call it?” Amanda asked, like I’d just given birth. I knew that naming your tube was a tradition in treatment. Some named it Diablo or The Bitch, but I hadn’t bothered to think of a name until now. 

Once it was settled inside, it was as if I’d known its name all along. It was as if the tube had named itself. I would name it for its intended use: “Ned,” I said. “For No-Eating-Disorder.” 

“It fits,” said Amanda. 

I had to agree. The nurse took her gloves off, and we stood up to leave.

###

Three months later, the tube removal felt like a stiff sour noodle being pulled from my brain. The nurse said, “Don’t look,” but I did anyway. At the end of the shriveled, yellow tube that had lived in my stomach was brown and black liquid, dripping as it swam out of my left nostril. I tasted stomach acid. 

Like before, the nurse gave me a cup of water. I swished and spit bile back into the cup. I started to cough. 

“Can I keep a little piece of it?” I asked the nurse.

“No, you can’t,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Then she hid Ned. My face felt naked suddenly; I didn’t realize how used to it I was, seeing the tube taped to my cheek, and feeling it pull in my throat when I swallowed foods like bagels or tacos. We used to blow into the pink ends of our tubes then laugh at the funny noises our stomachs made from the air. Now there was too much room in my left nostril. I could breathe freely, and it didn’t hurt to swallow anymore. 

I don’t know why I wanted to cry. 

-Madison Welborne

Madison is a recent graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill with a BA in English and minors in Creative Writing and Speech Pathology. She is a full-time caregiver to her one-year-old daughter. Madison’s short stories have been published in Leaf-Land Journal, Memoir Magazine, and UNC's Health Humanities Journal. Right now, she’s working on her first memoir.