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Authors: Shauna Reid
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so we got to stay with Nanny and Poppy for ten whole days. It was just another school week, but with Poppy driving us to the bus stop and Nanny filling our lunchboxes with white bread and homemade cake it was like being transported to a magical parallel universe. On the second day Rhiannon said in awed tones, “Isn’t it weird to look forward to going home after school?”
As we seem programmed to do, Rhiannon and I quickly established a routine. We loved eating breakfast with Nanny and Poppy, chatting about the day ahead over cups of cocoa. In the evenings, we did our homework at the kitchen table, soothed by the sound of Nanny bustling around the house and Poppy cracking jokes at the television. There were no arguments, no mind games, no unease, no need to hide away in our bedrooms. Everything was safe and predictable; so perfectly mundane.
I felt guilty for enjoying myself so much, but I didn’t want it to end. On the last night, I buried my nose in the soft scent of the flannel sheets, trying to memorize the feeling.
Rhiannon whispered across the room as we fell asleep, “This has been the most perfect week of my life.”
“Mine too.”
“Maybe there’ll be a flash flood or something,” she said, half joking, half hopeful, “and we’ll be stuck here forever.”
When they finally picked us up, we looked at each other and shrugged as if to say, Oh well, it was fun while it lasted .
I hadn’t told Nanny about Operation Lard Bust and had sworn the Mothership to secrecy. I wanted to see how long it would take for someone to notice I was a loser without me having to tell them I was a loser. Somehow it’s more valid that way, you see.
So it was rather satisfying to see Nanny do a double take when I waltzed into the house today. “Well look here!” she crowed. “Somebody’s lost some weight!”
“Woohoo!” I hugged her tight. She is barely five feet tall, so I tried not to crush her.
“You’re looking well,” she said.
“Thank you! So you won’t be offended if I steer clear of your caramel shortbread for a while?”
As usual, Poppy was sitting in his armchair in the living room. Mum, Rhiannon, and I chatted with him while Nanny went to make tea.
Circumstances have changed since those days on the farm. Five years ago they sold it and retired to Cowra. Just before they moved, Poppy was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Everytime we see him, he has faded a little more. He can barely walk, his vision is weak, and he can’t really speak anymore. He was always tall, tanned, and rugged from years of working in the sun, but now he’s so pale and fragile.
Poppy has always been my hero. I admired his hard work and fierce intelligence, but most of all I loved his sharp wit. He was always firing a pithy one-liner or cooking up a practical joke. That’s what makes Parkinson’s so cruel: the disease is slowly destroying his body, but his mind is still intact. He’s perfectly aware of what’s going on around him but doesn’t have the means to communicate. He was always so strong and capable, but now sometimes people patronize him or shout because they think he’s deaf or demented. He’s painfully aware that Nanny has to feed, clothe, and bathe him like a child. He can no longer arrange his face into a frown, but you can tell how frustrated he is at being trapped in his body. It’s incredibly heartbreaking for Nanny and Mum too.
Everytime I see Poppy, I can’t help feeling guilty. For years I was trapped in my body too, but it was entirely my own doing. Poppy hasn’t got a choice. I feel ashamed for abusing a perfectly healthy young body with food. So many things can go wrong that are completely out of your control, so it seems painfully indulgent to have harmed myself deliberately.
I can’t change the past, but I’m even more determined now not to screw up my future.
WEEK 27
July 16
276 pounds
75 pounds lost—111 to go
Dare I admit that I’m feeling rather happy lately? I blame all the
As we seem programmed to do, Rhiannon and I quickly established a routine. We loved eating breakfast with Nanny and Poppy, chatting about the day ahead over cups of cocoa. In the evenings, we did our homework at the kitchen table, soothed by the sound of Nanny bustling around the house and Poppy cracking jokes at the television. There were no arguments, no mind games, no unease, no need to hide away in our bedrooms. Everything was safe and predictable; so perfectly mundane.
I felt guilty for enjoying myself so much, but I didn’t want it to end. On the last night, I buried my nose in the soft scent of the flannel sheets, trying to memorize the feeling.
Rhiannon whispered across the room as we fell asleep, “This has been the most perfect week of my life.”
“Mine too.”
“Maybe there’ll be a flash flood or something,” she said, half joking, half hopeful, “and we’ll be stuck here forever.”
When they finally picked us up, we looked at each other and shrugged as if to say, Oh well, it was fun while it lasted .
I hadn’t told Nanny about Operation Lard Bust and had sworn the Mothership to secrecy. I wanted to see how long it would take for someone to notice I was a loser without me having to tell them I was a loser. Somehow it’s more valid that way, you see.
So it was rather satisfying to see Nanny do a double take when I waltzed into the house today. “Well look here!” she crowed. “Somebody’s lost some weight!”
“Woohoo!” I hugged her tight. She is barely five feet tall, so I tried not to crush her.
“You’re looking well,” she said.
“Thank you! So you won’t be offended if I steer clear of your caramel shortbread for a while?”
As usual, Poppy was sitting in his armchair in the living room. Mum, Rhiannon, and I chatted with him while Nanny went to make tea.
Circumstances have changed since those days on the farm. Five years ago they sold it and retired to Cowra. Just before they moved, Poppy was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Everytime we see him, he has faded a little more. He can barely walk, his vision is weak, and he can’t really speak anymore. He was always tall, tanned, and rugged from years of working in the sun, but now he’s so pale and fragile.
Poppy has always been my hero. I admired his hard work and fierce intelligence, but most of all I loved his sharp wit. He was always firing a pithy one-liner or cooking up a practical joke. That’s what makes Parkinson’s so cruel: the disease is slowly destroying his body, but his mind is still intact. He’s perfectly aware of what’s going on around him but doesn’t have the means to communicate. He was always so strong and capable, but now sometimes people patronize him or shout because they think he’s deaf or demented. He’s painfully aware that Nanny has to feed, clothe, and bathe him like a child. He can no longer arrange his face into a frown, but you can tell how frustrated he is at being trapped in his body. It’s incredibly heartbreaking for Nanny and Mum too.
Everytime I see Poppy, I can’t help feeling guilty. For years I was trapped in my body too, but it was entirely my own doing. Poppy hasn’t got a choice. I feel ashamed for abusing a perfectly healthy young body with food. So many things can go wrong that are completely out of your control, so it seems painfully indulgent to have harmed myself deliberately.
I can’t change the past, but I’m even more determined now not to screw up my future.
WEEK 27
July 16
276 pounds
75 pounds lost—111 to go
Dare I admit that I’m feeling rather happy lately? I blame all the
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