So I ate meal after meal—eight times a day, stuffing food into my mouth, forcing down every bite even when I felt like I would explode. I ate and ate and ate and didn't care if I felt sick. I was desperate to gain the weight that might save her, and I needed to do it fast!
Before I knew it, my arms and legs grew heavier. I looked in the mirror, and my face was round and puffy. I couldn't even recognize myself anymore.
But I didn't care how I looked. I didn't regret a single pound or layer of fat on my body. I wasn't exaggerating when I said I would go through it again if I had to. Besides, it's far easier to lose weight than it is to lose a mother.
Finally, after what felt like forever, I hit 90 pounds! My bone marrow was enough, and Mom got the transplant. She began to recover, and my family had never been happier.
But the relief didn't last long. The doctors warned us her leukemia could relapse again at any moment.
No, I couldn't let that happen! I didn't want Mom to fight for her life in the hospital again!
So I kept my weight up—in case she needed me again.
Little did I know that decision would come back to haunt me.