Andrea's Voice: Silenced by Bulimia: Her Story and Her Mother's Journey Through Grief Toward Understanding

Introduction

My daughter Andrea was not alone in her struggle with an eating disorder. In the United States, as many as ten million females and one million males are fighting a life-and-death battle with...anorexia or bulimia. Approximately twenty-five million more are struggling with binge eating disorder.¹

I wrote this book for those millions who deal with this illness every day, and for their loved ones and caregivers. Like the presentations my husband and I give on the subject of disordered eating, this book is a tribute to our daughter Andrea, who struggled with bulimia for a little over a year. Ultimately, that condition would take her life, but along the way were many powerful lessons that today help others heal.

Our family’s experience taught me that a sufferer’s loved ones and caregivers can hold the lifelines toward recovery. Each of us must do our own internal work and discover what our relationship is to the disease. When all of us—Mom, Dad, siblings, friends and caregivers know these inner processes, we are much better able to be genuinely helpful and better able to cope with our own emotions throughout. I have chosen to share my inner processes, knowing that the most challenging part of this disease, for all involved, is internal.

What are the emotions with which the person with bulimia struggles? What are the feelings their loved ones face? There is no way to heal except through recognizing and dealing with all of these emotions. And there is no way to do that except by allowing ourselves to be vulnerable and open. So when it came to writing this book, that is what I was determined to do. In the pages that follow, I share my and our daughter’s journey into the mysteries of both the disease and our internal workings, hoping that these inward glances may allow readers to peer carefully within themselves as well.

In the tenuous dance of life, we are all fragile flames.² I first heard this descriptive expression in a song on one of the CDs that Andrea listened to frequently. My daughter knew that for a spark to glow brighter and stronger, the oxygen of honest self-exploration was necessary. May this book help your flame burn more brightly.

1.

This Lightness of Being

The joy is in the journey. ³

–Anonymous

You must give me five minutes, Officer, to tell my wife what you have just told me. My husband’s measured words continued, I will then call you back to answer your questions. My right hand tightened on Tom’s strong shoulder. I stood to the left of his high-backed desk chair. I could not see his face, but my heart knew what he was about to tell me. He replaced the receiver in its cradle and swiveled the chair gently toward me. The room was filled with my husband’s broad six-foot frame as he rose to face me, tears streaming into his closely cropped salt-and-pepper beard. His voice cracked with emotion as he relayed the message that I knew was coming and yet, for the previous tortured eight hours had prayed would not be true.

They’ve found the dead body of a young girl in the home where Andrea was house sitting.

My knees gave out, and a wail that sounded eerily familiar to my ears escaped my throat. Tom’s swift arms caught me before I hit the floor. I continued downward with purpose. I had to be on the ground; I had to make my body small. In doing so, maybe I could disappear and this reality would not be able to find me. I wanted to evaporate into the ether. I sobbed in a small bundle on the floor of the study.

My senses came crashing back into the room when I heard Tom’s voice, like a thunderbolt, yelling, NO! God, please, NO! The room shuddered as his bent body fell hard into the chair and his fist came down with shocking force on the desktop. I was amazed its glass surface did not splinter into broken shards, and disappointed, in an obscure, detached sort of way, that it had not. It would have been such a fittingly-tangible representation of that moment.

With effort, Tom straightened his body. Doris, we must call back. Through his tears he continued, The police officers and coroner need to question us. Until proven otherwise, they are treating this as a murder investigation.

I felt frozen in an alternate universe. How could they think that we could speak at that moment? Too numb, too frightened to argue, I acquiesced. Tom returned the call.

Andrea, 13, journal entry, October 25, 1993:

I’ll be 14 on Friday and I have a wonderful life ahead of me. Sometimes, like now, I just want to stop time and preserve the wonderful feelings. Someday, when I’m an adult, I’ll be busy and stressed and I know I’ll be able to look back and when I do I want to remember all the wonderful days when at some moment I just felt wonderful and happy and that no matter what disaster tomorrow has there’s that wonderful feeling I can’t explain that I can hold onto and remember. I have a wonderful life and an even better one ahead of me.

Goals do far more for our world and for our character than gifts have ever done. So, go for your dreams, dear reader and let me know what happens. That was in a newspaper. It was the advice the writer had for the person. I love that and I believe it with all my heart. My dreams are slowly starting to come true. I love taking that clipping out and reading it—so go for your dreams, dear reader, and let me know what happens…

I pulled myself off the floor and onto the nearby footstool. While Tom punched in the numbers, I wrapped my arms around my chest in a futile attempt to ward off the chill in the room. It was 3:30 in the morning and the summer shirt and shorts I had worn all day provided no protection from the cold. My teeth began to chatter and I realized that the chill was actually emanating from within me. I wanted desperately to run to the bathroom and vomit—my body responding naturally to the shock—but I could not allow myself to engage in the very act that may have helped kill my daughter. The thought was more gut wrenching than the nausea…I felt that to give in to this automatic response would somehow dishonor her. I could not allow that to happen. My head pounded as I braced myself for what was to come.

Tom was speaking to an officer. I heard his voice resonate as if through a thick curtain and surmised the questions from his careful responses. Yes, sir. We were at our friends Jim and Karen’s celebrating Father’s Day. We last spoke to Andrea on Tuesday, five days ago. She said she’d call again the next day on my birthday, and if she missed us, then for sure on Father’s Day. When we didn’t hear, we knew something was wrong. Tom inhaled deep breaths while he listened. I could see the effort it took for him to respond, and yet his voice remained remarkably even. Yes, that’s right, she was there house sitting for Jana’s parents, the Milhons. Andrea is a Resident Assistant at college and Jana is her Dorm Advisor. There was another long pause, and then Tom’s steady voice. Yes. We called the police earlier today, but when they would not enter the house we called and insisted that Jana go over and check on Andrea. In my body I felt a resurgence of the panicked frustrations I had endured during the previous five days.

Tom and I sat on the small, comfortably-cushioned sofa in Jim and Karen’s living room after a late Father’s Day dinner. Tom argued quietly with me about making a call to the police. Karen walked into the room as Tom again suggested that I was overreacting.

Overreacting to what? Karen tilted her head. One of her raised eyebrows touched the shock of short silver hair brushed to one side of her forehead.

Jim returned from the kitchen as I explained the situation. Placing his cardigan sweater across the back of the nearly identically colored brown sofa, he smoothed his receding hairline and agreed, There’s no way, buddy, that Andrea would miss your birthday and then Father’s Day. Jim stood in front of us, his round lenses reflecting the light from the nearby hanging lamp. Doris is right. You gotta check it out.

This support was exactly what I needed to persuade Tom to do as I had begged over the last few days. See, Tom. I am not imagining things…there’s something wrong. Now will you call the police?

We promised to give her space, Tom reminded. "She’ll call when she’s ready. If you’re so sure there’s something wrong, you call the police."

Leaning forward, I persisted doggedly, If I call I’ll just be seen as a hysterical mother and they’ll do nothing. I know they’ll listen to a man, especially a father, and take immediate action. I pleaded, Please, Tom, if I thought I’d be effective I’d call, but I know they’ll just blow me off. Please make the call.

Jim and Karen’s concerned agreement with me convinced Tom to contact the police. They recorded the address and promised to get right back to us after they visited the place where Andrea was house sitting. We waited for nearly two hours until I could take it no longer and demanded that Tom call again.

When he hung up he reported, They apologized for not calling back, but everything’s fine.

I remember the relief I felt and how I shouted gleefully, They saw her? They talked to Andrea?

Tom acknowledged, Not exactly, but they went out to the house. Things looked fine. Andrea’s car is parked in the carport around back. She didn’t answer their knocks, but they left a note on the door asking that she call her parents immediately.

I had difficulty containing myself. They didn’t go in the house? I exclaimed, incredulous. No. Tom, this is not okay. Somebody has to go into that house to see if she’s there.

Tom repeated the explanation the police had given him. They said that because there is no indication of foul play, it is not possible for them to enter the home, Doris. She’s okay. She’ll call.

I was no longer in denial. I finally allowed the fear that hovered just beneath my mind’s radar to surface. I would not be deterred. Somebody has to go into that house, Tom. There’s no way Andrea would not have called on your birthday, and then to miss Father’s Day… My head shook with determination. That’s just not something Andrea would do. We have to get someone into that house. We must call Jana. She would have a key.

At that point, it was after midnight. We were still at Jim and Karen’s place, an hour away from our home in Napa, California, and we could not remember Jana’s last name. I insisted that Tom continue to do the calling. I knew that I would burst into tears if someone dared to resist my requests. Tom called the college’s twenty-four-hour information line and miraculously got a human being. He summarized our situation. Fortunately, Jana and her husband lived on campus and the young man transferred the call.

Groggy with sleep, Jana declared, She’s gonna be sooo pissed when I wake her up.

I know. I’ve told her mother the same thing.

I shouted from the background, She’ll get over it! Jana later confirmed that the fact that Andrea’s father called rather than me had immediately convinced her she needed to drag her husband out of bed and drive to her parents’ home at that early hour of the morning.

Jana swore that she would take her cell phone and call us as soon as she entered the home. She told us that it was about a fifteen-minute drive, and that we could expect a return call in twenty minutes.

The call never came.

When Jana and her husband, Victor, arrived at her parents’ home it appeared quiet and peaceful. Jana banged on her childhood bedroom window where she knew Andrea slept, hoping to rouse her before unceremoniously barging in on her. After a few knocks on the entry door went unanswered, Jana pulled out her key and turned the lock. The door had cracked but a few inches when the sickening and unmistakable smell of death hit her nose. Jana’s heart sank as she closed the door without entering. Immediately she called the police. Within minutes the silent squad cars pulled into her parents’ cul-de-sac. Jana watched in disbelief as her family’s home became a crime scene, with she and Victor prime suspects in the death of the young woman inside. Jana was not permitted to make additional calls.

After thirty minutes of waiting for Jana’s return call, my brain refused to believe the reassuring words Tom and I repeated over and over again. The fear that Andrea had been hurt or kidnapped or murdered prompted horrendous images to flash into my mind again and again. I could not allow these notions to sit in my brain for long, so I forced my mind to go into remote, to think of nothing. Yet I knew that the first twenty-four hours of an abduction were the most crucial. Why had we hesitated so long to take action? Seeking diversion, I grabbed a catalog from the end table and flipped the pages, not seeing anything, still trying to force my brain to numb, to stop thinking.

When two hours had passed with no word from Jana and no response to the countless messages we had left her, I looked at Tom and said, I can’t wait here any longer. I need to be in my own home. We left one final message on Jana’s machine, letting her know that we had headed for home. We would be there in an hour and she should call us at that number.

The drive lasted an eternity. Neither Tom nor I spoke. The silence was punctuated only by the inexplicable sighs that escaped occasionally from deep within my chest. As soon as we pulled into the driveway we bolted from the car. We walked straight through the pitch-black living room to our study. The blinking of the message light was the only illumination in the small room. Tom sat at the desk and pressed the button. This is Officer Bradley from the La Verne Police Department. Please call me at… Tom jotted down the numbers and immediately returned the call.

A change in Tom’s voice pulled me from my trance. His second call to the police had stretched into an eternity of answers to questions neither of us wanted to hear. My body was now shaking with uncontrollable spasms. My jaw clamped tightly as I attempted to control the clatter of my teeth. Officer Bradley asked to speak to me. All the questions seemed the same. When was the last time you spoke to your daughter? Why is she here in this house? The woman who found her told us she was bulimic. Did you know that? And then quietly, almost conspiratorially, I have children of my own. What happened? Why would your daughter do this to herself?

Andrea Smeltzer, 19, six months before her death: ⁴

My body moves rhythmically,

A lover’s motion,

Sweet acid tickling the back of my throat

I come to my own rescue

and purge myself of evils, vice and sins.

I caress myself in a place no one else can reach…

My religion, my lover, my therapy

I am silent, reveling in my secret

the only time that tears occur by physical reflex,

not from pain or joy—just there

How beautiful that no one knows

The feeling of the soft, secret flesh

dark and warm and wet

Filling my hand with the decomposition from within

removing it, holding it, holding me

The rational, helpful purpose this serves for me

in painful discord with the consequences I am told of,

but have not yet felt.

The lightness of being when I know it is no longer in me

opposing the dark shame, the pounding pressure

behind my eyes…

Back on the safe side of the line,

betting on a supposed ability to stay there;

a dangerous game, a breaking of promises,

a denial of truth…

The seductive hand, whispering, aching

making up for, for everything, for you.

Let me pretend I belong to a different truth.

Let me have this that is wholly mine

For how long?

For how long this time can I run with the demon

and call her my friend?

It was dumbfounding to be asked to explain to another parent, who also happened to be an officer investigating your daughter’s death, why your daughter struggled with bulimia. I did not believe that even Andrea could have stated the why. I labored to form coherent sentences as I continued to fight the urge to run to the bathroom to relieve the nagging nausea, and yet here was a man asking, How do I avoid this outcome for my own children? and Why? Why would she do this to herself?

I stifled a scream. I kept thinking, If we knew the answers to these questions we would not be speaking to you right now! I tried to think clearly. Summoning all of my strength, I forced my words through a clenched, shaky mouth, amazed that sounds came out. We’ve been…seeing…a therapist…she’s guessed…at the cause…We…really…don’t know.

I spoke in short gasps, attempting to gulp oxygen between phrases and verbalize between shivers. Maybe…it was…worry over us…Andrea was…only eleven…when Tom and I…got sick. I swallowed hard and forced myself to go on, I had cancer…Tom has…heart trouble. We really don’t know…we’ve been learning…all we can, but…maybe fear…of our deaths contributed…how I wish we knew.

I wanted desperately to believe that the cause of Andrea’s illness was not anything we could have controlled, could have changed. Yes, fear of losing us had played a part in Andrea’s struggles. But there were several other contributing factors, we would find out later, many of them cultural and some directly related to who we were as people and as parents.

Andrea, 13, during a vigil over my hospital bed after my third surgery for cancer, November 1993:

You cannot hear me

Though I wish more than anything you could

What will happen if you don’t wake up?

How will the world keep going?

You can’t leave me now

That’s a selfish thought I know

But I’ve never lived without you

Never been away from you for more than a month

So how can I be expected to get through

eternity without you?

These are questions you can’t answer I know

But I can’t stop the surging feeling of emptiness inside

My world is falling apart and with it my mask

It is harder to smile now

Nothing makes me laugh anymore

Remember when you saved me

from monsters under the bed?

Who will save me from the monsters I face now?

I wished for a while that I never knew you

That your grave would mean nothing to me

But that hurt more than the pain of watching

your monotonous sleep

I pray that you’re not in too much pain

Please come back home soon

The friends I didn’t have,

the grandmother who wasn’t there

The loving mother—you’ve been all of these to me

Sleep well…

Officer Bradley inquired if the coroner could speak to me. As soon as he came on the line, I blurted out my first complete sentence: Did my daughter kill herself? In that instant my mind had flashed on one of Andrea’s comments during our last conversation. Had she insisted I not make commitments for her because she planned on taking her life that night? I had to know.

No. No. Absolutely not. He confirmed with gentle care. I’m not yet sure what caused her death, but she did not commit suicide.

Fresh tears flowed, What happened? Can you make a guess?

"Mrs. Smeltzer, I would be doing just that, guessing. There is the appearance of dried brown matter around her lips and chin. This is just conjecture, but it may be that she choked on something she ate or maybe her own vomit, especially if she regurgitated