The Boy Who Loved Apples: A Mother's Battle with Her Son's Anorexia

The Boy Who Loved Apples: A Mother's Battle with Her Son's Anorexia

Amanda Webster

Language: English

Pages: 304

ISBN: 1921922699

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

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Riche said. ‘I drank several glasses of water before you got up.’ This didn’t ring true to me, but I didn’t know what to do. So I prepared a small bowl of spinach and ricotta ravioli for his lunch and took it to him. He put down his comic and looked up at me from his futon. ‘Want to go to circus training this afternoon?’ I said. Even as I asked, I knew this was a bad idea, but the small part of me not looking for metaphorical blockages or leaks clung desperately to the hope that engaging in

This would be Riche’s first shake at home but surely he’d manage; he’d been eating and drinking there—a little at least—up until six days ago. Minnie heard my car on the gravel track and rushed out to greet us. Her barking alerted Kevin to our arrival. He came out, smiling, and opened the passenger door. ‘Hi, Riche,’ he said. ‘Minnie’s missed you.’ Riche exited in an extraordinary levitating manoeuvre—a twisted version of look-Mum-no-hands bike riding—walked right past Kevin and turned to

‘He’s afraid of contamination.’ ‘Oh.’ The doctor maintained an unruffled expression. ‘Well, how can I help you?’ I summarised Riche’s medical history for her. ‘He’s doing well at Footprints,’ I said. ‘His therapist just wants to make sure he’s medically safe to remain an outpatient.’ I took a quick breath and went on with my sales pitch before the doctor could interrupt. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s managed five protein shakes and a plate of fruit each day for a whole week now.’ I didn’t

having the next shake.’ ‘I heard you the first time,’ I said. ‘We’ll discuss it when we get home.’ ‘I’m not having it.’ It could hardly be called a discussion. While I scrubbed Riche’s hands under the running tap in his bathroom—my touch presumably the lesser of two evils—I listened to him repeat the same thing over and over. ‘I’m not having the next shake. You can’t make me. You just want me to get fat.’ My gut churned at the thought of talking him through a shake. I couldn’t do it. I would

school class. He returned with a glowing face and photographs of him rushing down some foaming torrent on a rubber tyre-tube. I asked about his meals. He said he had watched the amount of food other boys put on their plates and had followed suit. I decided against weighing him, not wanting to re-ignite that particular obsession—but I could see from the look of him that he hadn’t lost weight. In fact, didn’t he look just the tiniest bit heavier? Each day of Riche’s illness felt like a year

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